Things That Went Missing

You know that parlor game where you name the person, living or dead, whom you would most like to have dinner with? Well, this is not about that. This is about mysteries.

My fantasy is that there will be a great day of revelation when I can get the answers to all my unanswered questions. The unsolved mysteries of life. The deep secrets that have nagged at me. No, not how Stonehenge got there. Not the crop circles. Certainly not the Big Bang.

The missing pieces from
the unicorn puzzle

My unanswered questions are deeper questions, question that keep you tossing and turning at night. Like, where are those two missing pieces from the unicorn puzzle? Also the ibuprofen pill I dropped in the downstairs bathroom last August. I looked for it, on my hands and knees, for at least 4.2 minutes. Where is it? 

These are Things That Went Missing, and I want to know where they went. Even if they no longer exist, the unanswered question is, where did they go?

To put a fine point on it, this fantasy of finding out what happened excludes the things that I lost. On the great day of revelation, when I get the answers, I don’t have to know about the glove I dropped on the subway, or the cell phone that I left in the movie theater on 48th Street. I know what happened to them: I lost them.

But there are other things that I didn’t lose. Like the cat brush I mailed to Rachel when she lived in Brooklyn. It was a great present. It was a surprise. It never arrived. Nor was it returned to me by the post office. It is a Thing That Went Missing, and by god, I want to know what happened to it.

The cleaver with wooden handle

Until now I never actually made a list. But I’m going to. What happened to the teddy bear that disappeared from my tent at Camp Anna Behrens when I was 10? And that roll of film from the 1984 vacation in Port Huron? I mailed it in to the processing place and they “lost” it. Well, it went somewhere, and I want to know where. And I definitely want to know about the meat cleaver with the wooden handle that was just no longer in the knife drawer one day. 

I’m pretty patient about these things. And optimistic. Long after others might have considered it hopeless, I believe a Thing That Went Missing will turn up. Tom’s two favorite mugs, for example. They are here. They will surface. For the first year I was sure I would come across one or the other—maybe on the shelf by the washing machine, maybe rolling around in the back seat of the car. Even now, going on Year Three, I’m confident the mugs will be found. Perhaps a little less confident than before—I admit it—I bought replacements.

The cat with tourmaline eyes

Some things that went missing are found, and, as noted by Jesus in the parable of the lost sheep (Luke 15:3), there is great rejoicing when this happens. Like the tourmaline gemstone that serves as one of the cat eyes in the Steuben glass cat that reposes on the mantel. One day, shortly after we moved into the house, I noticed he had only one eye. What?! When did that happen?! Tom and I searched, and searched, and searched. No dice. Also no cat’s eye. Then, about four months later, I found the little thing in the corner of my jewelry box. Vaguely I remembered putting it in a safe place (the surest way to lose something, I might add) before we moved. Much rejoicing.

The missing earrings

In my fantasy of the great revelation, the missing socks (that universal experience) will also be accounted for. Their mates are somewhere—and I will sit down with the God of Missing Things and find out where. Until then, I keep the singleton socks in a special little cloth bag in the bottom drawer. Similarly, I keep the singleton earrings in that special section of the jewelry box where I found the cat’s eye.

Searching for lost things, holding on to the unmated socks--these are the works half of the faith and works doctrine (“faith without works is dead”—James 2:20). We have to do our part: I hold on to the unmated socks, I continue to search for the mugs, I go to the post office and ask about the lost packages. And I am optimistic (faith) that they will be found.

Most of all I dream that on that great day of revelation, all will be found.

Can this Turtle Be Saved?

This is a true story.

Clyde the desert turtle had been part of Bob’s family for 12 years, and in the divorce settlement last year, Bob got custody of Clyde and his wife got the two kids. It has never really clear to me if there was an actual court battle over custody, because the obvious but un-askable question is, “Who won?” At any rate, Bob loves Clyde like a child.

My friend Judy was turtle-sitting recently for Clyde while Bob, now Judy’s fiancé, was out of town for the weekend. On Saturday morning Judy noticed that Clyde was dangerously close to the edge of the pool. (This story takes place in California, where, Judy assures me, all homes have pools.) Being a desert turtle, Clyde did not swim, so Judy carefully carried him to the bushes at the edge of the yard, as far from the pool as possible.

