I really don't want to write about this. But I thought if I did I might be able to find the humor in it. There must be some, somewhere. I thought I might learn something other than the obvious rule of life, that if you skip along the yellow brick road long enough you'll eventually put your foot in a pile of crap. Some genius had to say for the first time that nothing lasts forever. Probably Adam. Another one said that bad news follows good like night follows day. Probably Job. Or the New York Times. Another said that hope is a cardinal virtue, just don't ever get your hopes up. Me.

So my wife makes that long drive to New York to pick up one kid, and then they both head for Philly to watch the other kid play golf. In the U.S. Women's Amateur. Fairly decent opportunity of a lifetime. Shoots 76 the first round, tied for 42nd, in good shape to make the cut. Not a good round for her, but she felt good about her game and her confidence was up. As it turns out, if she'd shot the same the next day, she'd have made it by a stroke. The tournament was plagued by rain. On the course, off the course, back and forth. Very distracting but that's life. Stay patient. The next day, with a later tee time, she didn't get to play at all. More rain. The day after that I get a phone call. It's her mother. Bernadette's been disqualified. What!? She misunderstood the time adjustment for her next day's tee time. What!? How!? She explained. And how many others got disqualified for the same mistake!? Uh, nobody. I was stunned, unable to talk. You can imagine how it went but don't try too hard. They were almost afraid to come home.

They'd gotten a phone call that morning informing her of the infraction. They streaked to the golf course. There were tears, conference calls involving a USGA official, but I knew it wouldn't matter. It was a no-brainer. You miss your tee time you're gone, poof, vanished, as if you'd never been there. No exceptions. There were more tears. Her mother's good at it. I saw her cry her way out of a traffic ticket in Phoenix once while I sat in the passenger seat and watched. "That was pretty good," I said. But I'm glad I wasn't there. She wasn't going to cry her daughter back into the tournament, and if I want the feel of salt spray on my cheeks, I live near the beach.

My kid. Just mine. I called a golfing buddy and told him the news, said I didn't know what I was going to say to her. He said just tell her there's nothing to worry about anymore and give her a hug. Get on to the next thing. Another once told me that the support has to be unconditional, whether she shoots 90 or 70. Yeah, well how about when she doesn't shoot at all because she doesn't listen too good? Unconditional. Some other lady from the club Bern works at when she's home actually flew the thousand miles to watch her play (the lady's rich). My daughter is universally liked. It's an obstacle to my anger, a prick to my conscience. Good thing for her. General Patton the Prophet once said that all glory is fleeting. Another guy who was unpopular with girls and became a preacher, said that to everything there is a season, a time for this and a time for that and all is vanity anyway. Sourgrapes. I remember his name, I just don't feel like saying it. "The really important thing is that we all be good people, spread the love of Jesus, and get to heaven when it calls." I could have used a shrink about then, a hypnotist, an experienced brainwasher.

So there was nothing to do but pack up their tears and head home, with an overnight stop at the golfer's boyfriend's home. (He was on the trip too, serving as caddy. I wonder if he cried. I'll have to ask.) I wondered what the younger sister, the ballerina, was going through. She's pretty hard-headed. She'll feel bad for you for a few minutes then tell you to get over it.

The next day at midafternoon, I come home from doing something and there's a message on the phone. I press the little button. "Bill. Bill, are you there? Please pick up." It's the wife. Her voice is tremulous, courting tears, skirting hysteria. I know it's bad. "I've had a car accident." Long, long pause while the blood drains from my head and extremities and I wonder which of my kids is dead. "I'm okay. Everybody's fine I just..." And she went on with the details while I'm screaming at the phone: "Say that first! Don't say it second! Tell me first that everyone's fine!" I find out later that the ballerina had to remind her to say it.

