Pretending to be Canadian. I didn’t like the way I was treated as an American, so I hid my car with Colorado plates in an unused hangar and cultivated a perfect Canadian accent. The only time I was caught was when I spelled something and used the Americanized letter “zee” instead of “zed.” I was dumbfounded when the person said immediately “You’re American!” I had no idea what had happened until a young friend told me.
The LeeGreenwood song “I’m proud to be an American” kept running through my head, because clearly I was not. Although I would have told you I was. I caved. I couldn’t take the pressure.
When I was younger I wondered how my old mind would make sense of random memories. I thought I’d remember the things I don’t. I remember the song of the western meadowlark, the smell of the airplane fuel, and the feeling of being jealous of a 17 year old boy. The boy my soon-to-be-husband was paying so much attention to. I had no idea.
I wonder if everyone’s memories are tinged with so much sadness.
It makes it easy to be grateful to be a 64 year old woman who lives alone, having divorced that confusing man decades ago. It makes it positively glorious to go out on a sunlit Colorado afternoon and hear the birdsong full of such memories, and know that I am safe now.
God is so good.