First We Quit Our Jobs Read online

  Peeling off the layers of our responsibility—no cats, no homes, no mail, no bills—after years of managing complicated lives and many people, was heaven.

  * * *

  The prospect of living a pared-down life felt totally comfortable—with one exception. It seemed vitally important to both of us to figure out a way to maintain contact with our friends and family. My parents—my dad, Gerard, and my stepmother, Martha—were close to both of us. We talked almost daily. We spoke with Cindy, Sandy’s daughter, and her boyfriend, John, regularly and were in touch with son Alex and daughter-in-law Fiona in Austin weekly. And we had great friends who meant a lot to us. Traveling without an itinerary, how could anyone reach us if they needed to? The answer was e-mail. We began the great quest for electronic nirvana like babes in the woods. It took a while before reality caught up with our imaginations.

  We thought e-mail would enable us to be totally free—driving through canyons surrounded by snowcapped mountains, unencumbered by society’s demands—yet able to reach anyone anywhere in the world with a few keystrokes. Not.

  One guy tried to rip us off for fixing the “power problem” with our laptop. Guy number 2 did it for nothing, over the phone in twenty seconds. We needed to buy a modem for cheap. No one on the entire East Coast had it. Called a mail-order house in Oregon, got it overnight. Brought it to nice man number three to install it. Got a commercial on-line service. Installed it and signed on all by myself. What a genius. Any six-year-old could have done it. Next step in the getting-on-line-for-the-future department was making the on-line service (which was to be our only way of connecting with the world for four months) work with our brand-new high-powered cellular phone. Sandy dubbed this period “my life on hold.” Whenever he made gargling/strangling noises, I knew that some other techie or operator techie wannabe (a major subclassification of careers, I’d discovered) had put him on hold yet again. The problem: Our computer/modem/on-line service would not speak through our cellular phone line. The phone guys said it was the modem, the modem people said it was the computer, the computer manufacturer said it was the phone. And there was nothing, I mean nothing, more frustrating than being on hold at the edge of wireless liberation. (We briefly considered going back to work at this point, in order to have our in-house tech support staff back. We took deep breaths and sat quietly until the feeling passed.) Why, I wondered, did getting wired, wirelessly of course, require the patience of Job and the tonality of Elizabeth Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

  After two and one half days of being on hold and discussing configurations, baud lines, setups, and how many megs of RAM we had (all words I’d never heard before), Sandy finally seemed to have either (a) gotten lucky and made it through to the on-line help service more than fifty percent of the time, or (b) actually found someone who could tell him what to tweak how, or (c) figured it all out for himself, something he was very good at.

  Finally we went to see some humans at a place in Manhattan that specialized in our kind of computer. Incongruously located on the fifth floor of a tenement building, it was a high-tech sweat shop. In a long narrow room with windows at the far end and a row of double-sided work stations down the middle, scruffy-looking young men sat huddled over their desks. For a moment, in the filtered light, they looked like Talmudic scholars puzzling out the mysteries of life. Then I blinked and saw the Nike T-shirts and Yankees caps. We shuffled in among the waiting throng and eventually met Gabe, a junior at NYU. He fixed our various boo-boos in about three or four minutes, cleaned up the keyboard and screen, inscribed himself in our fax modem address book, and sent us on our way. Nirvana at last, electronically speaking. I half-expected a lollipop for not crying.

  * * *

  Preparations for the trip continued, as did the talk about us. We were told we’d regret quitting our jobs. Friends looked at us and, with hands folded like well-meaning rabbis, said they understood what we were going through and implied we’d get over it. We were asked, separately, if one of us was ill. Colleagues wondered if we had job offers elsewhere. There was gossip I’d been fired. There were rumors I was pregnant.

  One piece of chatter made its way back to me, attributed to a woman we knew whose cracks generally bested Dorothy Parker’s. In a discussion of the comings and goings in our notoriously gossipy industry, the recent death of a colleague was covered, after which our forthcoming four-month trip in an RV came up. Comparing the two events, the wit quickly commented that I had clearly made the worse choice.

