Life Lessons from a Flu Clinic

I'm all about learning life lessons whenever the opportunity presents itself, and this weekend I learned two: "Volunteerism is its own reward" and "Share and share alike."
Our town held its first H1N1 flu clinic this weekend. Like many parents, I worried about getting my children vaccinated. Our doctor's office has not yet received the vaccine (they ran out of the regular flu vaccine before my kids could get it.) Friends were already reporting their children home with the flu; it seemed only a matter of time before one of my kids caught it. So the fact that our town was offering a clinic for pregnant women, children, and caregivers came as a relief.

With a limited number of doses available, I formulated my plan to camp out at the High School to insure my children's vaccine. Hmmm, the clinic was due to start at 11 a.m. Would nine be early enough? Should I get there at six? This was a bit like sleeping over for concert tickets, except this time the stakes were higher. How to work out the logistics when my son had an 8:00 a.m. soccer game and my husband and I were down to one car?

The solution came in the form of an email, asking for volunteers for the clinic. Though my other volunteer work is for altruistic reasons, here was a chance to volunteer and perhaps get something in exchange. I quickly emailed Nancy, the clinic's organizer and volunteered my services. In my email, I mentioned that I had planned to wait on line for the vaccine for my children. By volunteering, could I insure that they would receive the vaccine?
　
Nancy's reply? "Thank you for expressing an interest in helping us at our first in a series of H1N1 flu clinics. Volunteerism is a wonderful thing that many say is it's own reward but we will be offering immunizations to our volunteers and/or families if they meet the criteria of this first clinic." Snap! Nancy had my number. She saw right through my plan. I was tempted to email her back a list of my unselfish volunteer credentials (Meals on Wheels, Sunday School, Lego Robotics), but I figured it best not to rock the boat. If getting my children the vaccine meant me coming off as a scheming, calculating person, so be it. (Really, I'm not...much).

Two days prior, I learned that the clinic would be open to residents of any surrounding town, as long as the participants met the criteria. Say what? With a limited number of vaccines, why not reserve it for our own residents first? A mother from a neighboring town told me she was planning to attend our clinic because she was taking her kids to Aruba for Thanksgiving and was worried about them catching germs on the plane (you can imagine how I frothed over that one). Many towns were reserving the vaccine for their residents. Why not us? I tried to rally as many Hanover friends as possible, urging them to get to the clinic.

On the day of the clinic, I reported to the High School, only to see a long line of people waiting patiently in the hall. Some of them had been there for over three hours. "That could have been me." I thought. My role as a greeter was to help register people in line and bring them to the nurse's area once their paperwork was processed. As I worked my way down the line with the other volunteers, I saw both familiar and unfamiliar faces. The first person in line was a mother from Hanson, who had been there since 6 a.m. I thought I would feel anger. This woman was potentially taking a vaccine from one of my friend's children. But my anger was gone. Wouldn't I do the same thing for my children if Norwell or Scituate or Abington had an open clinic? As I helped residents and non-residents alike, I was ashamed of my initial petty, territorial feelings. We were parents without borders, willing to do whatever it took to insure the safety of our children. Share and share alike.

With so many people desperate for the vaccine, I imagined the clinic would be a zoo. But Nancy and her legion of volunteers kept everything running smoothly. Nurses, clerical workers, EMTs, firefighters and police all worked together to keep the line moving and get parents and children through as quickly as possible. Each time I led a family back to the nurse's area, (the final step in their vaccination journey) I felt a lift. While the kids were often anxious about the vaccination itself, the parents all shared the same expression of relief: their kids would finally be protected. They were effusive in their gratitude, but honestly, I was grateful to play a small part in something so important to the community.

There will be more flu clinics in the weeks ahead (Nancy's already planning ways to improve the next one) and though my children will have been vaccinated by that time, I'm hoping to participate again. Because Nancy was right: Volunteerism is its own reward.

Holy S*#t! I'm a Geek!

I’ve never been accomplished at math and science (my strength lies in English). I'm able to navigate my iPhone relatively well, though if you asked me to try something advanced, I'd have to consult my expert friend Maria (ditto the iPod and iTunes). I love my computer, but mainly because it's a Mac. Something about that smiley face that appears on start-up just warms my heart (except for the time that a question mark replaced the smiley face...that's bad.) I tried to read "A Brief History of Time" by Stephen Hawking but it made my brain hurt. I nearly failed high school chemistry.

Add this all up (can you to add it up for me since I'm not great at math?) and I doubt anyone would mistake me for a brainiac. So how did I end up a geek at the age of 46?
　
What is a geek? The dictionary lists three separate definitions: "A peculiar or otherwise dislikable person, especially one who is perceived to be overly intellectual." Nope, definitely not me. Another definition is "a carnival performer who performs sensationally morbid or disgusting acts, as biting off the head of a live chicken." Well, we all know how attached I got to the little red hen that found it's way into my yard, so I guess we can discount that as well. The last definition seems to fit what most people think when they hear the term geek: "A computer expert or enthusiast (a term of pride as self-reference, but often considered offensive when used by outsiders.)"

Computer expert? Enthusiast? Hardly. As a college freshman, I was proud of my new electric typewriter. In my senior year, I was required to take a computer-programming course. This was back in the days when computers were all semi-colon, ampersand, backslash gibberish (hey, remember IMB punch cards?) Suffice it to stay, I nearly flunked the course. Steve Jobs and Bill Gates were just getting started in their pitched battle of Apple vs. Microsoft when I graduated in 1985. It wasn't until years later that an employer forced me to learn how to use a Mac and my impression of computers changed overnight. The door to potential geekdom was opened.

Not long ago I decided to activate our Tivo. The system was given to us as a gift, yet sat in the closet for nearly two years. Every time I opened the lid, several snake-like wires confronted me with dangerous looking connectors on the ends. I'd slam the box shut and toss it back in the closet. Finally, after hearing my friends sing the praises of their DVRs, I decided to give it a try (Why didn't I ask my husband, the video editor, to hook it up for me? Because that would have been too easy.) After a couple of hours wrangling with our outdated television, cable box, VCR (yes, we still had one) and the Tivo DVR, I was greeted by another smiley face: that of the Tivo logo, a happy little television with a perky smile and Shrek horns. I had successfully installed and activated my Tivo. Another milestone on the road to geekhood.

This year I've jumped full force into geekdom by agreeing to coach my son's Lego Robotics team. I'd previously volunteered as an assistant coach, which was less about robots and programming and more about keeping 3rd and 4th graders in line. As a lead coach, my responsibilities include overseeing their research project, motivating them to work as a team, understanding the rules of the competition in which the team will participate, as well as guiding them in designing and programming a Lego robot.

Overwhelming? To say the least. But given my success with the Tivo (still lovin' it!) I forged ahead. I jumped on the FIRST Lego League website and read everything I could about this year's challenge. I consulted Tricia Smith, the founder of the Hanover Lego Robotics program, on anything and everything. Instead of my trash-of-the-month book I bought "The Unofficial Lego Mindstorms NXT Inventor's Guide". But my geek final exam was taken and passed last week.

While building a demo robot to show my team, I noticed that the instructions didn't allow the rear wheel to move freely. Was it a mistake? I had followed the diagram to the letter. Was the rear wheel really intended to just drag behind the robot? Patiently, I took the rear wheel assembly apart, checked and rechecked my work, and then decided to modify the robot's design. Let me just repeat that last part. I modified the robot's design. If anyone had told me back in 1985 that I would be building, modifying and programming robots, I would have told them they were crackers. Yet here I am.

I'm proud to join the ranks of Bill Gates (rich geek), Leonardo da Vinci (Renaissance geek), Albert Einstein (ubergeek with bad hair) and countless others throughout history who have flown their geek flag proudly. My husband is a video geek and my kids are geeks-in-training. Scoff if you will, but the cars we drive, the Internet we surf, the HDTV's we enjoy and the smart phones we can't live without were all designed by a geek somewhere.

And the geeks shall inherit the earth.

Get Real!

One benefit to being a stay-at-home mom is being able to chaperone my children's field trips. I've been to the Cohasset art center, the Stone Zoo, the Museum of Fine Arts and Peggotty Beach. I try to volunteer whenever possible because all too soon, the field trips will end and my services will no longer be needed.