What happened was they were all saying good-bye. The golfer and the boyfriend were saying good-bye and both were crying (they've got it bad) and when the mother sees one of the kids crying she starts too. It was a really wet trip, not counting the rainstorms on the golfcourse and highway. I think there's this invisible emotional feedback wire connecting all females within a certain radius. If one sees another cry, the first cries too. It doesn't matter whether they're related or even know each other. They're all bio-spiritual empaths. Except for the ballerina. She's a control freak, and, from a man's point of view, just generally better balanced than most people he knows, including himself. So they're blubbering all over each other and the mother's still worried about the golfer's equilibrium, which upsets her own. The ballerina offers to drive but, oh no, says Mom, she'll be fine. She gets into the rented van and proceeds to back up into a brick mailbox. She leaps from the car to look at the damage. The fender's wrinkled, the back door is dented, and the windshield is smashed. The wife starts wailing, her knees go weak, and she collapses on the lawn, covering her face with her hands and moaning about how she can't believe this has happened. What else could possibly happen? Am I cursed? Is there a black cloud following me around? I'm trying to picture this as the ballerina retells it. I wonder if neighbors are staring out their windows. Jesus God I'm glad I wasn't there. The boyfriend comes down the drive and observes wisely, "Oh boy, Bill isn't going to like this." He knows me.We have met once or twice.

The girls, of course, are distressed by their mother's disintegration, but are in no mood for it. Oh no, they tell her, you're not doing this to us. Get up. They drag her to her feet. Normally so self-possessed, with all her ducks in a row, she suddenly doesn't know what to do. The girls convince her to call the insurance company, which convinces her to call the car rental agency. She tearfully explains her predicament. When she hangs up, the tears disappear and she addresses the kids in a normal tone. "What was that?" asks the ballerina. "A little acting doesn't hurt," she replies. But she's not out of the woods yet. She spends the next 24 hours on the phone getting conflicting advice from different people. Yes she could drive the damaged van back to Florida. No she could not drive the van to Florida. Go to hell she says (tearfully), you can't make me stay in Georgia.It turns out that if you don't buy the agency's insurance coverage at time of rental but you then get in an accident, their corporate neural pathways are programmed to make your life miserable, even if you provide proof that your insurance company will pay for damages. All of a sudden the hold they put on your available credit, which is well above the price of the rental, doesn't disappear even after you pay the bill. We'll find out tomorrow if the threat of legal action will light a fire. Nobody seems to know what the law is. From her own insurance people she got conflicting advice from three different people in the same office. You'd be surprised, or maybe you wouldn't, at how little the people who are supposed to know something really know. They've all been assigned a stall in the stable to keep clean. Finally a guy named Mike from Team 16 tells her what her options are. Like a good neighbor, someone was finally there, someone who took pride in knowing the big picture. She heads home with a piece of plastic taped across the rear window.

I was still depressed but had had a couple days to cool down. Unlike their mother, though, I'm not a good actor. I didn't know if I'd be convincing when I did the "It's ok let's move on" bit. I was afraid, even, that my anger might rise anew. I was emerging from the workshop with hedgetrimmer in hand when they pulled into the driveway. The golfer's big brown eyes sought mine through the windshield, looking for a sign. That's when it was all over. She may be twenty-two, but they were the same brown eyes that sought mine during her first ballet recital at age five, that had looked up at me from the pillow I rocked her to sleep on, that had always sought me out and never known anything but welcome. Damn. Screw golf. It was her dissappointment, not mine.

I've thought of writing a post that tries to explain what a daughter is, but I'm not up to it. I want some things to remain beyond the power of any man's words. I want the heart to stand when the mind stumbles. I want love to live outside the poetic fences we build around it.

We're all together again for a while, until the ballerina heads back to school. We're still dealing with the car business, but the wife is regrouping. In spite of her lapse on the lawn, she will be victorious because she will not be worn down. I've seen her in action too many times. She will not be pushed around by people who sit behind desks and peer at you over their spectacles.

The house is regaining a semblance of normalcy. The milk cartons go emptier faster. I wash dishes in the morning and by noon the sink is full. The bathroom looks like a place of female debauchery, like a Bed, Bath and Beyond and Back again, the counter littered with hairpins, rollers, dryers, and straighteners, with bottles of lotions and sprays and squirts and contact lens solution, and brushes and combs and lipstick cylinders and shiny little plastic boxes with "things" in them. "What's this for?" I sometimes ask. I like it.

