I don’t like April Fool’s Day. I hate to be tricked. I despise pranks. I’m just that kind of girl. I like to think I have a hearty sense of humor but play a joke on me and my sense of humor freezes into a hard little block of Not Amused.
Maybe this is a result of having a dad who liked to tease. Maybe I was just born this way. I can’t tell you for sure, but I am the opposite of a good sport. So don’t short-sheet my bed or Saran-wrap my toilet or tell me that Trader Joe’s is closing. (It’s not.)
I spent the last day of March with my 13-year old daughter. We had brunch at a cute place called, “The Cottage” in La Jolla, then did a little shopping. We drove farther south and visited the Hotel Del Coronado, then drove around the Harbor to Point Loma. I know–from experience–that the days of having a kid go with me anywhere are limited, so that makes days like today noteworthy. (Those kids in this photo aren’t mine. They leaped into the frame which made me laugh when I looked at it after the fact.)
A while ago, I realized that in two generations, no one will really remember me. My kids will know only a version of me, the mom-version. My grandkids (should there ever be grandkids) will know only the old, gray, grandma-version of me. And then, it’s likely that I’ll be gone and the next generation will know of me only if they are curious enough to ask and smart enough to find this blog. (Ha.) They’ll know only the mythical-version of me, the foggy, faded, two-dimensional version.
The thought of being unremembered sobers and depresses me, almost as much as the idea of a world without Trader Joe’s. This is no April Fool’s joke. I’m serious as a heart attack (as one of my now-dead college professors used to say; he was the most adorable man). (And he’s dead. I only knew him as an old professor. See?)
I’m honestly sad about the idea that the curtain will fall and my story will end and everyone will go home and carry on with their lives as if I never existed at all. My words will live on (somewhere, somehow, maybe just in the vast ocean of the Internet) and maybe some of my photos will remain for awhile at least, but there will be no more eyewitnesses a couple of generations from now. I will have vanished without a trace.
The Bible has a poetic way of saying this. Your life is “nothing but a wisp of fog, catching a brief bit of sun before disappearing.” (James 4:14, MSG). We are but a vapor.
Sometimes the fog is beautiful and mysterious and it catches the light of the sun in the most brilliant way. I hope to be that kind of a vapor and not the murky kind that cuts down visibility and causes 17-car pile-ups on the freeway.
Now, seriously, do not switch my salt with sugar.
*Yeah, I made up that word: “Nonce.” It’s a helpful combo of “once” and “none.” Consider it trademarked.