No ID Required

The other day morning we lost power at the house. There were no ice storms, high winds or other weather related calamity associated with living at the forty third parallel. Earlier the scream of sirens ran through the woods, escaped sounds from Route 9, the road down the hill from the house. The disturbance mixed with the stuttered chatter of leaves, conversations of fall arriving on the fresh breath out of Canada. “A car most likely wrapped around a telephone pole,” I told Dad. We cranked the generator so I could take a shower before work.

I left for work. At the bottom of the hill an EMT flagged me when I signaled to head south. I rolled the passenger side window down to let the man dressed in rubber boots and a huge yellow jacket explain.

“Road is closed.” I imagined a mangled car fused to a pole. The jaws of life munching metal. Probably some tourist. Maybe a drunk, but it wasn’t even noon.

“How are far down Northern Pines do I need to go? Worth Road?” I knew the detour. Northern Pines was a parallel route, and once a back road that now carried a volume of traffic to and from the condos and fabricated homes that sprouted in the old corn fields and abandoned dairy farms. Springtime dandelions didn't grow as fast.

“No, The accident is at Worth.”

Hell, I thought to myself. If I got to do that I might as well go all the way into town pass the elementary school and come out by the mall. Do I need anything? Before I could compile a list to pick up at Wal-Mart, the EMT asked, “Are you a Perez?”

Okay, here’s the point of my blog. I was eighteen when I left Saratoga, and although I have lived here part time for the last three years I’m more recognizable than the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted. If I didn’t know better I’d say my face was pinned to a wall in the Post Office. It’s certainly not my one-book authorship or my blog reader ship, or my run-away twittering cat or even my right wing conservative hate monger activities in Washington DC that promotes my fame. No, it’s my genes.

That’s right, I look like my father. Everyone tells me. No matter how causal the relationship people will tell me this. The greeter at Wal-Mart. An ancient member of the Wilton Historical Society. All the Bank of America tellers. The owners at Allerdice, the local hardware store. They all recognize me as Manny’s daughter. I even have people I don’t know, like the clerk at Lowes, ask me “How’s your dad?”

With this kind of recognition who needs to carry identification? It won’t get me through any airport security, but it gives me the privilege of using his credit card anywhere in town, no questions ask.

The EMT explained he was a Hellenek. Since he looked a good ten years younger than me, I figured he had to have been eight when I left town. I didn’t recognized him. Oh well.

Being told I look like my father isn’t bad unless I take it that I look like an 86 year old man.