I, Spy

Sometimes the biggest duh moments arrive years after the fact, when enough time and space have passed so that what has been painfully obvious to everyone else hits like the proverbial ton of bricks.

To wit: there’s a very good reason why I dug in so deeply in writing Propaganda Girls, my book about four women who worked for the U.S. spy agency during World War II…

I am a spy, too. I love to spy on people, both openly and covertly, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. And writing biographies is essentially spying on people.

My niece nicknamed me Laser Eyes not long after she said her first words. My mother — when she spoke, that is — frequently said Don’t stare. So did ex-husband Number Two.

I’ve previously mentioned how I spied on the neighbors — intact, seemingly happy families on both sides of our house — when I was a kid. I also spied on my mother through the heating grate in my room, the den where she spent most of her time was directly below. Since she rarely talked to me, I don’t know what I was listening for, most of the time the only thing I heard was the drone of the 10 o’clock news on channel five out of New York, which began each newscast with the infamous — and, in my case, ironic — It’s 10 o’clock, do you know where your children are?

In my senior year of high school I had a penchant for running through the streets of suburban Glen Rock, New Jersey at 11 o’clock at night. If my mother heard the door open and close, she never mentioned it.

This week I’ve spent the last few days in a tiny cottage on Bailey Island in Harpswell, Maine. My usual go-to Maine getaway is a hotel in York where I can not only see the ocean from my room but also spy on the people who congregate on the beach and in the grassy side yard. Last fall when I stayed there, I made up a complete life story for the well-groomed upper-middle-class seemingly still-married 50-something parents and their pushing-30 kids, one of whom was accompanied by a serious boyfriend or recently-acquired husband as they all stood in the grass, as hotel workers dragged patio furniture into a truck for winter storage.

[News flash: this is what writers do, we make up complete life histories about total strangers for the sheer entertainment value, but also so we can compare our own stories to others. Whether it’s true or not is beside the point.]

But York is crowded in the summer and I needed someplace secluded. I use these brief Maine trips to drill down on parts of my memoir I’ve been avoiding and usually splurge on a waterview room or cottage because I find that the rippling waves have an effect on my subconscious that doesn’t come so readily at home. This week I went through my father’s thick file of personnel records from his time as a Navy medic in World War II again. New realizations always float up to deepen my view of what he experienced.

When I booked the Airbnb, it didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t be able to spy on people from the water-facing cottage until I arrived.

The horror!

But I could spy on the boats passing by. Not a great substitute, but I figured it’ll do. The cottages on either side of me were empty though I did spot a guy picking weeds a few houses away one day.

So I stared at him. Of course I did.

My last night on Bailey Island. I always prefer sunsets over sunrise.

Then — suddenly — I heard voices! I dashed to the side of the cottage facing the narrow dirt road, which took all of five steps.

The cottage was located on a popular walking path! I couldn’t watch for long as people passed by at a good clip, but at least I’d get my dose.

My habits today have long tentacles. When I was a kid I spied on other families so I could learn what “normal” families did.

Last fall, my husband and I went to an orchard at apple-picking time and I couldn’t stop staring at the families with young kids. The parents looked exhausted and impatient and stared at their phones and the kids were whiny and bratty and fixated on the chickens, goats and sheep in the petting zoo.

No one looked happy. Plus, they were out of apple pies, the best in the state and the main reason we had gone there. So I wasn’t happy either.

Happy families are all alike…

I made a comment to my husband along the lines of Look at everyone here! which, translated from Lisa-speak, means, Why would anyone choose this if they’re all so miserable?

Since he is well versed in his wife’s peculiarities, he simply said, “That’s what families out doing things looks like.”

My brain chewed on this the whole next week. Looking back at my own childhood, when I stared at other families doing family things, I always thought that I wanted to inject myself into their families, become part of them, have them adopt me.

But in the aftermath of the orchard visit, I realized I didn’t want that back then at all. Instead, I had reasoned, since that was what passed for normal — and since I knew I’d never have that — I told myself that not only did I not want that, but also that I would focus on becoming more me and not care that my family was different, though none of my friends knew just how different since I spent my childhood treating our reality as a closely-held state secret.

If that makes sense. In other words, I didn’t want anyone to adopt me or become part of any family or do the same things that they did. Because then they’d make me do stuff and talk to me – and expect me to answer – and expect me to come on family outings.

I never wanted to be a part of that. I didn’t want to live a “normal” life. Childhood habits take hold early. I was a loner from before I could talk. My life as a spy was cast early.

And I can’t don’t want to shake it, which is why I dashed to the street side of the cottage when I heard voices — real voices, not the ones in my head ;-) — and why I like to work in a spare second-floor bedroom I’ve dubbed the Womb Room because that’s where the memoir germinates and my colored Post-Its plaster the walls, but more important, that’s where I can spy on people walking by on the street, study them, and perhaps learn something from them.

After all, old habits die hard never die. And every so often, I get a book out of it. ;-)

This Week’s Takeaway: What one personality trait do you have that other people frown on but which is actually a real strength? If you have spent an inordinate amount of energy trying to hide it, what would happen if you were to fully embrace it?