Thus discharging her turtle-tending tasks, Judy went through her Saturday ritual of doing her nails and hair, then left for lunch and shopping with her mother.

When she got back, you guessed it: Clyde was at the bottom of the pool. Judy became hysterical. Not hysterical enough to dive in, of course (she had just done her hair, remember), but hysterical enough to run out into the street shrieking, “Help! Help! Clyde’s in the bottom of the pool!” But no one was around (a fact for which I think Judy should be grateful). 

One can only guess the urgency and fear that gripped Judy in those moments. It reminds me of the time when Lassie got her foot caught in a coon trap, and Timmy had to run to the barn to get help, but no one was at the barn.

Finding no help at the barn, so to speak, Judy ran to a neighboring house. There she found a teenager who offered his services (don’t ever say today’s teens aren’t willing to lend a hand), and they raced back to the pool, where the teen dove in and brought up a limp, dead Clyde.

Judy knew how much Clyde meant to Bob, and she knew how to do CPR. Love can motivate us to do strange things. So, you guessed it, she turned Clyde over on his back and started pressing rhythmically. But, alas, after several minutes of pumping, there were no signs of revival.

Judy decided drastic steps were called for. She instructed the helpful teenager to hold open Clyde’s mouth, and she began blowing into it. Soon tiny bubbles started coming out of his nose, er, nose holes. More cardiopulmonary compressions. More blowing. Unbelievably, Clyde started breathing on his own! No doubt his little turtle heart started, too, but really, how can you tell?

But all was not well. Clyde’s back legs hung limp. Now Judy asked herself the heartbreaking question, would Clyde have been better off dead than living as a paraplegic? And even worse, what if he was brain-damaged? She faced the horrible fact that the moments lost while she ran looking for someone else to dive in might have been the difference between an able-bodied and a disabled Clyde.

But this story has a happy ending, at least for Clyde. Judy called the turtle doctor (remember, this takes place in California) and, as instructed, wrapped Clyde in blankets. When he came out of shock, he had full use of his legs and full mental capacity, Judy reports. (Another un-askable question: how can you tell if a turtle has full mental capacity?)

Judy told Bob the whole story, fully expecting a shower of gratitude and something akin to adoration for resuscitating a desert turtle. Bob, however, was more miffed that she hadn’t immediately dived in to save poor Clyde. So, the ending for Judy and Bob remains to be seen.

Baby's Last Name

In 1977 it was pretty radical for a married couple not to give a baby the father’s name. Actually, it still is. But Tom and I were feminists, and we recognized that a patrinominal system reflects a patriarchal society, which reflects a sexist society, which we did not support. So we decided our baby did not necessarily have to have his name. Our small decision did not change society, as I’m sure you all know, but back to my story. 

We did know one couple, our friends Bob and Linda, who also planned to buck the father’s-name system, but their plan was not being tested by an actual pregnancy. Their plan was that any girl children would have Linda’s surname, and boys would have Bob’s. But Tom and I didn’t want to go in that direction and let sex determine the name. As it turned out for Bob and Linda (for those of you who like to tie up loose threads), they did later carry out their plan. Conveniently, they had one boy and one girl.

We considered combining our names. Goode and Wiseman were, after all, not bad contenders for a merger. Sure, Wisegoode sucked, but Goodman sounded fine. However, we felt Goodman, or even Goodman, would sacrifice the integrity of both our names. The integrity of a name was just a vague notion to me at the time, but in the years since I’ve developed a clearer sense that a name does have an integrity—a wholeness and a clarity that should not be distorted.

We thought about hyphenation. Goode-Wiseman? Wiseman-Goode? But what would happen when a Wiseman-Goode married a Nowinski-Nykoruk, and then the Wiseman-Goode-Nowinski-Nykoruk married a Baker-VerPorter-Waeckerle-Heitman? This clearly could not end well.

Using my name as Baby’s middle name was a possibility we considered. There were plenty of models for such use of family names. Franklin Delano Roosevelt. John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Lyndon Baines Johnson. Richard Milhous Nixon. But I really didn’t want to saddle Baby with having to become President.

Ultimately, we decided we would name one child Goode and one Wiseman. Naturally we intended to have only two children, doing our part toward zero population growth.

