Puzzling, to say the least . . .

Three of us worked the thousand-piece Paris scene puzzle over a period of ninety days, completing it just before the deadline I had set of the spring forward daylight savings time change.

Time to live outside.

Two very senior seniors and one extremely hip and cosmopolitan thirty something.

My latest puzzle fascination began at a spacious lake house in Michigan last summer—a Big Chill version of Friends. Six of us, usually with a cup of coffee, a beer, or a glass of wine in hand, took turns puzzling over a puzzle—I can’t remember the picture—left on the kitchen island by the attentive landlord as we reminisced about past antics of our forty-year friendship.

The three women breezed by throughout the day; the men seemed to come less often and stay longer. Each seemed to gravitate to a particular spot on the puzzle.

“Atta boy!” and “Way to go!” and slaps on the back or butt pinches not uncommon as pieces fell into place and the vacation played out.

The puzzle was unfinished when we left, too much time on Lake Littlefield, its calm waters, its sunrises, and its memorable sunsets.

No regrets.

Prior to that, my last puzzle episodes were with active, sticky-fingered toddlers and wooden Playskool varieties—Garfield, Robin Hood, and Old Woman in the Shoe.

Before Robert, my puzzle partner, and I sat down to attack, I had turned each cardboard piece over—color side up. One-thousand small, whimsically shaped forms designed to interlock with others featuring tabs which the puzzle makers refer as “protruding knobs” and “receiving slots,” but are frequently dubbed male and female.

In January Robert and I began the Paris puzzle which I had given him for Christmas, hoping it would inspire a visit to the La Ville Lumière. The Eiffel Tower, Fleurs, and Patisseries highlighted the colorful street scene of the thousand-piecer.

On the back cover:

Can’t fly to France? Please don’t despair. This puzzle helps to take you there; invite a friend, explore the sights.

And:

“EeBoo puzzles by Jennifer Orkin Lewis even come with a curated playlist ‘while you puzzle.’”

A nice feature, but we have our own playlists that remind us of our trips to Paris—Michael Bublé’s “La Vie en Rose" and anything by Edith Piaf or Nina Simone.

I instantly discovered that Robert’s puzzle-making attention span was brief and that I was obsessive. “Just a little longer, please”—a familiar refrain as we marched forward.

Of course, we began with the frame. Doesn’t everybody?

Days, actually evenings, into the project, we were a dozen pieces away from completing the square frame. He had claimed the left and bottom sides of the twenty-four-in squiggly-pieced square leaving me to struggle with the top and right. Over and over, we pushed pieces this way and that hoping to uncover flat-edged pieces. Our diligence paid off. With three missing, we moved to stage two of Adult Jigsaw-ing.

“I think you got a defective puzzle,” he offered referring to the missing frame parts and—I presume—secretly hoping I would give up.

Puzzling participants should exercise caution to avoid small nit-picky fights.

After framing, we easily fell into assigned sections—my part the brilliant red Eiffel Tower soaring in the clear blue sky at the top and his, the Notre Dame Cathedral, a stunning coral-hued version of French Gothic architecture, to the left. The sidewalk cafes, flower stalls, and iconic luxury apartments with wrought iron balconies on the puzzle’s right side would be a later challenge.

There is something so old-fashioned about working a puzzle in these days of Spelling Bee, Roblox and the endless runner mobile game, Subway Surfer.

Actual conversations can occur. A perfect venue for food and wine tastings. A game of footsies under the table which could occasionally lead from the puzzle table to the bedroom.

Jigsaw-ing is a perfect way to observe people’s quirks, habits, and lifestyles. Strengths and weaknesses.

Possibilities are endless.

Any and all of the above occurred as we lumbered through the puzzle project. Traces of guacamole and Trader Joe’s Unexpected Cheddar Cheese remain here and there, mostly on my side I’m afraid.

It is not uncommon when puzzling for the irregular shaped pieces to fall on the floor or onto the chair or sofa one is sitting on. What happened to us might be less common. Three fell onto my puzzle partner’s pant leg with two then falling on the floor. He picked them up. He also went home with the remaining piece in his shoe. He found it days later when he wore the cool sneakers again, returning it with great fanfare.