This past week my 3rd grader came home with a permission slip for an upcoming trip. Glancing through the form, I noted the date, time and cost. When my eyes came to rest on the location, my stomach dropped. The two words I dreaded most were printed at the bottom:

Plimoth Plantation.

I have nothing against Plimoth Plantation. Or Old Sturbridge Village, or the Constitution or any other historic destination. I'm glad that my children are able to learn how the Pilgrims and Native Americans lived, farmed, worked, survived and celebrated the first Thanksgiving together. I'm glad that our country has places that are preserved to illustrate what life was like hundreds of years ago. I appreciate those knowledgeable folks who share this information wholeheartedly with others.

I just can't stand to be around them.

Okay, let me amend that. I don't mind watching the smithy forge horseshoes or the milkmaid churn butter. Candle dipping is fascinating. Weaving is a skill, no wait, an art form, and one that I could never master. These folks are artisans and deserve to show off their skills. But please, in the name of all that is holy, please don't pretend that you are actually in that time period. Please don't speak as if the modern world doesn't exist. Because if you do, I’ll just hop into my twenty-first century mini-van and zoom away.

This intolerance for "role players" began in my teenage years when my parents took our family on vacation to Williamsburg, Virginia. The first day of our trip, we visited Busch Gardens (all well and good). The second day we visited Colonial Williamsburg. Within minutes I was begging my parents to take us back to Busch Gardens. In general, I could hold it together when dragged through historical museums and landmarks. But something about Colonial Williamsburg just set my teeth on edge. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of Colonists, all speaking "in character", all fully immersed in the 18th century and unwilling to acknowledge anything modern that made me want to point at a jet passing overhead and cry, "Prithee, what be that great iron bird borne aloft?"

My opinion didn't change as I got older. In my 20's, I had to keep my feelings private or risk offending a co-worker who enjoyed reenacting civil war battles. He actually wore his getup to an office costume party, complete with period glasses (sorry, spectacles.) He was a spectacle all right. I spent the entire party avoiding eye contact and darting to the opposite side of the room, lest I blurt out my true opinion.

A few years back, the Newcomers club organized a Christmas visit to Beechwood, the Astor family mansion in Newport. I looked forward to touring the house, which was decorated for the holidays, and then lunching with my friends in Mrs. Astor's private salon. As our group met in the foyer, a maid with an Irish brogue informed us that we were in for a real treat: Several members of the Astor family had arrived home for the holidays and would be chatting with us at various points along the tour. Say what? No quaintly dressed tour guide speaking from a modern point of view about the wallpaper and the window treatments? We were to be subjected to (gasp) actors pretending we had somehow become transported back to the turn of the century? I approached each room with dread, wondering which would contain a faux Astor. (Honestly, I think I would have preferred zombies.) When we bumped into John Jacob Astor the 4th, it was all I could do not to shout, "Don't get on the Titanic you fool!" He even made my friend Julianne dance with him. Thankfully, once we escaped to our luncheon a lovely woman shared tidbits about the house and family from a contemporary perspective. Although the afternoon ended on a positive note, I vowed never to be snookered like that again.

I do make exceptions though. When it comes to role-playing, I'm inclined to give a pass to places like King Richard's Faire. Perhaps it's because the whole shebang is so over the top, I consider it to be more like dinner theater (Medieval Manor anyone?) Or maybe it's because on any given day you'll see pirates, gladiators, harem girls, Braveheart-wannabes and heavy metal troubadours mixed in with the Renaissance folk. What’s not to love about that?

At a party this past weekend, I fell into conversation with a woman who had visited Plimoth Plantation. She told me how much she enjoyed listening to one of the Wampanoags speak, from a modern point of view, about his tribe's history. However, when it came to visiting the Pilgrims, she found the role-playeing to be "...kind of annoying." Ah, a kindred spirit.

Clearly we’re in the minority since more than enough parents volunteered for this particular field trip. Have fun. Call me when you need someone to chaperone at the Museum of Science.

Z is for Zombies

Ah, the air is crisp, the leaves are colorful and Halloween is just a few days away. This is the perfect time for me to touch on a favorite subject, one about which I am most passionate.

Let's talk about zombies, shall we?

Zombies...flesh eaters...the walking dead...call them what you will (but don't call them late for dinner...Ha!) In 1968, a low-budget black and white film entitled "Night of the Living Dead", written and directed by Pittsburgh native George A. Romero, pushed zombies into the public consciousness. What is it about zombies that freaks people out? Is it their slack expression? Their spine-chilling moan? The slow, shuffling walk that should be easy to outrun? (But for some reason, never is). Perhaps it's their single-minded pursuit of that which we hold so dear...our bodies. Can they help it if we happen to be their primary food source?

I first saw "Night of the Living Dead" on a church youth group retreat. Yes, you read that correctly. Our youth group leaders brought a 16mm projector and a copy of the film for our weekend at an isolated Baptist camp in the woods. After the film, we walked (okay sprinted) back to our cabins, praying that the zombies wouldn't start walking out of the woods and eat us (I guess the movie worked since it got us all to pray).

In 1978, Romero released "Dawn of the Dead"; a full-color, no-holds-barred gore fest where zombies swarmed outside a suburban shopping mall while survivors holed up inside. In the days before NC-17, though the film was rated "R", no one under 17 was allowed admittance. (I was 16 and managed to get in with my older sister and friends). While the blue-tinged zombies and primitive effects seem outdated today, at the time it was freaky. Though I held up well in the theater, that night while lying in bed, the thoughts crept into my head: What if a zombie walked up my stairs? What if one lurched out while I was walking the dog? What if my sister became one overnight? These thoughts led to more than one sleepless night.

You'd think this would have deterred me from seeing more zombie films. Au contraire. Over the years I've become a zombie connoisseur of sorts. There are pale imitations ("Return of the Living Dead") and remakes (both "Night" and "Dawn of the Dead" were remade). There's the brilliant zombie romantic comedy (or zomromcom) "Shaun of the Dead". There are zombies motivated by rage ("28 Days Later" and "28 Weeks Later") and zombies kept as pets ("Fido"). There are slow-moving zombies and zombies that can give Usain Bolt a run for his life. Michael Jackson's "Thriller” features dancing zombies.

But my love of zombies is not limited to film. Max Brooks (son of Mel) wrote the well detailed "Zombie Survival Guide" and "World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie Wars" (the latter is available at the Hanover library, thanks to our library's director,m who purchased the book at my request without passing judgment on my freakish taste. They also purchased "Fido"). While browsing through Borders, you may have noticed an updated version of Jane Austen's classic entitled "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" (the success of which has led to the release of Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters".) Last year my family purchased a set of Zombie action figures for me from Archie McPhee (along with a set of Horrified B-Movie victims so I could create interesting dioramas.) My kids play with zombie finger puppets.

Call me crazy, but I am not alone in my passion. College students are playing a game called Humans versus Zombies (or HvZ) on campuses across the country (including UMASS-Dartmouth). In this adult version of tag, humans defend themselves from zombies with socks and Nerf guns. Once tagged, the student continues as a zombie through the rest of the match (for more information visit www.humansvszombies.org).

If you're not a student, why not participate in a zombie walk? In cities across the nation, groups of zombie lovers coordinate a date, time and place to show up dressed in zombie make-up and shamble around scaring unsuspecting passersby. (There was a Copley Square zombie walk scheduled for October 17 but I missed it. Dang!) Check out www.zombiewalk.com. Or you can just head over to the Hanover Mall cinema for a showing of the delightful new movie "Zombieland" (which has grossed almost $75 million in just three and a half weeks.)

Sure, there's all this focus on vampires what with all the press on "Twilight" and "True Blood" and "The Vampire Diaries". When "New Moon" opens next month, there will be a lot of werewolf talk as well. These movies and shows are popular because they promote a hot, sexy version of these monsters. If there's one thing that zombies are not, it's sexy.

But they sure are fun. Happy Halloween.

It is BALLOON!!

At the risk of sounding like a codger-in-training, I miss the good old days. Come back with me to 1987, a kinder, gentler time. On October 14 of that year, our country rallied 'round their televisions, gripped by the story of a child in peril: Baby Jessica. Little Jessica McClure, only 18 months old, toddled into her back yard and fell down a well. For 58 hours, rescue workers trying to free the little girl from an 8-inch wide pipe riveted America. After countless hours of round-the-clock prayers, Jessica was free.