Then the friends started weighing in: A kid without the father’s name would make people question whether we were really married. We would be sentencing a child to playground ridicule about being a bastard. Everyone would think the kids were step-siblings, thrown together from two divorces. Our children would have lifelong identity problems. Different names would provide a breeding ground for divisiveness in our family, would worsen sibling rivalry, would lead to each child’s emotionally aligning more with one parent than the other. 

You have to put this in the perspective of 1977, mind, long before the term “blended family” came into common parlance. Also, this was before 40.2% (I just checked) was the proportion of babies being born to unmarried women. And, really, hardly any of them are called bastards. (OK, I didn’t check on that, but you hardly ever hear that name being yelled out on the Metro.)

Ignoring our friends, Tom and I stuck by our plan to divvy up the surnames of our planned two kids. But whose name would go to this first baby? In the end, it was the opposition from our friends that convinced us to give Baby my name—Wiseman. Our thinking was that if we chose Tom’s name for the Baby 1, we would make people happy, but all hell would break loose when we switched to Wiseman for Baby 2. Conversely, by using Wiseman first, the opposition would feel relieved when we named the second child Goode. (“Tom and Marian have finally come to their senses!”) Or, failing that, the outrage would have been spent because of Baby Wiseman, and they would no longer care. 

Once Rachel Wiseman arrived, I was astonished by the pleasure it gave me that she had my name. What exactly was this feeling? It was more than the extraordinary love I felt, more than the bond of motherhood. It was a feeling of great satisfaction connected specifically to her having my name. I had never suspected such a feeling even existed in the universe of human emotions. Is this what men have felt for generations? All the patriarchs of history? Small wonder the patrinominal system is so entrenched. 

None of the repercussions portended by our friends came true. Sure, Tom was Mr. Wiseman to all of her teachers, but he never objected. 

One time—she just have been eight or nine—Rachel told me that she and her best friend had been talking about what their names might be when they got married. I give myself great credit for my self-control when I heard this. I did not start shrieking, “You’ll change your name over my dead body!! You think you’re going to cave in to male dominance and set feminism back 30 years?!! Do you think your father and I gave you your name for nothing?!”

No. I was calm. Serene, even. “You do realize, don’t you, honey, that you don’t have to change your name?” With great objectivity I pointed out that it was her choice. I conceded that many women still do take their husband’s name. And I’m quite certain I did not roll my eyes when I said that, though I admit my tone might have hinted that those poor, unenlightened souls were to be pitied. I reassured her that it would be up to her when the time came.

To my friends I said, “If she changes her name, I’ll kill her.”

Keeping My Name

When I got married—the first time, in 1974—I didn’t change my name. Not taking the husband’s name was a newer concept then, and it wouldn’t actually have occurred to me if Tom (first husband Tom, not current husband Tom) hadn’t suggested it.

Tom’s family was supportive to a fault. Example: For our wedding present, his mother embroidered a set of sheets, with “His” and “Hers” nested amid the beautiful flowers and curlicues on the pillowcases. Some time after we opened her gift, she sought me out privately to say, in her quiet, unassuming way, “I hope the ‘his’ and ‘hers’ is OK on the pillowcases. I knew to stay away from ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.,’ but I wasn’t absolutely sure about ‘his’ and ‘hers.’ Tears filled my eyes as I hugged and reassured her. How thoughtful to be sensitive about such a thing. How hilarious to wonder about ‘his’ and ‘hers.’

My own mother, though 10 years younger than Tom’s, was less hip, or perhaps just less agreeable. She knew I was retaining “Wiseman,” but after the marriage her weekly letters, formerly just to me, now came to both of us, with the envelope addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Tom Goode.” The kind interpretation is that in 1974 Mom did not know how to address an envelope to a married couple with different surnames, since neither Emily Post nor Ann Landers had as yet directed the world on how to do it. That’s setting aside the possible interpretation that Mom was being passive-aggressive.

I didn’t want to confront her about it—afraid to learn she had disapproved of my decision, perhaps, but also, it must be said, because I avoided confrontation of any kind. (This was before therapy, obviously.) Tom, however, had no such misgivings and became increasingly irritated by the incorrectly addressed letters.

The turning point came when my birthday present arrived addressed to “Mrs. Tom Goode.” I didn’t like it but was willing to let it go (note the “before therapy” comment, above). Not so, Tom. He said if I didn’t talk to Mom he was going to send the present back, with a note that there was no such person as Mrs. Tom Goode. (I was just beginning to realize, in that alarming first-year-of-marriage way, that Tom was pretty bull-headed about some things.) His confronting my mother, or, more likely, accosting her, was out of the question, of course.

