Bears and Mice and the Moon

My husband has gone to the cabin. My daughter and I are having a slumber party. To celebrate she buys potato chips.

I'm thinking about 1968. I'm graduating from high school, going to the prom, working on my tan. These are my memories of that iconic time. I was blind to anything going on outside my own aura. Which changed color on a regular basis, like an oil spill.

It's 1968 and my head is stuck up my ass. I'm in the dark about it all.

Forty years later I've filled in some of the blanks. I had to learn my own history after the fact. These days I pay more attention up front.

My daughter rolls her eyes when I say slumber party. She calls it sleepover. I say 'potato' chip and you say 'potawtoe' chip, I sing, and she rolls them again. She doesn't want to hear about the earthquake, it'll ruin her text messaging. Who am I to judge. I didn't want to hear about the war, it would ruin my prom night.

My daughter sees the photos on the front page of the newspaper. I saw the films each night at six. Black-and-white, we didn't have color. Not until I'd left home. By then it was too late. By then it was starting to dawn on me.

Now we're trying to have a reunion, the Class of '68. My daughter doesn't understand time. In between chips, she asks if I was alive when the Titanic went down. I'm thinking every generation has its Titanic.

I'll need cosmetic surgery, if I go to this reunion. I'll need highlights three weeks before, low lights when I arrive, Crest White Strips in between. I'll need Mitch Ryder and a cash bar. I'm thinking nothing has changed.

Only it has, my tattoo is just the tip of the iceberg. The polar bears are dying, there's another war, the President has given up golf to honor the war dead. It's 2008 and the President's head is stuck up his ass. It's been there for forty years. At least I managed to extricate mine.

My husband emails that the bear took the feeder down. She does this every year, it's how we know it's spring. Once we watched her through the window, extricating seeds with her long translucent claws, careful not to break anything.

I'll need to get my nails done, if I go to this reunion.

The moon is full. I watch it from the third floor window. It hovers above the neighbor's roofline like a word balloon. Across the room my daughter shifts in her sleep on my husband's side of the bed, her foot pushes free of the covers. She has painted her toenails black, they shine like ellipses in the moonlight.

My husband emails that the mice are running roughshod. We named the first mouse Roughshod one midnight long ago, after watching her haul a half dozen babies systematically from one corner of the cabin to the other. Meanwhile we sat at the table in the light of the oil lamp and played poker and drank whiskey like there was no tomorrow.

We couldn't decide what to do about Roughshod, so we anted up and took another shot.

I'm thinking that's pretty much been the story since 1968.