The Crunchy Granola Family

Politically, I'm something of a Liberal. I'm pro-choice, I'm against the death penalty, I'm pacifistic, I support civil rights for all people - women, blacks, hispanics, and gays included - and I vote for democrats. I'm a Liberal... but I'm not a Crunchy Granola Liberal!

"Crunchy Granola" is what we everyday Liberals call those extremely far left people: those hippie-looking, shower-needing, tree-hugging, Jerry Garcia-loving, vegetarian, Phish-listening, sandal-wearing, granola-crunching Liberals. We moderate Liberals have a sense of humor about ourselves, whereas our Crunchy Granola cousins passionately believe in the correctness of their left-wing ways to the point of humorlessness. I believe in Liberal causes, but I don't take any kind of radical action to do anything about them. For example, I'm against the death penalty but I'm not marching on Washington to protest it. The Crunchy Granola folks would probably label me complacent, and they'd be right. Oh well. I may be a hippie, but I'm not in any rush to participate in your Save the Whales march... perhaps because I'm too busy showering, something the Crunchy Granola Liberals apparently aren't doing.

Sure, I sort of dress the part of the Crunchy Granola Liberal: I wear turtlenecks all winter and sandals all summer... but not Birkentstocks, for Christ's sake! (My wife Molly, on the other hand, does wear Birkentstocks, and even my right-wing Republican mother is looking to buy a pair. So much for associating politics with a brand of sandal!)

This family of ex-Californians that Molly met at the Unitarian Church - the Sperlings - is Crunchy Granola.

Before I go further, I'd like to make a distinction between the Sperlings who are the main subject of this piece - the former Californians - and our dear friends the Sperlings, who we've known since July 19, 1999, the day David Cone of the New York Yankees pitched a perfect game. Now back to my story...

When my wife Molly first met Shelly Sperling at the Unitarian Church, they "hit it off," noting that the Sperlings and the Daniels families had many similarities: both families had four members, and each person had a similarly-aged counterpart in the other family. Shelly Sperling and Molly were roughly the same age, as were Jamie Sperling and I; the Sperlings had a girl who was a little younger than our Iris, and they had a new baby boy who was a little younger than our Cameron. From this, the women reasoned, a friendship should be born.

I hadn't met them, but after several months of Molly speaking about them and making persistent phone calls to them (the Sperlings were busy with their new papoose), Molly finally managed to arrange a "date" with the former Californians. We'd first meet at a neutral playground so Iris and her similarly-aged-Sperling-counterpart could play together. From there, we'd all have lunch together at a diner or an inexpensive restaurant.

I should've known sooner that the Sperlings were Crunchy Granolas. There were early clues: Shelly Sperling carried her baby boy in a kind of sling made of a brightly-colored and environmentally-friendly rough fabric - burlap perhaps, or maybe even hemp. I learned Jamie was a vegetarian. And over lunch I learned that they'd traveled cross-country Nomad-style, their two-year-old daughter in tow, in something they called a "Vanagon." (Rhymes with "Laura Branigan.") When I asked Jamie what a Vanagon was, he confessed that it was the modern-day equivalent of a Volkswagen bus. Ken Kesey would have approved.

Jamie and I had nothing to talk about, and I felt forced into some kind of relationship with him. Our wives had hit it off and they expected Jamie and I to hit it off, too. We didn't. After a prolonged silence I attempted to break the ice by discussing California; they had just moved to Albany from there, and I had lived in San Jose for a year back in '77. Jamie responded to me by saying the Sperlings had lived near Berkley. Figures.

Parting was uncomfortable for me. Molly and the Sperlings all spoke of how we had had a "fun" time and "we'll have to do this again soon." I wasn't feeling it. I had to feign congeniality towards them and act as though I, too, wanted "to do this again." I didn't.

I didn't explain to Molly how I felt about the Sperlings. When she later asked me what I'd thought of them, I could only muster a lame-sounding "Well, they're awfully Crunchy Granola." "Of course they are," Molly replied. "They're from California."

Unfortunately for me, Molly made another date with the Sperlings. This time we met them at an indoor merry-go-round and would have them over to our house for lunch afterward. Things went a little better this time; my conversation with Jamie was a little less forced. Still, I wasn't thinking I wanted him as a friend. When he told me he had a job interview in Utica the following week, I was honest with him for perhaps the first time: I told him I'd be "crossing my fingers" for him. I truly wanted Jamie to get the Utica job, because that meant his family would have to move out of Albany and I'd never have to see them again.

Jamie got the job and I was silently ecstatic. The Crunchy Granola California Sperlings would be moving to Utica. When Molly offered to watch their Iris-aged daughter so they'd be free to pack, I willingly endured Little Girl Sperling's intrusion into my Saturday, knowing I'd soon be rid of her and her parents forever. They'll ride off into the sunset in their Volkswagen Vanagon, the four of them.

It sounds awful to say all this, because they're actually nice people. They didn't say or do anything that would cause me to dislike them. I guess I just didn't want a new couple as friends. You could say I only had room in my heart for one family of Sperlings, and I'd already met my quota. Our other Sperling friends are also Liberals, but not nearly as "Crunchy Granola" as the ex-Californian Sperlings. They're our kind of Liberals.

Farewell, Crunchy Granola Family. Perhaps we'll meet again at the time of the next Harmonic Convergence. Peace.