Nearly 22 years to the day, the country experienced a similar crisis. On Oct. 15, six-year-old Falcon Henne, otherwise known as "The Balloon Boy", was believed to be floating aloft in his family's homemade balloon, speeding across the fields of Colorado as a nation watched helplessly. Viewers were glued to 24-hour news channels while Internet users constantly hit their refresh button, searching for updates. There was speculation that the trapdoor at the bottom of the balloon was unlocked, prompting the idea that the boy could have possibly fallen out (this with the balloon hundreds of feet in the air, zooming untethered across a chilly, Colorado countryside).

I was on the phone with a friend when I first heard about the incident. "Have you seen this thing about the Balloon Boy?" she asked. As I read the news on my laptop, my first reaction was laughter (a kid free-floating in a balloon? Goofy!) My laughter quickly changed to horror when I realized that the authorities were stumped on how to land the balloon safely. As a mother who panics when my kids disappear momentarily at the food store, I imagined how I would feel if one of them was somewhere in the atmosphere, scared and calling for me. At this point, horror turned to nausea and dread. As my children and I sat down to dinner, we said grace and then a fervent prayer that the boy be safely returned to his family.

My prayers were answered, in a manner of speaking. As the entire country knows by now, the boy was hiding while this whole drama unfolded. As Black Hawk helicopters raced to save him, the child was playing with his toys and napping in the rafters of his garage. No sooner had we all collectively breathed a sigh of relief than the rumors began: The family had participated in the reality program "Wife Swap." Twice. The father was an admitted storm-chaser, often bringing his sons with him into potential danger. During an interview on Larry King Live, the boy was asked why he didn't respond when he heard people calling his name to which he replied, "We did this for the show." Speculation that the entire stunt may have been a carefully orchestrated hoax began to spread. As of this morning (Monday, Oct. 19) the local sheriff's department has decided to pursue an investigation that could possibly result in criminal charges.

Let me state for the record that I am thankful that Falcon was not in the balloon and that he is safe and unharmed (although "safe" seems like a relative term as revelations about his family come to light.) But the idea that a media-hungry, spotlight-seeking family could pull such a stunt makes me angry that I wasted my time, my concern and yes, even my prayers on a bunch of nuts. Yet I have only myself to blame. We live in a world where Jon and Kate Gosselin out-nasty each other in front of millions of viewers, where The Real Housewives of Atlanta/Orange County/New York/New Jersey pull wigs and hurl insults, where husbands and wives are swapped like trading cards, all to a weekly audience. If I didn't want to get caught up in the "real life" drama of people like this, would my Tivo be so full each week?

Which brings me back to Baby Jessica. When they finally pulled her out of the well, tired and dirty but very much alive, it was an uplifting moment for our country. We cried our tears, thanked God, and for a few moments felt that there was still hope and good in the world. Baby Jessica did not go on to star in her own reality series. She wasn't mass marketed on t-shirts or as a happy meal toy (Imagine that? "Baby Jessica doll...pipe not included.") She survived her ordeal and went on to live her life quietly, in near obscurity.

I miss those days.

BULLSEYE!

All hail the giant bull’s-eye. Bask in its almighty redness. Target has finally opened in Hanover.

Yes, friends and neighbors, the day you’ve been waiting for has finally arrived. No longer will you have to drive two extra minutes to buy your greeting cards, cleaning products, DVDs and 90% cotton-10% modal clothing (FYI, modal is the thing that makes those tissue thin t-shirts cling to your body. Not recommended for the over 30 crowd). No longer shall we trek to Abington or, heaven forbid, all the way down to Kingston. Once only a dream, Hanover’s Target is finally a reality and only a mere stone’s throw away. (In point of fact, my friend Sue can see the bull’s-eye from her home.)

This Target store has been long anticipated. Shortly after our sporting goods-turned-furniture store went defunct, rumors began circulating that our town would have its own Target. We’d already been blessed with Trader Joe’s and Panera Bread. Could we really be this lucky? Could Target actually be within our grasp?

Truth be told, when the Target rumors became fact, I was disappointed. My first thought was, “Do we really need a Target in our town? Do we need to clear cut trees, impact water tables, widen roads and add another set of stop lights on an already crowded stretch of the main road? Do we need to contribute to the “mall-ification” of the South Shore?
Apparently, we do. I guess if we can have a Dunkin’ Donuts at every mile marker, what’s one more Target store?

Don’t get me wrong, I love Target: the books, the toys, the electronics, the clothes. I was first introduced to it while visiting my parents in New Jersey. Subsequently, every trip home for the holidays had to include at least one visit to Target. When I discovered one in Kingston, I was pleased to have it within a twenty-minute drive (close enough to visit every once in a while, but not so close as to tempt me daily).

Then Target opened in nearby Abington, and suddenly it was just nine minutes from my home (yes, I timed it). Now it was almost too close. I could justify going by adding a grocery run at the neighboring Stop in Shop. Thankfully, most days my errands were clustered in the opposite direction. I could resist temptation.

As construction progressed, my children constantly asked, “When will Target open?” (Proof that those children are mine.) When the bull’s-eye went up on the side, they shrieked with joy. Upon entering the YMCA, they would comment that they could see Target from the parking lot. Finally, the piece de resistance: the sign bearing the words “Opening October 11”. The wait was nearly over.

While lunching with a friend last Wednesday, another friend called my cell phone twice in rapid succession. Concerned, I checked my messages immediately, only to hear my friend’s voice, bursting with jubilation and saying, “I have the most exciting news. Target is open!”

Apparently, Target had had their ‘soft open” the night before, inviting local dignitaries and the like (hmmm, where was my invitation?) Although the official opening was scheduled for the 11th, the store was open for business. As I strolled the pristine aisles marveling at how neat and well stocked everything was, I bumped into several friends. At each encounter we would laugh and smile and share our amazement that Target had finally come to our town. I left the store $100 poorer.

That evening my kids begged me to take them to Target. My husband shook his head and said, “But it’s just a store.” Poor man, he grew up in farm country. As a New Jersey native I am living proof that you can take the girl out of the mall but you just can’t take the mall out of the girl. Apparently, I passed that gene on to my sons. We piled in the car and drove the seven minutes (yes, I timed it) to the shiny new store. As we cruised through the parking lot, the glow of the bull’s-eye bathing us in a soft red glow, I thought about my husband’s comment. Yes, it’s only Target.

But it’s my Target.

A Weekend with old Friends

Weekends are always a good time to reconnect with long lost friends, and this weekend I was able to catch up with two that I haven't seen in a long time.

Their names are Buzz and Woody.

On Saturday night, my husband and I took our sons to see The Disney Double Feature: "Toy Story & Toy Story 2 in 3D". While my children have seen both films about a gazillion times, they had only ever seen them on DVD. Toy Story was released in 1995, three years before the birth of my oldest son. Toy Story 2 followed in 1999. My children grew up loving Buzz and Woody, but had never experienced the thrill of seeing their stories played out on the big screen. In 3D no less.

My children were enamored with the idea of a "double feature". (I think they liked the idea of the bathroom break in between films). This took me back to my own childhood when Disney would trot out a different double feature each summer weekend. This would consist of a live action film paired with an animated feature (such as “The Love Bug” and “The Aristocats”). I don't remember how old I was, but I do remember that my parents would drop off my two sisters and me at the theater where we would be alone and unchaperoned for three hours. This was in the days before cell phones or pagers. Imagine doing that now? Not to be outdone, a friend tells the story of how her mother would drop her and her siblings off at one beach with inner tubes, only to pick them up a mile or two south at a different beach. We’re all still alive to tell the tale.

But I digress. I worried that I might be bored watching the Toy Story films again, even with the addition of 3-D (which was pretty snazzy, by the way). It just goes to show you how a great film can stand the test of time and multiple viewings. While the name of Sid's dog, Scud, seemed a bit dated, the rest of Toy Story was still fresh and engaging. I even heard a few comic references that I missed the first two hundred viewings. (Woody tries to prevent Buzz from being taken by "the claw" in the grabber machine. The little green men hold Woody back saying "He has been chosen..he must go." to which Woody retorts "Stop it you zealots!" Priceless.)