  People were amazed that Sandy and I wanted to be “cooped up in that thing” with each other. It may have sounded corny, but we loved each other and thought of ourselves as best friends. I had waited till the little hand was just about on forty before I said I do, five years earlier. I had not made my choice of mate easily, quickly, or lightly. He had been through a difficult marriage and divorce. At first it had been truly terrifying to have someone in my life full time. Sharing a whole life, closet space and everything, after four decades of being single wasn’t easy. But it did come together, with some attention to details. I liked him better than anyone I knew. He loved me enough to let me be myself, down to the details. (I loved to sleep late, and even though he was constitutionally incapable of doing the same, he guarded my sleep like a mother bear.) One final important piece of the puzzle: We were always there for each other, even after some pretty bad behavior and rough times. After dating a wide range of disappearing unreliable types, it was a shock to my system that Sandy was always there for me. When I was growing up as an only child, I always had this recurring fantasy: On a Saturday or Sunday morning, my parents would surprise me and have a friend there for me to play with when I woke up. Turned out it was Sandy.

  Every couple has rhythms, and ours tended toward doing a lot of things together. We had not spent a weekend apart by choice since we married. We had a great deal of respect for each other’s ideas and desires. On the surface we were opposites: short and tall, blonde and brunette, Gentile and Jew, midwesterner and easterner, Mother’s ancestors signed the Declaration of Independence and first-generation American. We were, however, eggmates, identical twins, where it counted: We were an even match in the brains department, had the same dreams and the same sense of humor.

  We were not afraid to spend time together, and both of us tolerated quiet very nicely. Whether people were trying to plant seeds of dissent between us or were truly mystified or concerned baffled us. Perhaps they didn’t find the same peace in their lover’s arms as we did. Maybe there was an advantage to marrying late: We still had the fire. Something we noticed lately was, we enjoyed being with couples who enjoyed being with each other, who relished each other’s victories and admired each other’s strengths.

  In a last-ditch effort to keep me on the job, one of my author friends, a psychologist on the West Coast, called Sandy to advise him of the dangers of being in such constant close proximity to his wife. He warned him how relaxed I would be, how my body tension would disappear once the continual stress of deadlines was eliminated. He predicted an inordinate amount of affection from me, resulting ultimately in my demanding ridiculous amounts of sex. Sandy couldn’t wait to leave.

  The leavetaking was the culmination of a process that had begun on the day we made the down payment on the RV, the thousand dollars that changed our lives. We had started verbalizing the possibility of a major adventure in January; on April 8 we put the deposit down; on the tenth (the ninth was a Sunday) we resigned, giving seven weeks’ notice to ensure smooth transitions. We then had a month to organize ourselves and say our good-byes to family, friends, and neighbors before the July 1 departure. Although we were ready a few days earlier, we stalled. Why not take off earlier than planned? Who were we kidding about traveling with abandon if we couldn’t even abandon the idea of leaving on a particular date? There was one big reason and one little one to wait. June 30 was my dad’s eightieth birthday, and I wanted to be with him. Second, the camp bus always left on July 1, and this year, for th
e first time in thirty years, I was going to be on it.

  * * *

  Twenty-nine days after we left our jobs, Bob and Helen came over for dinner. Bob had been Sandy’s mentor, boss, and friend. I was crazy about both of them. It had been, literally, a month of Sundays of guests and farewells, so longs, good lucks, and good-byes. We’d had dozens of send-off meals with friends and last suppers. We saved Bob and Helen for the end, knowing that as my surrogate in-laws, they’d have some words of wisdom to impart. They climbed out of their car, took one look at the RV, and admitted they found it difficult to understand why we thought it would be fun to go off in a Transue for four months. A what? Transue. Explanation, translation, please. Years ago, they said, when visiting one of their sons in camp, they had seen one of his friends’ parents arrive in an RV. It was such an unusual event in that crowd, they all took note. From that day on they called RVs Transues, after the family who drove one. The transue. Transue. The Sue. Susie. It stuck.

