photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
Roger and Me
by Michael Gordon
I had a feeling the card was from Roger the moment it dropped through the mail slot and hit the floor. The number of birthday cards I have been receiving over the years has been dwindling, probably because I lost my birthday card file and so have been mailing fewer and fewer cards each year. We all keep a list like this: special friends, relatives, mothers-in-law for sure, barbers. Like nearly everyone else, I learned about backing up files the hard way, and also the older I get, the lazier I have become, and maybe I’m a little less sentimental too.
The birthday card was from Roger. He said he missed me, that he had been sending me cards ever since we met years ago when we spent four days together. I liked him a lot but not enough to send him cards.
I will never forget the moment we were introduced, and when we touched for the first time. He was taller than I expected and had a terrific build. His hair was amazingly soft, and he had the most beautiful brown eyes and the longest lashes I had ever seen. I knew instantly that this was the beginning of a short but special relationship. The person who introduced us said we were almost a perfect match. I was quite nervous at first. But once I got to know Roger and my heartbeat slowed down a little, I definitely agreed.
Five dads and five ten-year-old daughters were going on a week’s riding, camping and fishing trip in The High Sierra near Mammoth Lakes, California. The girls were good friends and were all in the same grade in middle school in San Francisco. The pack station at Red’s Meadows, where the trip was to begin, sent us questionnaires in advance to learn our ages, weights, and riding and camping experience. I explained that I hadn’t ridden in over forty years.
We arrived in Mammoth City the night before our trip and stayed at the local Travel Lodge. My daughter, Lauren, and I shared a double room and stayed up late talking about our adventure.
“Dad, are we really going to catch a trout and eat it too?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Do I have to clean it myself?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll have a full-time cook along with us. But if you want to clean the fish yourself, you can.”
“Yuck-y,” she mumbled.
Over breakfast the next morning, Lauren kept giving me strange looks and rolling her eyes. And, to tell the truth, she had good reason.
A month before our trip, I had had a conversation with a friend at work whose family had a horse ranch in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I told her about my upcoming adventure and asked for any suggestions she might have for someone who hadn’t ridden for over four decades.
“Blisters are your enemy,” she had said.
“My what?”
“Blisters,” she said again. “Any wrinkles in your jeans will give someone like you blisters.”
“So what do you suggest I do?”
“Pantyhose,” she said. “Believe it or not, that’s what we tell our friends and guests who come to visit us at the ranch. It works every time for you soft city slickers.”
“You can’t be serious.”
She was.
“Don’t you have anything larger than Queen Size?” I asked the clerk at Walgreens a few days later. She looked at me oddly, but never blinked. This was San Francisco.
So that morning before breakfast, while Lauren was in the shower, I figured I had the chance to sneak those pantyhose on without her knowing. I dug them out of my suitcase and lay down on my back on the bed. I had practiced at home with another pair to get the hang of it, but my toenails had completely shredded one leg.
The water was still running so I believed I had some time, and started pulling and yanking. How the hell do they get these damn things on so neatly, I wondered. Just as I was struggling the hardest, the bathroom door cracked open. “Where’s the shampoo, Dad?” Lauren blinked out at me and said.
Then she saw me. There I was with one leg raised high in the air, tugging on the reluctant pantyhose and cursing. I’ll never forget her look of disgust. “Oh, my God. Did Mommy know about this?” She slammed the bathroom door behind her.
“I can explain. I can explain everything,” I shouted at the shut door.
After breakfast, we arrived at the stables to meet our guides. This was a high-end trip: three guides and a cook. They provided everything we would need on this grand four-day adventure, tents, food, horses, fishing gear and more. All we had to bring were our sleeping bags and personal items. They weren’t too happy about the cases of beer and wine we unloaded from the trunks of our cars so we had to cut back a little on that. A LOT!
Then it was time to meet our horses. They were led out of the corral one by one as the trail boss called our names from her clipboard. We were each introduced to our horses. I was last.
“Meet Roger,” the guide said to me. Roger was huge and he did not look like any of the other horses.
“He really has long ears for a horse,” I said.
“Well, Roger is not technically a horse,” the guide said. “He’s a mule. But his dad was a horse.” She quickly added that Roger was the smoothest and most surefooted animal they had, and that riding him was like being in a stretch limousine. I looked around at everyone else standing next to their assigned mounts—real horses—trying to hide their giggles. I thought for a moment and realized that Roger was perfect for me. I looked at Roger and he looked at me. He had beautiful brown eyes and the longest lashes I had ever seen.