The underlying theme of Toy Story film is how new friends impact existing relationships. Top dog Woody suddenly finds himself bumped to second place when shiny new space ranger Buzz Lightyear enters the picture. Woody's feelings of anxiety, annoyance, jealousy and sadness are relatable to both children and adults alike. I see these same feelings in my 8-year old, my 11-year old and myself. Toy Story 2 is a darker tale, with a sinister stranger kidnapping Woody. Buzz and the gang then set off to rescue him. The second film again taps into Woody's anxiety and insecurity about his relationship with his owner, wondering if he would be better off on display as a “collectible” in a Japanese museum than staying with Andy and risk being cast aside in a few year's time. I enjoyed the film's blatant disdain for collectibles versus toys. Collectibles remain in boxes and behind glass, whereas toys are meant to be played with and loved. (Hmmm. I wonder how many Pixar executives have original Toy Story toys, mint in box?)

The sold-out show was packed with a mix of adults and children, with adults outnumbering kids by a good 5 to 1 (though to be fair, the three hour plus double feature started at 7:30 p.m.) And while each film earned a round of applause and cheers, the highlight of the evening occurred even before the movies began: the trailer for Toy Story 3 (in 3-D), scheduled to open in June 2010. From what I could glean from the preview, Andy goes to college (college!) and the toys are donated to a day care.

So now you know where I'll be in June: Learning more life lessons with my pals, Buzz and Woody.

My Changing Feelings about The Flu

Can I admit that I struggled with this week’s column?

Actually, that's only half true. My idea for this week's column was my family's experience with the flu. It seemed like a timely issue. What with Autumn upon us and the cold and flu season in full swing several weeks early, I wanted to make the point that while the flu should be taken seriously, we shouldn't panic unnecessarily about it.
You see, so far everyone in my household has had the flu (except for me.) Each year we all get flu shots. My reasoning is that my husband and 11-year old son are both asthmatic so a dose of flu could be potentially lethal. If my older son gets the vaccine, I can't deny my younger son, can I? And I personally get a shot for myself, my rationale being that if I were to get sick, who would take care of everyone else?

So, last year we all got the flu shot. And then in June, just weeks after thousands returned from Mexico bringing back more than just cheap jewelry and souvenir t-shirts, it hit our house. My asthmatic son got on the bus to middle school one morning, seemingly healthy, and came home with a cough. After spiking a fever during the night, we headed to the doctor who swabbed my son and confirmed a diagnosis of Influenza A (she later asserted that though he had not been tested for H1N1, she was certain that he had had it.) Within a day, my husband came down with it. My fears had been realized. My "high risk" husband and son had the flu. Both spent several days in bed, chugging liquids and taking Tylenol around the clock. Though his breathing wasn't compromised, my son had to spend a day in the ER being re-hydrated. But within a week, both recovered.

Last week, my younger son woke with a fever. When he complained of a headache and a sniffy nose, I booked an appointment with our physician. Sure enough, the diagnosis was "flu-like virus". Here we go again. My son took to my bed (yes, my bed), chugged Gatorade, popped Tylenol and watched enough Cartoon Network to memorize entire episodes of "Chowder" by heart. And then he recovered. As I type this, he is getting dressed for school.

As I wrote this weekend, my words came easily. I was able to blend my usual humor with just a touch of snarkiness: Do we really need to be so panicked about the flu? For goodness sake, it's not Ebola or the Plague! Yes, we should take precautions, like hand washing and flu vaccines, but let's not give in to national panic and start buying plastic and duct tape (remember that?) Looking back on my original column, I marvel at the smugness and superiority that permeated my words. I went to bed confident that my column was ready to submit.

And then, this morning I noticed a story in the paper about a healthy Hingham teenager who contracted H1N1 while at college in Ohio. Both his roommates had it as well, along with 300 other students. His roommates recovered. Tragically, he did not. How could I, in good conscience, run my original column? Out of respect for that mother in Hingham, I cannot.

So, it's okay to be apprehensive about the flu, but be sensible. Don't panic. Despite your best efforts, your child may get it. You may get it. But God willing, you will recover, just as my family did.

And now I realize how truly blessed we are.

Who You Calling Chicken??

While walking outside to the bus stop last week, my 3rd grader pointed across the street and asked, “Mommy, is that a chicken?" I squinted my eyes and saw that, yes indeed, there was a russet colored chicken pecking contentedly in the grass. This wasn't a wild bird, as we've seen in the past, but the type of chicken you'd see in a farmyard. We don't live on a farm, nor do we live in close proximity to one, but after putting my child on the bus, I picked up the phone and called a friend in a nearby neighborhood. This friend keeps dogs, goats, turtles, rabbits and guinea pigs in her menagerie (along with five boys, but they barely qualify as animals). "Hi," I said, as I spoke to her answering machine, "are you guys missing a chicken? If so, it's wandering around across the street."

It's kind of nice to see animals from time to time in a community so close to Boston. My husband grew up in farm country, so for him it's not unusual to see a herd of deer or a neighbor's bull grazing in the back yard. I, however, grew up in a suburban New Jersey neighborhood where the most exotic animal we'd see was the neighbor's cat. No wild turkeys strutting through the grass, or horses clip-clopping down our street. There’s a rabbit in the back yard? Quick, alert the media!

For many years, living and working in Boston, wildlife was limited to the rats in my company’s parking garage (“ledge bunnies” we called ‘em) and giant, mutant cockroaches. Moving to the south shore was like being dropped into an episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. While living in Norwell, nestled on 16 acres, we would often encounter deer, skunks, raccoons, snapping turtles, and the bane of every gardener's existence: the woodchuck. That fat, evil creature thought my husband's garden was his own personal salad bar. No matter how high the fence or how well protected the plot, that oversized rat managed to ravage our vegetables. I once shot it point blank in the gut with my husband's pellet gun. The woodchuck gave me a look that said, "Is that all you got?" and ambled off into the woods, only to return that night to eat all of our salad greens. Further proof that woodchucks are the devil's house pets.

While I won't be playing Dirty Harry with woodchucks here in Hanover, I have seen families of rabbits and wild turkeys in our yard. And of course, we're not limited to big game. My husband spends countless dollars on bird food to lure goldfinches, cardinals and hummingbirds to our back yard. And then there are horses. One of my favorite things about Hanover is the stable located smack in the center of town. Is there anything more pastoral than watching foals frolicking in the fields as you drive down the street? Our community has a nice mix of both domesticated and wild animals.

Of course, wildlife comes at a price. A friend of mine was so enamored with the deer in the woods behind her house that she placed a salt lick in her yard to encourage them. Unfortunately, she soon realized that with deer come deer ticks, and that was the end of the salt lick. It's one thing to enjoy wildlife, it's quite another to treat your entire family to Lyme disease. Another friend who keeps chickens and peacocks (yes, peacocks) has lost countless animals to coyotes. And while you could argue that even coyotes need to eat, I draw the line when they might potentially eat my children.

Getting back to the chicken...I never did find out to whom it belonged. That same afternoon, my next-door neighbor, Cindy, walked over to my yard. With wonder in her voice she said, "There's a chicken in my driveway." Apparently, the chicken was able to avoid being McNuggetized when it ventured over to our side of the street.
Which answers the eternal question:
Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to my neighbor's driveway.

Are You Being Served?

I've been reading "Waiter Rant" by Steve "The Waiter" Dublanica. Based on his popular blog of the same name, Dublanica's book is a funny, irreverent take on the ups and downs of being a waiter. My husband has always said I would make a terrible waitress (he's been a waiter, a bouncer, a DJ and a bartender, so he speaks from experience). I always questioned his evaluation until I read "Waiter Rant" and realized that it wouldn't take too many difficult customers to provoke me to a public confrontation (which would inevitably lead to my dismissal. So scratch waitress off my list of potential professions.)

Coincidentally, I had a conversation the other day with a friend of mine who is in the service business. She is not a waitress but does work in the food industry. Her particular job puts her in direct contact with customers from the moment she walks through the door to the end of her shift. I was intrigued with her suggestion that one problem with the service industry lies not with the servers, but with the customers they serve.

Think about it. If you've ever seen an irate customer let loose on a waiter, a cashier or a customer service rep, then you'll have a sense of what she's talking about. Granted, there are incompetent, rude, apathetic employees in every profession. Dealing with these people can raise anyone's blood pressure. But, for every clueless retail clerk there's an honest, hard-working counterpart doing his or her best to service customers while scratching out a living. We complain about bad service but what about bad customers?
What is our responsibility as consumers? Have we become so complacent with our role of being served that we're confusing servers with servants? Have we as a society developed a sense of entitlement that blinds us to the fact that the woman behind the returns counter at the department store deserves the same courtesy as us (no matter how slowly she might move?) Has it become so ingrained that we don't even realize we're doing it?

