July 5, 2017--Midcoast: Counting to 30

"I can count to 30."

We were in the waiting area while our car's wheels were again being aligned. With the battered roads in Maine we have to arrange for this two or three times a year. So I was not feeling happy. In fact, I was grumpy.

And so when the little girl sitting with us proclaimed her arithmetical abilities I buried my head deeper into the paper. And what I was reading did not lighten my mood. Half the front page was devoted to the obscene things Donald Trump had said about Mika Brzezinski and Joe Scarborough. And turning to the distraction of the sports page, I read that the Yankees had been trounced again, losing their substantial lead in the 8th inning.

Altogether, I was not having a good morning.

"15, 16, 17, 18," the girl chanted, squirming with pleasure in her chair. Rona was already having a wonderful time.

She looked to be about five and was wearing a dress and patent leather shoes. She was all alone.

She can't be waiting for a car, I thought, indulging my cynical self. Her parents must still be at the service counter.

Back to the Times I tried to ignore her and Rona. If I were honest, the Yankees more than Trump were getting under my skin. They started the season so well and now they were losing almost every night. Following the Yankees was one of the ways I could block out some of the agita engendered by Trump's daily outrages. But not for the past four weeks. The Yankees were supplying plenty of agita on their own.

"21, 22, 23." At 23, the girl paused and looked up at the ceiling as if searching for answers.

To help Rona said, "24."

After a moment of additional struggle, the girl gleefully said, "25!"

"You're doing so well," Rona said. "What comes after 25?"

"26," the girl smiled and got up to get a cup of water from the cooler.

"You really know your numbers," Rona said.

The girl picked up where she left off and, now grinning, said, "27!"

"You're getting close to 30," Rona said, seeing she was beginning to struggle again. "What's next? After 27? I'll bet you know."

The girl, curled up in her chair, began counting on her fingers and said, "28," and, gushing, immediately added, "29!"

I put the paper down to listen and observe and was actually beginning to enjoy myself. I could sense Rona tensing, trying to not be too helpful but yet not wanting to cause the girl to become too frustrated. It was a complicated balance to strike.

"30!" she exclaimed, now bouncing in her chair. "I told you so. I can count to 30!"

"You did it," Rona said, all excited, "How about more? Can you keep counting?"

The girl shook her head, but, looking skeptical, still tried, "30-30?" She knew she had hit a wall.

"You want me to help?" Rona asked. Shyly the girl nodded her head, "30, 31," Rona paused, the girl said nothing and so Rona said, "32."

And before she could continue the girl quickly added, "33, 34, 35, 36." She was grinning broadly.

"I knew you could do it," Rona said.

Now all excited the girl counted, "37, 38, 39," she paused, then said, "30-10."

"That's very interesting," Rona said, "Very clever." The girl stared at her. She knew she hadn't come up with the right number and thus was curious why Rona was praising her.

"It's probably a little too complicated for me to try to explain to you why, though 30-10 doesn't come after 39, in many ways, what you said was, as I said, interesting."

The girl seemed satisfied with that. "After 39," Rona said, "comes 40."

The girl repeated, "40," and with that asked, "How old are you?"

Before dealing with that, Rona said, "My name's Rona. What's yours?"

"I'm Julie," she said, reaching out to shake hands.

"Julie is one of my favorite names," Rona said.

"How old are you, Roma?" she repeated.

"How old do you think I am?" Rona asked.

Julie stroked her chin, looking carefully at Rona out of the corner of her eye. "25?" she said.

"I like that," Rona said, "But I'm older than that. Take another guess."

Julie now was peering at her, "27?" Still happy with her guess, Rona shook her head. "20-12?" Julie asked.

"Do you mean 32?" Julie now was bouncing in her seat. With that a man approached us to ask if Julie, his daughter, was being a bother.

"Not at all," both Rona and I said, "She's showing us how good she is at counting."

"She made it all the way to 40," I said. "How old is she? She's very precocious."

"I'm precious," Julie said, again smiling.

"That too," Rona said. "How old are you?"

"Six," Julie said, holding up five fingers of one hand and one of the other, "I'm waiting for my mother. We're going to a parade."

"Are you OK with her?" her father said. He indicated that he worked at the auto dealership.

"Absolutely," Rona said, "Our car won't be ready for at least another half hour. She's is delightful."

When her father was back at his desk, Julie, leaning closer to Rona whispered, "Do you know how old Jesus is?"

"Who?" I said, not sure I had understood.

Still looking at Rona, Julie said, "Jesus. From the church."

"No one's ever asked me that," Rona said, "That's a really good question. Do you go to church?"

"Just on Sunday," Julie said. "But I don't like it there. They won't let me sit with my father. My brother can. He's nine."

Being a little cautious about the subject, Rona said, "Maybe when you're nine they'll let you sit with him." And then to change the subject back to counting, Rona asked, "If you're six and he's nine, how many more years will it be until you are nine?"

I tried to catch Rona's eye to suggest she not frustrate her with a question too difficult for someone her age. Even someone as obviously bright as Julie.

"Is Jesus a man or a woman?" Julie asked, ignoring Rona's subtraction question.

Not looking directly at Julie, Rona said, "I don't . . ."

"There's my mommy," Julie said, all excited. She hopped off her chair and ran over to her. She grabbed hold of her mother's jacket and tugged her to us, "This is my friend Roma," she said, "And he's her father," Julie said, pointing at me. I am in fact nearly 20 years older than Rona so this was not such a bad guess. Many others had assumed the same thing.

"Nice to meet you," Her mother said, "I hope she didn't talk your ear off. She can do that."

"Not at all," Rona said, "She's delightful. And very smart."