“Hi Roger, I’m Michael,” I said. “I think we’ll be great together.” And we were.
I never figured out who was sending me birthday cards signed by Roger for all those years.
The birthday card was from Roger. He said he missed me, that he had been sending me cards ever since we met years ago when we spent four days together. I liked him a lot but not enough to send him cards.
I will never forget the moment we were introduced, and when we touched for the first time. He was taller than I expected and had a terrific build. His hair was amazingly soft, and he had the most beautiful brown eyes and the longest lashes I had ever seen. I knew instantly that this was the beginning of a short but special relationship. The person who introduced us said we were almost a perfect match. I was quite nervous at first. But once I got to know Roger and my heartbeat slowed down a little, I definitely agreed.
Five dads and five ten-year-old daughters were going on a week’s riding, camping and fishing trip in The High Sierra near Mammoth Lakes, California. The girls were good friends and were all in the same grade in middle school in San Francisco. The pack station at Red’s Meadows, where the trip was to begin, sent us questionnaires in advance to learn our ages, weights, and riding and camping experience. I explained that I hadn’t ridden in over forty years.
We arrived in Mammoth City the night before our trip and stayed at the local Travel Lodge. My daughter, Lauren, and I shared a double room and stayed up late talking about our adventure.
“Dad, are we really going to catch a trout and eat it too?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Do I have to clean it myself?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll have a full-time cook along with us. But if you want to clean the fish yourself, you can.”
“Yuck-y,” she mumbled.
Over breakfast the next morning, Lauren kept giving me strange looks and rolling her eyes. And, to tell the truth, she had good reason.
A month before our trip, I had had a conversation with a friend at work whose family had a horse ranch in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I told her about my upcoming adventure and asked for any suggestions she might have for someone who hadn’t ridden for over four decades.
“Blisters are your enemy,” she had said.
“My what?”
“Blisters,” she said again. “Any wrinkles in your jeans will give someone like you blisters.”
“So what do you suggest I do?”
“Pantyhose,” she said. “Believe it or not, that’s what we tell our friends and guests who come to visit us at the ranch. It works every time for you soft city slickers.”
“You can’t be serious.”
She was.
“Don’t you have anything larger than Queen Size?” I asked the clerk at Walgreens a few days later. She looked at me oddly, but never blinked. This was San Francisco.
So that morning before breakfast, while Lauren was in the shower, I figured I had the chance to sneak those pantyhose on without her knowing. I dug them out of my suitcase and lay down on my back on the bed. I had practiced at home with another pair to get the hang of it, but my toenails had completely shredded one leg.
The water was still running so I believed I had some time, and started pulling and yanking. How the hell do they get these damn things on so neatly, I wondered. Just as I was struggling the hardest, the bathroom door cracked open. “Where’s the shampoo, Dad?” Lauren blinked out at me and said.
Then she saw me. There I was with one leg raised high in the air, tugging on the reluctant pantyhose and cursing. I’ll never forget her look of disgust. “Oh, my God. Did Mommy know about this?” She slammed the bathroom door behind her.
“I can explain. I can explain everything,” I shouted at the shut door.
After breakfast, we arrived at the stables to meet our guides. This was a high-end trip: three guides and a cook. They provided everything we would need on this grand four-day adventure, tents, food, horses, fishing gear and more. All we had to bring were our sleeping bags and personal items. They weren’t too happy about the cases of beer and wine we unloaded from the trunks of our cars so we had to cut back a little on that. A LOT!
Then it was time to meet our horses. They were led out of the corral one by one as the trail boss called our names from her clipboard. We were each introduced to our horses. I was last.
“Meet Roger,” the guide said to me. Roger was huge and he did not look like any of the other horses.
“He really has long ears for a horse,” I said.
“Well, Roger is not technically a horse,” the guide said. “He’s a mule. But his dad was a horse.” She quickly added that Roger was the smoothest and most surefooted animal they had, and that riding him was like being in a stretch limousine. I looked around at everyone else standing next to their assigned mounts—real horses—trying to hide their giggles. I thought for a moment and realized that Roger was perfect for me. I looked at Roger and he looked at me. He had beautiful brown eyes and the longest lashes I had ever seen.
“Hi Roger, I’m Michael,” I said. “I think we’ll be great together.” And we were.
I never figured out who was sending me birthday cards signed by Roger for all those years.