                      _____________________

Reader Comments:

I think I've figured out why I like your writing so much: perspective. Life is grand in the end. And I know what you mean about the girl things too. Sometimes I look around at these -- the sandals, the ribbons, the hairpins, the countless bottles of Heaven-knows-what on the bathroom counter -- and hope they never go away. It's nice to live so close to Mystery. Hope the family recovers speedily.
Posted by Jeff Culbreath email at August 11, 2003 02:24 PM

Maybe you can all rent a nice video and order a big, honkin' pizza together and not talk about it for awhile. :-) (snif...)
Maybe soon you and Bern can go out and shoot a friendly round together.
Maybe when the girls are out you can pull Mary Helyn close and hug her for a long, long time. Maybe you could even slow dance with her. I've been where she is: it's a hard depth to dig out of alone.
Posted by KTC email at August 11, 2003 04:11 PM

I hate the phone calls that begin with "First of all, no body is seriously hurt".......We went through some of that recently with the wind storm in Memphis that totally my daughter's car - fortunately while she was not in it. It is so tough when the kids leave home. I tell my patients as they are holding their newborn that never in their life could they imagine how their hearts will be filled and broken. When they are little we can't wait for them to grow up - and now that they are there (or almost) I wish that time would just slow down. I guess that there is a good reason why God shuts down the baby making factory, but I would sure love to have another baby in my arms, another chance to share in the miracle. Even knowing that eventually it will lead to dirty dishes and clutter all over the house.
Posted by alicia the midwife email at August 11, 2003 04:28 PM

Sorry I'm late getting here. I went out and played that round of golf with Bernadette that KTC referred to. Jeff, it's little Amanda, isn't it? The treats for you have just begun. And Alicia, I know what you mean about wanting to share it one more time. I just don't know if I'd have the energy. You're all great.
Posted by William Luse email at August 11, 2003 10:53 PM

Now I'm confused, Kathy. You mean you aren't yourself KTC? And how is it that you got to play golf with Bernadette? Yes, it is little Amanda (soon to debut on ECR I hope) and my 7-year old Amy who round out the feminine side of the Culbreath home.
Posted by Jeff Culbreath email at August 12, 2003 09:39 AM

Yes, Jeff, I'm Kathy the Carmelite, otherwise known as KTC (not to be confused with KFC). I suggested that Bill go shoot a round with Bernadette. I've never met her, and I've never actually played golf. The last time I swung a club was when I was 15 (my dad showed me in the backyard).
HE golfs--I ask questions:
"What did you shoot?""Oh, I did great on the front nine, but I got loused up on eleven--""WHAT DID YOU SHOOT?""I got a 42 on the front ni--""Did you break 100?""102."
I'm only teasing, of course. He may not be a great golfer, but he has that knack for being part of the winning pair in any foursome. It seems that the sorer the losers, the better that my dad ends up playing.
Sweet! :-)
Posted by KTC email at August 12, 2003 11:36 PM

Lovely, lovely, lovely! And I'll never drive by Bed, Bath and Beyond without adding the "and Back."
Though I have no daughters, my only son is 17 and testing out those wings--sooner than I'd like it to fly the coop.
I am happy for him, and in a flat panic about myself. (Though I try not to admit that to him!) What will I do without our Wednesday lunches at Wendy's, and those goofy times when we crack each other up? Even more than his daddy and I, my son and I share the same weird sense of humor.
When I look at him, I don't see the six foot tall young man. I still see the six year old who was afraid of the wind. Oh, my, time flies......
Posted by Terry email at August 15, 2003 12:01 PM

Yes ma'am, it does.
Posted by William Luse email at August 15, 2003 05:56 PM

Gee, I hate to be the one to bust the bubbles but I have an 18 year old son going of to college in exactly 2 weeks and I am looking forward to a rest! He drives me CRAZY. All I get are hmmps and nahh yeah and see ya! Lord I know he learned how to speak at a rather advanced age but he has always been able to ask for anything he needed like food and food and MOM where's my baseball mitt and food and some good food blah blah.I cannot wait to hear his comments about collehge food but he will probably say "hm its great" I think he wants to major in cimmunications )&^&$%$#!&)-Thank you for letting me vent
Posted by Jeanne Ewing email at August 16, 2003 04:45 PM

Uhh, no problem.
Posted by William Luse email at August 16, 2003 06:51 PM