"Are you ready for the parade?" her mother asked?

Julie squealed and ran toward the door. When she got there, waiting for her mother, she turned to wave goodbye. And then they were gone.

As it turned out, the wheels did not need realigning and there was no charge.

February 18, 2014--Snowbirding--VOTA

"VOTA? VOTA 12 de Marzo? What you make of that?"

Our car needed a major service and, since we have just one, the mechanic, clearly agitated, had come to pick us up to retrieve it after he had completed the work.

Sputtering, he was pointing to a sign in the median on Federal Highway.

"I suppose," I said, "it's to remind people to vote March 12."

"But VOTA? Marzo?" He said with a heavy accent.

"Well," I said as if to myself, knowing where this was likely headed, "It also says VOTE March 12th."

"And," he bellowed toward Rona who was in the back seat, "It also say VOTE 12 Mas. What this Mas business?"

Our of the corner of my eye I saw her twist toward the window on the other side of the road away from the sign. To look as causal and unengaged as possible, as if she hadn't heard him.

I was sitting to his right and it wasn't possible for me to pretend we had been talking about the weather. Which we had been until he noticed the sign.

"If they can't reading English, because that's what is going on, why they allowed to vote? Isn't it enough we let them in country? And put them on welfare? And give food stamps? And health."  He looked over at me, wanting me to get involved. It was clear he intended this to be more than a rant. Still, I tried to ignore him.

"You have to be citizen to vote, no?" I tried not to look at him. "I assume still that's true. But considering what going on here, you never know. Maybe these days they get off the boat and they take them right to vote."

"Rona said, "Aren't those new condos?" She was pointing to a new building development well off to the right, hoping to deflect his line of thought.

"Some country we become. To vote you no longer need to speak English. Vota, Marzo, Mas. When I came from Russia no one give me nothing. Nothing. What I have," he gestured at his Mercedes SUV, "this car, everything, I work hard to get. Nobody gave me nothing."

"Maybe the opportunity?" I mumbled.

"Speak louder. I cannot hear. I deaf in this ear."

Not knowing what possessed me to get involved, I repeated, louder this time, "Maybe what America gave you was an opportunity?"

"To work hard. No handouts. No Russian signs to vote. I had to become citizen first. And to be citizen I had to take test. Test in English. What language is that Marzo in?" he asked, seemingly calmed down. Perhaps because I had responded.

"I think Spanish," Rona said from the back seat.

"So if Spanish," he said, "What Mas?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "Could be Haitian."

"Haitian! They let Haitians vote though they can't read sign in English?" He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. The car swayed side-to-side.

"First they let them sneak into country, then they take them to polling booth. Like in Russia."

"What do you mean?" I ventured.

"They have what they call elections there and then don't let half people run for president who want so what does vote mean? It's just like what is happening here. America is soon to be like Russia. Where I have to go next?"

"I think this is hardly a fair comparison," I said.

"You call that fair?" He pointed at another voting reminder sign as we approached Delray.

"I don't remember these kinds signs when I was first here six years ago."

"I seem to," I said, again under my breath. We still had about five minute to go before getting to his garage and felt we had already gotten into this deeply enough.

"It's because of him." I now knew for certain where this was headed. "Him." He pointed north as if to Washington and lapsed into a silent rage. Though, shaking his head, I thought I heard him mumbling something in Russian.

"Look at my hands. These" he took both hands off the steering wheel and held them toward me. The car, clearly perfectly maintained, did not waver. "You see grease." His finger nails and knuckles were in fact deeply stained. "From vorking, not voting." For the first time he smiled, which calmed me.

"That's my point," I tried. "How America gave you the opportunity to . . ."

"Vork like monkey." His smile broadened. "Look, I'm not bigot. I wish for these people same that I had. To vork hard, have a nice place to live, children, nice car just like mine." He gently stroked the steering wheel. "Become Americans. Like me. Real ones. Not with this Vota and Marzo. I do not grudge them voting if they are citizens, but signs like this we not need. Not need helping with everything you need. Food, health, house. Everything." He nodded his head, now grinning, as if he had made an unassailable case. "Need to vork for that."

"There is a point to what you're saying," I acknowledged. "That I'll grant you. But for me there has to be a balance between providing opportunities and making sure people who live here--especially if they are legally here or citizens--don't fall through the cracks and that the playing field is level."

"You're spouting clichés," Rona said leaning forward and sounding frustrated. "'Falling through the cracks.' 'Level playing fields.' "Liberals like us have to have better arguments than that. Just offering clichés is not persuasive or fair to people who are working as hard as Alex." I was impressed she remembered his name.  "Is it fair to say to him, who clearly has worked hard for everything he has, who probably never got anything for free, who maybe is having trouble paying for health insurance and his mortgage and . . ."

"That's me," Alex said. "My house, how you say, is underwater."

" . . . and wants to play by the rules, drives around with four-dollar-a-gallon gas in his car and sees signs in Creole reminding people to vote. We have to do better than responding to his frustrations by offering clichés about opportunity and fairness. Because I suspect to him, things are not looking all that fair. Why should they? Do you," she meant me, "Do you think things are fair? Even to you?"

"You're making my points better than me," Alex said, twisting toward Rona.

We rode the rest of the way in silence. Our car was indeed ready and immaculate.

Driving home, I asked Rona, "Does his asking to be paid in cash so he and we could save on paying tax qualify as leveling the playing field and playing by the rules?"

"He probably would say he wants to play by the same rules as the big boys on Wall Street.'

"Touché," I said. "I suppose in America these days equal opportunity also means everyone being able to look for every loophole they can find."

"Alex couldn't have said it better!"