  After looking over our Transue and the stacks of maps, books, and electronic devices we’d assembled, Bob imparted the following: Did we know the difference between a Jewish good-bye and a British good-bye? The British leave without saying good-bye, Jews say good-bye and never leave. Leave now. Enough good-byes. He was right.

  Crossing the River

  We left shortly after nine on a perfect July morning. Gerard and Martha were there to see us off, my dad grinning hugely as he waved and hollered, “See you in Anchorage!” (After getting over the shock of our defection from our jobs and from the Northeast, his fantasy to join us for a couple of weeks had turned into a plan we heartily endorsed.) Our neighbors, Alice and Ronald, came by bearing lots of funny little gifts, including a pair of fuzzy dice that we immediately hung from the rearview mirror. We were not taking any chances in the luck department. Sandy maneuvered the Sue up our narrow driveway and down the winding lake road. After half a mile he pulled over as best he could. We looked at each other and smiled. The RV was so wide, one of us had to get up in order to touch, so I climbed over and we hugged. It was a big moment, starting off on this adventure. We needed a quiet moment to reassure each other and wish ourselves bon voyage. Neither one said it out loud, but we both knew we were leaving life as we knew it behind.

  I was glad I wasn’t driving, even though the driver’s seat had been retrofitted so I could reach the pedals. Lakeshore Boulevard, a grand name for a narrow winding road, was not meant for large vehicles. We reminded each other that the school bus, oil truck, and moving van fit, so we must too. We stopped at our local gas station and made the owner very very happy by loading up on fifty or so gallons (the tank held seventy-eight). Heading across the Hudson, the river that had always marked home to me, we were truly on our way. As we aimed toward the Northwest, I scanned the familiar radio stations. Our CB radio crackled with voices of truckers from other parts of the country. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. They all seemed to mumble in a language not quite English. It was like listening to a two-year-old with all the right inflections on the verge of speech. I named the generic truckers Nasal Nose and Marble Mouth.

  Our first stop was Hancock, New York, in the bend in the elbow near Pennsylvania. I had memories of summers spent at camp near here. Those were times of great independence, away from the close scrutiny of parents and the restraints of a city childhood. I learned about sports and nature and friendship and boys here. Making out on the bus on the way home from bowling on Tuesday nights had been an educational experience. I was pleased and surprised to see that the town had not disappeared since the interstate had diverted travelers away from its main street. In fact, it seemed larger and healthier than I remembered. A major parade, a few days early in honor of the Fourth, went by just as we arrived. As we worked our way through the celebration, I kept looking for Kandyland, which had been the local sandwich shop in my day. I had fond memories of the place because they provided contraband white chocolate and BLTs that we sneaked back into camp. To my delight, it was still there. Even the short-order cook stood at her post, just as I had left her, hair net and all, nearly thirty years ago. The mahogany candy counters looked pretty beat up, and the whole place needed a paint job badly. The menu over the soda fountain was still the same, though the prices had gone up some. The only change was the addition of several video games, which were, thankfully, still at the moment. Sandy looked suspicious as I led him to a booth. We ordered the fondly remembered sandwiches and diet Cokes. When they arrived, I understood at once the concept of “you can’t go home again.” These BLTs were basically Miracle Whip on toast. Gobs of the stuff I hated with a little bacon, lettuce, and tomato. I nearly wept with disappointment as I wiped the stuff off our sandwiches with a napkin. As I daubed away the goop, I apologized to Sandy for the lousy choice of a lunch spot. We left without even taking a bag of the white chocolate. It had probably been sitting there since I’d left the last time. You can’t go home, or at least back to camp, again. Back on the highway we made a pact to eat more homemade meals.

  One of the few reservations we’d made for the trip was the first weekend at Keuka Lake State Park, in upstate New York. Since it was the Fourth of July, we didn’t want to risk being locked out. In midafternoon we arrived at our large grassy campsite. First thing we had to do was get level. We were told that, when parked for any length of time, the RV had to be level in order to keep the refrigerant flowing properly. For an extra two thousand dollars, we could have had hydraulic equipment installed to do this at the push of a button. We had decided to do without the expense and use a level and a couple of two-by-tens under the tires. With a little teamwork, it was easy. After achieving level, we pulled out our awning, beach chairs, and icy sodas. We felt very pleased with ourselves. This RV life was good.