My husband (the former waiter) has severe food allergies. Whenever we go out to eat, you can see the panic form in our server's eyes when he realizes there's a potential dead man walkin' in his section. My husband, however, does not demand that the restaurant jump through hoops to accommodate his condition. Instead he respectfully adjusts his expectations of what he can order based on what the chef can reasonably prepare without killing him.

My years in the direct sales business were wonderful; doing home parties opened doorways to new friendships. The majority of my hosts were warm, friendly and respectful of my job. However, there were one or two hosts who definitely saw me as the hired help and treated me as such. It was an eye opener.

In most service and retail industries, the rule of thumb is The Customer Is Always Right. Consumers and the dollars they represent are too precious to lose, so bend over backwards to keep them at any cost. But does that give consumers the right to exploit that rule and demand good service without regard to our own behavior? My friend's point was that if you want good service, try being a good customer. Which of course comes back to that valuable nugget we teach our children: Treat others as you would like to be treated yourself. Treat the people who serve you with respect and dignity and, hopefully, it will come back to you in the form of good service.

Don't get me wrong; I am far from perfect myself. I recently blurted out an expletive (loudly) while standing in line waiting to board the USS Constitution. We had been waiting for more than 30 minutes in the hot sun, children in tow, when a group of tourists, lounging off to the side, were allowed to go ahead of us (something to do with timed tickets they had been given earlier in the day when the crowds were much larger). Those of us in line grumbled at the prospect of waiting even longer in the heat, to the point where I lost my temper and shouted, "This is (something that comes out of the back end of a male cow)". In front of my children. And other people's children. And an active duty Naval midshipman. In uniform. Not my finest moment.

So yes, we're all capable of rude behavior when it comes to being served. But if I may drag up another cliché, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar (and even more with what comes out of that male cow!) I'm a talker, and I tend to initiate friendly conversation with waiters, cashiers, bank tellers and the guy who pumps my gas. My friends make fun of me, but I can't help myself. For the most part, though, I tend to get good service in return. Not always, but most of the time. Bob Dylan said it best in his 60's version of yet another cliché, what goes around comes around: "You're gonna have to serve somebody."

With my luck, it will be that Naval midshipman.

Handy with a capital "H"

Have you noticed that husbands tend to fall into two categories? There are Handy husbands (with a capital "H"). These husbands build additions, remodel bathrooms and finish basements. Then there are handy husbands, (small "h"), who paint, strip wallpaper, fix leaky faucets and install ceiling fans. Come to think of it, there's a third category: hopeless. The only tools these guys use for home improvement are the telephone and the checkbook.

I would put my husband somewhere between handy and hopeless. He can paint. He can kluge. He can repair something (usually) when pressed into service. Case in point: Recently, one of our kitchen cabinet doors cracked on its hinge. Our cabinets are completely outdated, so the idea of purchasing a replacement door was out of the question.

My husband took the door off its hinge, looked at it, thought about it, consulted the helpful folks at Home Depot ("you can do it...we can help") and came home with wood glue, new hinges and a few other items I would probably misspell and mispronounce. (I can identify a hammer, a screwdriver and a drill...everything else falls into the "miscellaneous tools" category. But then he probably can't tell the difference between an adjective and an adverb, so we're even).

Within a day he had repaired and re-hung the cabinet door. And while there might be a slightly larger gap between the newly hung door and its neighbor, in my mind my husband is a home improvement hero.

Several years ago I guilted my husband into re-tiling the non-carpeted area of our finished basement. It was a small area, so rather than pay a fortune to have laminate professionally installed, I packed up my kids, took them to my parents for a long weekend, and had my husband install peel-and-stick tile. To this day he maintains that he did a lousy job, but the tiles are only slightly skewed and barely noticeable only to those sitting on the toilet in the laundry room. Again, my hero.

An item currently on our "honey-do" list is the peeling paint on our metal front door. Each time I enter I cringe and think, "Something must be done." I ran the idea of stripping, priming and re-painting the door by a few friends who all had the same suggestion: Buy a new door. When my husband and I discussed this option, we (okay he) decided that buying a new door was one thing but framing and installing it was beyond his capability. Back to option A.

Visiting the charming folks at Lowes ("Let's build something together!") my husband returned home with paint stripper, putty knives, drill attachments, primer and paint. The long weekend forecast was for cool, sunny weather, so my husband decided to combine two tasks in one: peeling, stripping, priming and painting both the front door and the bulkhead. Bright and early Saturday morning, my husband applied paint stripper and was cheerfully scraping loose paint off the front door. The rest of us went about our day. My older son went to a friend's house and my younger son came with me to run errands. Several hours later, we returned home to find my husband tired, sweaty, groaning in pain and still scraping loose paint off the front door. Attending a party that night, a friend's husband (who's a capital "H" kind of guy) admitted that he would have probably just bought the new door.

Day two brought more door scraping, some cleaning and then a fresh coat of primer (which needed 24 hours to set). For the rest of the day, my husband continued scraping and peeling the bulkhead. By the end of the day, my husband was popping Motrin and grumbling under his breath. Day three finally brought an end to our home improvement project. With both the bulkhead and front door freshly painted, my husband stood back and surveyed his handiwork. Purchasing a new door would have been infinitely easier. Certainly less time consuming, but definitely not as "green" (there's one less door in the landfill). But I'm proud of my husband's achievement. And while he might not be handy with a capital "H", he certainly gives new meaning to the term Labor Day Weekend.

Doin' the Back to School Happy Dance

What’s that sound? Do you hear it? That tapping? Is it a woodpecker? It’s getting louder.

Oh, I know what it is… It’s the sound of mothers all over town doing the happy dance. The day beloved by parents everywhere (and bemoaned by children alike) is finally here. Let me savor these words: First…day…of…school. Ahhh.

Has anyone witnessed the happy dance first hand? It’s quite precise, you know. The mother walks her child to the bus stop for the first (and probably only) time this year. She greets the bus driver and wishes her child a great first day of school as he or she trudges up the steps and finds a seat. The door closes with a whoosh, and as the bus pulls away the mother waves to her child, a mixture of nostalgia and sadness playing around the edges of her brave smile.

At which point the bus turns the corner and the mother suddenly morphs into Rocky Balboa, pumping her fists into the air in victory and crying, “Yes, yes, YES!”

Okay, I know, there are many of you out there wishing for a few more days; lamenting the cold, rainy weather we suffered through most of June (and much of July). “If only we could just have a few more weeks of summer,” you cry. “If only we could take a few more day trips, eat a few more ice cream cones, get to the beach one last time.” My response is this: Pull it together and get over it. School is here and by this time next week you’ll be seeing things my way

I’ll admit there are advantages to summer vacation. But I’ll trade my mornings of sleeping late with mornings at the gym (with no children in tow). I’ll swap the constant fighting and bickering between my two boys (“Mom, I’m trying to play the Wii and he’s looking at me. Make him stop.”) with sitting at the table for a few hours each night, keeping my kids on track with their homework. I’ll trade late afternoons at the beach for soccer practice and Lego Robotics (less chance of sunburn and no sand to vacuum). I’ll gladly forgo my trips to the zoo, museum and arcade for the chance to buy toilet paper at Wal-Mart without a detour to the toy department.

Yes, there are things I didn’t accomplish this summer. I did not strip the wallpaper in my bathroom. I did not paint my hallway to match the living room that was painted three summers ago. And, as my kids have reminded me about a thousand times now, we did not make it to Canobie Lake Park. But we can still look forward to the weekends. Many of them, I’m sure, will be warm and sunny enough to squeeze in a few more activities.

And if that’s not enough to comfort you…there’s always Monday. Labor Day. Sleep as late as you want.

My Turn to Be The House Guest

Last week I wrote about being the host to houseguests. This week I am the houseguest. I write this column from Central New York, where my father-in-law is celebrating his 70th birthday. Such a milestone warrants a visit from family, so we loaded up our van with luggage and gifts and junk food and headed west.

With Ben Franklin’s quote in mind (fish and houseguests), we decide to break up our trip by staying no more than three days in a row at my in-laws. From there we will spend one night in Niagara Falls, back to the in-laws for two more nights, and then a night in Cooperstown on the way home. Hopefully this plan will reduce any houseguest stink we might generate.