So, I had to tell my mother to address me by my actual name of Marian Wiseman. She complied immediately, and it was so easy! No questions asked, no resistance, no difficulties of any kind. If I had realized then how effective assertive behavior was, I might have avoided those years of therapy.

I was surprised recently to find out how uncommon it is, still, for women to keep their birth name at marriage: only 20% of women do so; another 10% or so use a hyphenated name or some other modified version of their birth name. But there is apparently a small trend toward maintaining one’s own name. Some commentators believe that the rise of social media is contributing to this trend, as women face inconveniences in changing online accounts or realize that their Facebook or Linked-In histories and identities are lost if they create an identity under a new name.

For me, I have never once regretted my decision to keep my own name when I married in 1974, or when I married again in 2000, for that matter. Ah, one name. Permanently.

I would love to hear your views on this issue, whether you are married or not, or female or not. 

The Big Wheel

After Rachel was born, Mom and Dad visited every Tuesday afternoon. They came to our house in Lansing after tending to Grandma Myrtie in Grand Ledge—buying groceries and taking her to the doctor or the bank. They brought us vegetables from their garden, and often a rhubarb pie, sometimes peach, and when Tom came home we all had supper together. It was a nice routine.

On those Tuesdays Mom often presented me with something she had bought at a garage sale. The quilted bedspread I later dyed purple. A pressure cooker. The wind-up swing for baby Rachel. A nylon winter jacket—navy, with an orange and yellow striped collar. Mom paid 50¢ for it, and as things turned out, it was my only winter jacket for the next 10 years.

Rachel was a toddler when Mom brought us a Big Wheel. It wasn’t an expensive brand-name Big Wheel, but a somewhat flimsy imitation. And something was out of kilter in the front wheel—it didn’t steer very well and it wouldn’t go very fast.

I was a regular at garage sales myself, as Tom's book scout. One day I found a brand-name Big Wheel, bright red and yellow, sturdy, and in excellent condition. I thought the $4 price was high, but new Big Wheels were $28, and the one from Mom just wasn't satisfactory. I paid the $4 and took it home. What a difference! Rachel pedaled it furiously down the sidewalk, steering it easily into the Thompson’s driveway.

Next Monday I placed the faux Big Wheel at the curb to be picked up with the other trash. Midmorning, the doorbell interrupted my editing. At the front door stood an African American man—early thirties, I’d say—about my age. Nice looking. Wearing a suit. His car stood at the curb.

“I noticed the Big Wheel out front with the trash, and I wondered if it would be all right if I took it. I know some kids who would like to have it.”

I was embarrassed. He thought I could afford to throw out Big Wheels. I lived in a nice house on a tree-lined street. I was white. He thought I was one of the “have’s,” discarding Big Wheels right and left. How could he know I wore a winter jacket that cost 50¢?

“Oh, well, sure. That’s fine.” Words came tumbling out. Gushing out. “I wouldn't really be throwing it out, but it’s got a bad wheel. It works, but not very well. And I bought a better one. At a garage sale, I mean, not a new one. That one out there was from a garage sale, too, actually. My mother bought it for my daughter.” I was talking faster and faster. “But the new one I bought is better. I mean, not new, but newer than that one. Not broken, I mean. At a garage sale. It was just $4. That one out front does work, though. But it sort of steers funny. I wouldn't even be throwing it out but I found that other one, and there was no need to have two.” I took a breath. “You're more than welcome to take it.”

He thanked me and left.

I closed the door and watched from the window as he put the toy in the trunk of his car. I burst into tears. I lived in a nice house on a tree-lined street, and there were little kids who had nothing, and he was willing to stop and ask if he could take my trash. And I was white and he was black. Was this scene much different from the ones—how did I know them, from movies? from books?—in which the black man comes—obsequious, to the back door—and asks if there is some work he could do for a meal, and the white woman prepares a plate of food and gives it to him, feeling smug and pleased with her generosity? Had anything in changed? Would it ever change?

I did not feel smug, and I wept. I wept to think that I had become a “have.” I wept for myself, and for that man, and for those little children who would ride the broken Big Wheel.