  We couldn’t lounge long, however. We had a date to keep. We’d come this way to be with Dick and Ellen, who were staying in the area with their friends, Bruce and Gail. Sandy and Dick had known each other since they were tiny—a funny thought since I only knew them as adults. It amused me to try and picture these two balding guys in their fifties as Little League sluggers or dressed up for Halloween. Ellen and I had hit it off right away.

  Last time we’d been together, for Dick’s birthday in March, Ellen and I had made a huge batch of Sandy’s late mother’s famous (in some circles) fried cakes. I’d always heard Dick, and Sandy’s sister Helen, rave about these doughnutlike treats. In fact, Helen had once sent me the recipe. I’d never known my mother-in-law, but as an odd kind of touchstone, a snippet of her life, I kept her recipe in my wallet. It was a small point of contact with her. There was a notation that she’d gotten it from a Mrs. Thompson. Helen passed it on to me, and Ellen coaxed me into using it for Dick’s birthday surprise. An all-girl daisy chain.

  In Katie MacGregor’s somewhat scratchy handwriting, this was what it said:

  Fried Cakes

  1 cup mashed potatoes (about 2 medium)

  1 cup white sugar (1¼ if fried cakes are not to be sugared)

  2 tsp. lard

  ¾ cup milk (scant)

  2 beaten eggs

  ½ tsp. salt

  2 tsp. baking powder

  1 t. cinnamon

  1 t. nutmeg

  pinch ginger

  Add sugar and lard to hot mashed potatoes. Add other ingredients and enough flour to handle without sticking. Cook at 375° F.

  That afternoon, Ellen and I proceeded to make the dough until the two of us were a nice shade of dusty white, as was most of the kitchen. Since she had seen the finished product before, she directed the forming of the dough into shapes. We spread more flour on the counter to keep the circles from sticking as we laid them out. I heated oil in a wok, the closest thing I had to a deep fryer. First, we dropped in one ring and watched it closely. It floated gracefully to the surface, puffing itself up in the process. Ellen removed it with a strainer, ripped it in half, and grinned. She assured me this was indeed the way a Grandma MacGregor fried cake was supposed to loo
k. Sensing victory was ours, we charged ahead. In assembly-line fashion Ellen carefully picked the soft circles off the counter and passed them over to me to slide into the hot grease. As they were done, I scooped them out and Ellen dusted them with sugar. She passed, I plopped and scooped, she dusted. Pass, plop, scoop, dust. A little like Lucy and Ethel in the chocolate factory. By the end of the afternoon, we were crusted in flour, grease, and sugar, but we had a huge pile of tasty fried cakes and the solid base for a lifelong friendship.

  Now I looked forward to seeing Dick and Ellen and to what I thought of as a transitional few days. We would be with friends, but not wrapped up in work conversations. With these folks you could always count on a good sail, a good laugh, and a good meal. Gail and Bruce turned out to be incredibly generous hosts. A parade of adults and kids hung around their house for four days and nights. We picked up a rhythm of cooking and feasting, biking and napping. The lake looked inviting, but it was too cold for all but Ellen, who seemed to live by the theory that if it wasn’t frozen, it was swimmable. We admired her, but she found herself alone in the water as we soaked up the sunshine onshore. Playing all day came naturally, and much to our surprise, so did camping every night in the RV.

  Summer is supposed to be a special time, a time when life slows down a little and chores can be abandoned in favor of play. The way our lives had been going, however, we had felt none of this relaxation in years. There never seemed to be enough “down time” to just do nothing or swing in a hammock and read a book. Since we both had had sales meetings to prepare for in August, we usually postponed vacations till the week before Labor Day. By then we were usually beat. We crammed in as much as we could in those trips. We planned every stop, reserved every hotel, and sometimes made restaurant reservations six months in advance. Determined to get as much as we could out of these holidays, we didn’t allow ourselves to sit around. Summer had been getting away from us for years, it seemed.