Unlike my own guests, we arrive at 5:00 p.m., the exact time we predicted. Except there’s no one home. The house is locked up tighter than Fort Knox and my husband’s spare key is on his key ring back in Hanover. Then it starts to rain. Okay kids, back in the van. Ha ha, isn’t this fun? Luckily my father-in-law arrives within a few minutes, having driven down to the village to pick up the mail (yes, they still have villages here in Central New York, and even some hamlets too).

We haul in our stuff as my mother-in-law arrives with several dozen bags of groceries. Hugs all around. By the time our luggage is unpacked and the groceries put away, it is past six o’clock, the time when my children typically eat dinner. We chat and catch up on our lives and finally someone says,” I guess we should get dinner started” as my kids begin to gnaw off their own fingers. After another trip down to the village for local corn, my father-in-law throws some of his special, homemade burgers on the grill and we finally sit down to dinner (it’s 7:45 by the way). I am the guest this week, so I can’t really complain about the difference in meal schedules. We are thrusting ourselves into their lives. I count myself lucky that my in-laws are retired. When they were working full time they sometimes wouldn’t eat dinner until 10.

We opt not to shower the kids before bed since the water pressure in my in-laws house is quite low. Showering is a little like standing in a fine mist, and if someone accidentally flushes the toilet or washes their hands, you’re either scalded with the needle-like mist or the water stops altogether. If you just stand there for several minutes, covered in suds, eventually the spray will resume.

When it’s time to turn in, my kids bed down in the spare bedroom while my husband and I sleep in his old room. We open the one window in our room that has a screen (there are wasps building a nest inside the other window, so lets just leave that one shut, shall we?) I think our mattress was constructed pre-WWI, and as my husband and I involuntarily roll towards each other in the middle, (are there any springs left in this thing?) I think that this is what I deserve for making my sister and her kids sleep on that horrible, pullout sofa in our basement last week.

On the upside, my in-laws live on a farm, so there is always something interesting to do. My children, who can’t be bothered to pick up their clothes, shove each other out of the way to get to the barn to clean up horse poop. High up on the hillside there are fossils to be found, trilobites to discover with a hammer and chisel. The neighbor’s bull has escaped, so if we’re lucky we’ll get a firsthand look at a tranquilizer gun in action.

I sympathize with my sister who had to wrangle her two little ones for (gulp) five days, away from their comfort zone, having to conform to my routine. For the next two days, my family and I will adapt to my in-laws’ schedule. We will make ourselves both helpful and unobtrusive. We will drink half-caff coffee (ouch) and send the kids outside when they decide its time to beat on each other. Because that’s what good guests do. And if I learn anything this week it’s that payback’s a…

Well, you know.

The House Guests of August

Benjamin Franklin was quoted as saying, "Houseguests, like fish, begin to smell after three days."

I'd never try to prove this theory with fish (eat it or toss it), but last weekend I tested the houseguest part when my sister and her family came to stay for several days. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy having guests. It gives me an excuse to clean my house (and not just shove items into nearby closets or under sofa cushions.) I also like planning activities that will enhance my guests' visit. Just call me Julie McCoy (does that make my husband Gopher?)

The purpose of this visit? My brother-in-law was playing in a disc golf tournament in western Massachusetts. He planned to drive from New Jersey to our house, drop my sister, my five-year-old niece and my three-year-old nephew in Hanover (along with fifty-odd suitcases, tote bags, car seats and umbrella strollers) and then head off to the tournament, camping out for three or four days.

Originally my guests were due to leave the Garden State on Wednesday morning, arriving at my house sometime later in the day. Then the departure time was delayed due to an MRI for my brother-in-law's knee (too much disc golf.) They told me not to wait on them for dinner. Then the MRI was cancelled. (Eek! Were they coming earlier? The house wasn't ready. What would I feed them for dinner?) As I began hyperventilating, my sister called to say they were still leaving late morning. Whew. Then that afternoon, around 4 o'clock, I got a message from my sister: "Hi, we're just leaving now...see you in six hours." Hmmm. Would they arrive before I fell asleep? Would her kids be wide awake at midnight? Would mine? The answers were yes, yes and yes.

Thursday, Day 1: Rain. So much for my idea of the playground and a walk through Scituate. Breakfast was a challenge, trying to calculate how much bacon and pancakes to cook for four extra people. Do we have enough plates? Where's that extra chair? Was that a smirk I caught on my brother-in-law's face as he installed his kids' car seats into my mini-van and escaped to his tournament? Oh my gosh, it's all on me now. Uh, how about the arcade? My kids played shooting games, the little kids played Spider Stomp and Skee-Ball and everyone left with chintzy prizes and Dum Dum lollipops. Success. Dinner was a huge pot of my homemade spaghetti sauce since my sister mentioned her kids loved my spaghetti. Turns out her kids just love the spaghetti. No sauce. Huh.

Friday, Day 2: Bright and sunny, the perfect day to spend inside the Museum of Science. After a quick breakfast, I made what seemed like six dozen sandwiches and we were off. Navigating the museum was fun, but tricky. My niece was content to follow her older cousins from one exhibit to the next, but my three-year-old nephew was the wild card. I forget how sore your neck can get when it whips around constantly, trying to keep track of a little one. Exhausting as it was, the kids enjoyed the museum. My sister, however, asked to stop at the local liquor store to get the ingredients for margaritas.

Saturday, Day 3: Another sunny day, and my husband home to boot. Chaos loves company. After a breakfast of waffles and bacon where I ran out of both flour and baking powder (thank God for my neighbor, Cindy), we loaded up the car and headed for the beach. Packing 12 dozen more sandwiches, boogie boards, skim boards, chairs, buckets, towels, shovels and an umbrella, we headed to Duxbury. Though I was worried about comparisons to the smooth, sandy, warm-water beaches of New Jersey, the beach gods were smiling on us that day. The water was warm, our section of the beach wasn't overcrowded and we arrived at low tide, perfect for the little kids. Any illusions my husband might have had about a relaxing day in the beach chair with his Sports Illustrated were shattered by my niece and nephew's non-stop requests to jump in the waves, hold their boogie boards steady, play catch, build sandcastles and look for crabs. That night, the margarita ingredients dipped dangerously low.

Sunday, Day 4: What's that smell? Oh, it's my nephew. As he backs up towards me with the words, "I made a poopy, will you change it?” I send him in search of his mother (sorry, I did my doody duty, I'm done.) I make 60 dozen sandwiches for today's destination, the YMCA outdoor pool. Once again we pack up towels, swimsuits, Cheez-its, sippy cups and goggles and head to the YMCA. Most days my kids and I park ourselves near the deep pool but today it's nothing but Mushroom Pool. Ah, to relive those days of standing in suspiciously warm, ankle-deep water while the kids frolic under the giant mushroom. I look longingly at my lounge chair and library book as the lifeguard reminds me to stay within arms length of my nephew. I zoom my niece through the water around and around until I feel nauseous, only to have her shriek "Again, auntie, again!" Is there any tequila left in that bottle? Do we need more limes?

That night, my brother-in-law returned from his tournament tired, sweaty and in need of a shower (ironically, Ben Franklin's three day rule applied to the one person who hadn't been our houseguest, but that was mainly due to the lack of showering facilities at the campground). Our guests treated us to dinner at Beijing House (Mai-Tais all around) and I could finally imagine what my house would be like when my guests headed home. Too quiet? Too empty? Too boring?

Oh well, I’ll just have to suck it up and make my own margaritas.

The Joys of a Summer Lemonade Stand

Ah, the joys of a summer lemonade stand.

A few years ago, my children begged me to let them run a lemonade stand. They must have seen one of their favorite television characters doing this (and you can be sure that high jinks ensued.) A lemonade stand ranks second on the list of things I dread orchestrating, topped only by hosting a Halloween party (yes, we've done that too. You'll read about it in a few months.)

Finally I caved. I bought the cups and the lemonade (Frozen from concentrate. Who wants to drink homemade lemonade? If you're going to pony up fifty cents you might as well get something palatable). I hauled out the table and placed it under our shade tree by the road. I made neon poster board signs and hung them on either end of our street. I stopped by the bank and got a roll of quarters and some singles, in order to make change.

