Things hardly ever go according to plan. That’s how it was when Margo finally got pregnant. We had decided we wanted to have a child together. Each of us had our own reasons that didn’t seem to overlap. Though, I was hardly aware of it at the time.
At that point in my life, I wanted to be biologically related to my child but didn’t and couldn’t imagine myself pregnant and delivering. A good plan seemed to be my brother donating the sperm to my partner. Previously, he had told me he was willing. Now with encouragement, he agreed.
Margo and I went through the determination of ovulation by taking her temperature each day. It wasn’t the most reliable technique. My brother who lived two hours north of us was on call for the meet up. We had been trying for eight months with no luck.
The Mustang had never failed me in the ten years since my grandparents gave it to me. It had never left me stranded until that night. It had failed a friend once but only because she didn’t notice it was overheating until it stopped on the freeway. (I'm still mad about that.)
I was coming back from seeing about a job in Chehalis. I had a good state job part-time that I liked. But, I was curious about this machinist job. I’d only ever worked in offices.
Margo was ovulating according to the latest and greatest drug store test. We had advanced from the temperature chart. She was in Seattle. A friend of hers would drop her off at my grandparents’ in Des Moines where she, my brother, and I would meet for the sperm transfer. My grandparents were away at their beach house on Vashon Island. It was halfway between my brother and us. We’d met there before.
I was re-tracing my route back to Olympia and ultimately Des Moines when the Mustang gave a kick and the engine died. There wasn’t much traffic. I coasted it to the side just before an overpass. It was full of gas, not hot, and had good engine oil pressure. I got out and popped the hood, checking to see if there was spark to the spark plugs after double checking the oil. It had spark but showed no sign of starting when I turned the engine over.
Darkness was falling rapidly in the early evening of May 1986. I had just passed a sign indicating a rest area in a mile. Knowing the Mustang would require more than I could immediately offer, I headed for the rest area to call a friend.
As I made the 20 minute walk to the freeway rest stop, I pondered why tonight the Mustang had seen fit to land me by the side of the road. I was impressed it had the sense to do it close to a rest area with pay phones.
Arriving at the rest area, I called a friend to pick me up. Fortunately, she was home. I also called Margo at my grandparents. She wasn’t there. I waited a bit and called again. My grandparents’ boarder, Dean, answered and handed the phone to Margo.
“The Mustang died by the side of the road. I didn’t even make it to Olympia.”
“Your brother’s coming. What do we do?”
“I guess you’ll have to handle it without me.”
“But, Dean’s here.”
“Just ignore him. Find a jelly jar.” My grandmother always had lots of empty jelly jars. “And boil it in a pan of water. When Zack comes, hand him the jar.”
“What about Dean?”
“Just tell him you’re meeting Zack. He won’t ask.”
“I don’t have a syringe here.” I had been using a syringe without a needle to inject the sperm in Margo.
“Find my Granny’s turkey baster. It’s there somewhere. Boil it with the jelly jar.”
“What if Dean asks what I’m doing?”
“Tell him you are making something. He won’t ask.” (He didn't.)
My brother met Margo a bit later. We arranged for her to drive my grandparents’ giant green Ford Country Sedan station wagon circa 1972 to Olympia that night. They had their Ford truck at Vashon. After making the exchange with Zack, Margo headed home with the precious cargo in the jelly jar keeping warm against her belly.
She knew that she had to inject the sperm within 20-30 minutes. She was on the freeway without a plan coming up to Fife. My grandparents had stopped at the Poodle Dog Restaurant to eat occasionally on their way back from Vashon. We had stopped there too. The timing was right for Margo to stop at the Poodle Dog.
She unloaded with the jelly jar and Granny’s turkey baster tucked up her shirt and marched into the women’s restroom. Perching on the toilet, legs akimbo, she loaded up the baster with sperm and injected it inside. It was recommended that her legs were raised in the air to help the sperm swim up stream. According to Margo legend, there she sat, balanced carefully, legs propped on the stall walls listening to Whitney Houston sing “The Greatest Love of All.” She held there for 30 minutes, fingers crossed basking in a sperm glow.
It turns out that Granny’s turkey baster was the key. If she only knew. I figure had I been there we wouldn’t have used a turkey baster nor had the delay in insemination. As it was, Margo got pregnant in month nine of trying. The Mustang got fixed. (The timing chain had broken.) I never, ever asked Granny if she noticed her turkey baster was missing. Somethings are better left unspoken and unknown.
L’Chaim.
Joceile
11.30.19
[Picture of Poodle Dog Restaurant sign.]
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