At some point in this pictorial game loved by everybody’s grandmother, the struggle lessens and finding proper pieces becomes more rapid. “I got it” or “Eureka” shouts of victory, not uncommon. For us there were times when a friend or family member or the housekeeper walked into the living room at 215 and within seconds had put a piece where it belonged.

There is a euphoria that occurs with the “home stretch” of jigsaw-ing. Much like Brad Pitt expressed making the final lap to victory in the award-winning movie, F-1.

“Last lap… this is where the noise falls away. It’s just me, the machine,

and one perfect line. Don’t chase it—be it.”

It was a lithesome, savvy, globetrotting thirty-year-old who brought the euphoria.

“I’m in Florida with girlfriends, Neeny, and can’t get back to NYC because of the blizzard. I’m thinking of coming to see you.”

This turned into a three-night, four-day stay with me because her parents—my next-door son and daughter-in-law—were battling another round of Covid.

Lucky me.

Lucky us.

Lucky jigsaw puzzle.

This granddaughter, who was one of the active, sticky-fingered toddlers of my early puzzle phase, now on her way to a photo shoot in San Francisco, is a visual person who makes her living designing social media content for The Gap. Master’s Degree from Rhode Island School of Design.

If there isn’t a course on jigsaw-puzzle-solving, there should be and she should be teaching it!

Arm in arm, she and I walked to one our favorite neighborhood haunt for a light dinner and among other things talked about the puzzle. At home, after scrutinizing our work, in head-spinning speed, she undid the frame in two places, rearranging the jammed pieces to their intended location. Yes, on the left side and the bottom, but who’s pointing fingers?

Before going any further, placing a piece of a jigsaw puzzle in the spot it’s meant to be is as satisfying as putting my head on my pink satin pillowcase when it’s time to go to bed.

Ah-h-h.

After correcting our frame faux pas, my granddaughter began in other areas and rapidly did as much as we had done in seven weeks. No razzle-dazzle. One by one, she would select a piece, hold it up for a mere few seconds to the picture of the puzzle, and then swiftly and gracefully drop it exactly where it belonged.

Astonishing.

She did leave us enough to feel ownership.

The afternoon after I took her to the airport, I arranged the remaining pieces—around one-hundred-and-fifty—into colors. While doing so, I came across the one remaining frame part which I left for my puzzle partner to place that evening.

After dinner and a long walk toward downtown San Diego and back, we began to puzzle.

Over a glass of white wine with the sunset unfolding out the arched window at 215, magic occurred. The pieces left on the table seemed to float into their proper locations. A swishy soft landing. A technicolor Paris unfolded before our eyes. Within a short while we were done.

One-thousand pieces properly put together.

Make that nine-hundred-ninety-nine pieces properly put together.

One darn piece missing.

Earlier, I had found a piece deep in the cushion of my mother’s wing back chair, my regular puzzling post. Certain I would find the final one there, I slid my hand between the upholstered arm and the seat base all the way around. Two chairs—his and mine.

Nothing.

A few crumbs, but no puzzle piece.

We gave up, halting the confounding puzzle project for another night.

The next day I sent both the other very senior senior and the thirty-something a picture of the completed puzzle minus one piece in the Haussman-style apartment window of the upper right section. Mostly dark gray.

My puzzle partner, a thorough, prepared, and determined surgeon before relocating to San Diego and entering into a relationship as my permanent puzzle partner, returned to the puzzle field the next day determined. He did a thorough search of floor, tables, and chairs. He rummaged in the deep interior of the upholstered chair on his side.

Nothing.

When he DID find the missing piece, deep—way deep—in the tight space between the arm and seat sans cushion of my mom’s chair (yes, I had already looked there . . .), he held it up and paraded through the house as if carrying the Olympic torch. Beaming like a Gold Medal winner, he placed it with great fanfare into its’ appropriate slot, completing the Paris picture.

A moment of silence.

Then we danced madly around the room!

It takes a village . . .

We clinked our glasses and vowed to enjoy the long daylight hours ahead together outside and take our time selecting a puzzle for next winter’s evenings in front of the fire.

His closing comment as we dissembled the puzzle a week later, “How about five-hundred pieces next time???

*****

Footnote: From our puzzle partner back in NYC two weeks later:

saw this at the park earlier... someone's gonna have trouble finishing their puzzle!