Are you noticing a pattern to any of the aforementioned sentences? Yes, the key word is "I". I did all the prep work. I mixed up the lemonade. I even baked a batch of my incredible, homemade chocolate chip cookies, since the kids felt a free cookie would sweeten the deal (Who wants to eat store-bought cookies? If you're going to pony up fifty cents you might as well get something palatable.)

With everything in place, my children sat down at the end of our driveway and shouted to any and all passing cars "Ice cold lemonade, fifty cents a glaaaaaa-aaaass. Free cookie with every purchase." A carnival barker would have been proud. I, of course, had to station myself in the front yard to discourage any would-be kidnappers from driving off with my children. As cars zoomed by, I was affronted. Who wouldn't want to stop and help out a couple of budding entrepreneurs? (Forgetting of course the many times I myself had zoomed past other people's kids hawking lemonade).

Eventually, however, the cars began to slow and then stop. Kindhearted strangers (and more than a few friends) decided a nice cold glass of lemonade (don't forget the free cookie) would certainly hit the spot. Most people told my children to keep the change, and by the end of the day my kids had earned about forty bucks. Jackpot!

I wish I could tell you that my children were altruistic in their endeavor. I read all these stories about wonderful, kind-hearted children who donate all their lemonade proceeds to the local food pantry or the animal shelter or the American Cancer Society. How proud those parents must be of their little philanthropists-in-training. What a wonderful beginning of a lifetime of service to others.

My children, on the other hand, begged me to take them to the toy store as soon as we were done counting the money so they could blow the whole wad on Transformers. Sigh.

As I write this, I am taking my last batch of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. The signs are made, the lemonade is cooling in the downstairs fridge and my kids are gearing up to hawk their wares.

This summer, however, will be different. This summer the proceeds will not be spent on a bunch of Transformers.

This summer, in all likelihood, the money will be blown on Legos.

Addendum: The sale was a success, in large part due to a mass email sent to friends, suggesting they might like to detour by our house during their daily travels. Social networking at its best! Thanks to all the kind strangers who stopped and supported their endeavor as well. And finally, both children decided to donate a portion of their loot to buying food for the Food Pantry. There's hope for them yet.

It Wouldn't Be Summer Without Mayonnaise

I would like to take a moment to applaud my Mariner colleague, Dana Forsythe, of "Fat-To-Fit" fame. Dana is currently trying to do something that I would never have the courage to attempt: Lose weight in the summertime.

Now summer seems a logical time to try and lose weight. We're outdoors much more, so theoretically we're more active (swimming, walking, biking, etc.). We wear much less clothing than the rest of the year, so we have a vested interest in making those exposed body parts more appealing. And with the abundance of summer fruits, vegetables and grilled meat and fish, healthy eating habits should be a snap.

So why is it so difficult to lose weight during the summer? I have my theories.

First of all, when my children are home from school, it is much harder to get to the gym. Therefore, my exercise routine goes out the window. Its no fun being pulled out of spin class only to be told that your child is vomiting in the hall sink (yes, that happened to me once.) Or worse, that your child has bitten another child in the day care (and that other child just happened to be the instructor's son). Better to wait until school starts again and then hop back into my gym ritual.

Secondly, every weekend seems to bring another party, barbecue or neighborhood get-together. Ample opportunity to sample my friend's hamburgers, hot dogs, shish kebobs, baked beans, etc. Not to mention all those cool, fruity summer beverages that are offered. Who can say no to an ice-cold margarita at the end of the day? I can't.

Then there's vacation. Whether you travel for a week or a weekend, food obstacles wait at every turn when you are away from home, and the mentality of "I'm on vacation" forgives even the most egregious food choices (Deep dried Oreos? Why not?) And as for those healthy summer fruits? Well, they do make the tastiest pies and cobblers, which can only be fully appreciated when topped with a scoop of ice cream. And speaking of ice cream, what summer day would be complete without a trip to JC's, the Dairy Twist or Far-Far's for an after supper treat?

During the summer I allow myself the one food item I deny myself the rest of the year: mayonnaise. All the best summer foods are made with mayonnaise. Potato salad? Mayonnaise. Macaroni salad? Mayonnaise. Egg salad, chicken salad, and cole slaw? Yup, yup and yes ma'am! And for the record why do they call them deviled eggs when they taste so heavenly? A good friend of mine enjoys mayonnaise to the point of being tempted to eat it right out of the jar. Every burger and sandwich she orders must come with an extra side of mayonnaise. This supports another friend's theory that food is just a vehicle for condiments. If mayo be the food of love, slather on!

You can argue that it’s harder to lose weight during the winter when we are tempted by comfort foods like soups, stews and macaroni and cheese. In cold weather we can camouflage our bodies with bulky sweaters and multiple layers. But think about it. If God intended us to lose weight in the summer, then why did he create New Year’s resolutions?


So good luck to you, Dana. I applaud your dedication and willpower. I raise my margarita glass (and my Hellmann's jar) in salute to you.

A Staycation to Write Home About

In 2009 the Merriam-Webster dictionary added the term "staycation, defining the word as "a vacation spent at home or nearby". In this summer of recession, many are opting to stay home by the pool or the beach rather than take an expensive vacation. We sometimes forget that some of the most beautiful and interesting places are less than an hour's drive away.

This past weekend I took my family on a "daycation" (okay a day trip) to Salem. Breaking free from our South Shore cocoon, we figured we'd see what that other shore had to offer. My last trip to Salem was almost ten years ago. My sisters were visiting from out of town and we thought it would be fun to check out one of the haunted house attractions (with my two-year-old in tow). Chasing after my son as he fled the premises was not one of my finer parenting moments, and so I hadn't been back to Salem since.

Now that my children are eight and eleven, Salem seemed a more manageable expedition. We began our day at the Peabody-Essex museum. The admission fee for adults was seriously discounted (thanks to a pass from The John Curtis Library) and our kids were free. Our first stop in the museum was an incredible exhibit called Trash Menagerie. The exhibit featured a variety of animals, insects, fish and other creatures made from recycled trash and other found objects. The rabbit made from cigarette filters and an insect made from Singer sewing machine parts fascinated my kids. With lots of hands-on activities, this was the perfect way to start our visit.

Our next stop was the Yin Yu Tang house, a 200-year old Chinese house that was dismantled, shipped and completely rebuilt inside the museum. Stepping across the threshold was like stepping back in time, and the free self-guided audio tour gave us a wealth of facts about what it was like living in such a home in China. My kids loved the koi fish but were less than thrilled to learn that the children of the house were the ones who emptied the various chamber pots.

After our tour of Yin Yu Tang, we wandered through the rest of the museum, viewing everything from photographs of surfers to figureheads from old sailing ships to a wedding dress made entirely of seashells. When my younger son accidentally triggered an alarm, we decided it was a good time to leave and have our lunch.

We timed our visit perfectly as the town common was the site of the Salem Culture Fest, a gathering of artists, artisans, musicians and other unusual vendors. With the smell of patchouli wafting past, we sat on the grass, listening to music and eating our picnic lunch. At one point, a group of adults and children set up a tent nearby, carrying armloads of gauzy, brightly colored scarves. We assumed they were vendors preparing to sell their wares, but then everyone in the group grabbed a scarf in each hand and began swaying and waving them in unison. Interpretive dance? Religious cult? Whatever they were, it was our cu e to finish lunch and move on.

After lunch we wandered down to the waterfront, stopping briefly at Crow Haven Corner, the oldest Witch shop in Salem (more patchouli, lots of candles and a Chihuahua at the front counter greeting customers). We worked up a sweat walking out to the small, square lighthouse on Derby Wharf, so the kids cooled down with enormous ice cream cones from a nearby cafe. Passing by the Witch Trials Memorial we eavesdropped on a tour guide's description of the panic and hysteria that gripped Salem in 1692 and cost twenty men and women their lives.

As we walked back to our car at the end of the day, the kids caught glimpses of the Pirate museum, the Wax museum and several other attractions we hadn't had time to see. "Can we please come back to Salem again soon?" they pleaded as we headed for the highway. My husband and I exchanged a satisfied grin. Our daycation to Salem, Witch Capital of the World, was a "wicked" success.

Thank God for Summer Camp

All hail the summer savior, that lifeline I have come to call "mother's little helper". I'm referring, of course, to summer camp.

I have friends who can't wait for school to let out. Partially due to the release from homework, lunches and bus schedules but mainly because they can't wait for their children to be home with them 24/7. In June, a friend of mine and a mother of four children asked me "Aren't you looking forward to having your kids home with you all the time?" to which I replied "Hell no!" Now, I love my children, and I enjoy spending time with them, but the problem lies with spending time with them together. My kids love nothing better than to needle each other, which leads to complaints, whining, tears, tattling and eventually someone's hands on the other's body. Which leads to more complaints, whining, tears, tattling and...well you get the picture.

And that's where summer camp comes in. Wedged in between our trips to the beach, Canobie Lake Park, the movies, relatives and the zoo are those blissful weeks when someone else is responsible for enriching my children's lives. For those few short hours, I can feel confident that my children are exercising their bodies and their minds, away from the temptation of video games, television and the computer. (And when I say temptation, I mean my temptation. After enough begging, pleading and cajoling, I tend to cave, especially if I am trying to get something done).

Planning for summer camp is my favorite winter activity. I mean really, who doesn't love trying to envision your entire summer schedule in the dead of winter? Let's spin the roulette wheel and try to guess which camp my children will feel like attending in five months. Will it be nature camp? The YMCA? Park & Rec? Choose wisely my friend, because if you hesitate there is someone right behind you, hungry for your child's spot.
My younger son is pretty easygoing when it comes to camp, so this year he opted for Park and Rec. His counselor was great, he had friends in his group, and his only major complaint was that there seemed to be an unusual shortage of Italian Ices (perhaps the boat from Italy was held up in customs? Or maybe Italian Ices are out of season.)

My older son is a bit more challenging when it comes to camp. He's not a sports enthusiast, and he's done nature camp for several years. So this year we chose College Academy (or as my friend refers to it: Bill Gates Camp. Yeah, Bill Gates is a geek but he's the world's richest geek, so I say bring it on!) My son has been enjoying days filled with cartooning, video production and something called "Going Green" a class that focuses on recycling. And yes, Fantasy Adventures (a generic title for Dungeons and Dragons). Say what you will, but each day when he steps off the bus and I ask about his day, his reply always begins with "Great!"

One year I re-painted my entire living room during the first two days of summer camp, which set the bar for summers to come. Since then, I've always made a mental list of all the things I'll get to once the kids are in camp. (Forget about the fact that I never got to these things while the kids were in school). Stripping wallpaper, weeding flower beds and re-painting trim were all projects I had hoped to achieve in the weeks when my children were at camp. Yet when a friend would call, luring me to the beach or to lunch or a quick trip to Boston, I'd always allow myself to be swayed, thinking that there would be plenty of other camp days to get my to-do list done.

And now that my younger son is finished with Park and Rec, and my older son has just a week of camp left, did I accomplish any of these tasks?

Umm...let's just say these will be wonderful, enriching, bonding activities my children and I can do together in the remaining weeks of summer.

The Magic of Harry Potter

All hail the summer savior, that lifeline I have come to call "mother's little helper". I'm referring, of course, to summer camp.

I have friends who can't wait for school to let out. Partially due to the release from homework, lunches and bus schedules but mainly because they can't wait for their children to be home with them 24/7. In June, a friend of mine and a mother of four children asked me "Aren't you looking forward to having your kids home with you all the time?" to which I replied "Hell no!" Now, I love my children, and I enjoy spending time with them, but the problem lies with spending time with them together. My kids love nothing better than to needle each other, which leads to complaints, whining, tears, tattling and eventually someone's hands on the other's body. Which leads to more complaints, whining, tears, tattling and...well you get the picture.

And that's where summer camp comes in. Wedged in between our trips to the beach, Canobie Lake Park, the movies, relatives and the zoo are those blissful weeks when someone else is responsible for enriching my children's lives. For those few short hours, I can feel confident that my children are exercising their bodies and their minds, away from the temptation of video games, television and the computer. (And when I say temptation, I mean my temptation. After enough begging, pleading and cajoling, I tend to cave, especially if I am trying to get something done).

Planning for summer camp is my favorite winter activity. I mean really, who doesn't love trying to envision your entire summer schedule in the dead of winter? Let's spin the roulette wheel and try to guess which camp my children will feel like attending in five months. Will it be nature camp? The YMCA? Park & Rec? Choose wisely my friend, because if you hesitate there is someone right behind you, hungry for your child's spot.
My younger son is pretty easygoing when it comes to camp, so this year he opted for Park and Rec. His counselor was great, he had friends in his group, and his only major complaint was that there seemed to be an unusual shortage of Italian Ices (perhaps the boat from Italy was held up in customs? Or maybe Italian Ices are out of season.)

My older son is a bit more challenging when it comes to camp. He's not a sports enthusiast, and he's done nature camp for several years. So this year we chose College Academy (or as my friend refers to it: Bill Gates Camp. Yeah, Bill Gates is a geek but he's the world's richest geek, so I say bring it on!) My son has been enjoying days filled with cartooning, video production and something called "Going Green" a class that focuses on recycling. And yes, Fantasy Adventures (a generic title for Dungeons and Dragons). Say what you will, but each day when he steps off the bus and I ask about his day, his reply always begins with "Great!"

One year I re-painted my entire living room during the first two days of summer camp, which set the bar for summers to come. Since then, I've always made a mental list of all the things I'll get to once the kids are in camp. (Forget about the fact that I never got to these things while the kids were in school). Stripping wallpaper, weeding flower beds and re-painting trim were all projects I had hoped to achieve in the weeks when my children were at camp. Yet when a friend would call, luring me to the beach or to lunch or a quick trip to Boston, I'd always allow myself to be swayed, thinking that there would be plenty of other camp days to get my to-do list done.

And now that my younger son is finished with Park and Rec, and my older son has just a week of camp left, did I accomplish any of these tasks?

Umm...let's just say these will be wonderful, enriching, bonding activities my children and I can do together in the remaining weeks of summer.

Memories of Michael Jackson

This week there were several “celebrity” deaths reported but none as shocking or surprising as that of Michael Jackson. While I wouldn’t call myself a fan (I’m not one of those hysterical girls you saw crying uncontrollably at his concerts) I will say that I had an appreciation for his talent.

The first record I ever bought was “Rockin’ Robin” by Michael Jackson. My friend Patti Mirenna sold it to me for fifty cents (unbeknownst to the real owner, her older sister Jolene.) I played that 45 over and over, listening as the music mixed with the pops and scratches of the vinyl. (Remember 45s? You had to put that little yellow adapter in the middle otherwise the record would slide all over your turntable making the music sound even more psychedelic than usual.) Although I enjoyed The Jackson 5, I was really more of an Osmond Family fan. Michael Jackson had the pipes but Donny Osmond was dreamy.

Fast-forward a decade to December 1983. I spent the first half of my junior year of college studying abroad. Spending time in France, England and several other European countries left me significantly out of the loop when it came to American pop culture. Returning home after four months in Europe, my sisters pounced on me not to find out about the latest Paris fashions, or whether the men in Italy really pinched your butt as you walked by. The first thing they asked me was “Have you seen Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’?” Of course I hadn’t; the phenomenon had not yet reached European shores, and so we plunked ourselves down in front of MTV for what seemed like hours (and probably was) and waited for the next showing. (Remember those days before the Internet and YouTube when you had to wait for something to be shown? For that matter, remember when MTV actually showed music videos?)

Of course I was blown away by the music, the dancing and the special effects, but most of all by Michael Jackson himself. Clearly he was a visionary when it came to music, but even more so when it came to showmanship. The “Thriller” album went on to become the highest selling album of all time and a superstar suddenly became an icon.

Over the years my admiration for Michael Jackson’s talent was tempered by his increasingly odd behavior: A chimpanzee for a best friend; purchasing the Elephant Man’s bones (and even more disturbing, purchasing the Beatle’s music.) A hyperbaric chamber installed in his amusement park of a home; the allegations by young boys. And through it all, the ever-changing face of Michael Jackson. A friend’s daughter once innocently asked, “How did Michael Jackson go from being a black man to a white woman?” How indeed?

For many, the passing of Michael Jackson will be one of those “Where were you when you heard…” events. I was on my way to TJ Maxx to find a dress for my husband’s reunion. When I heard the news, I wandered through the store, telling anyone who passed that Michael Jackson had died. I guess I needed others to share my disbelief, to validate the shock I felt. How could such an iconic figure be gone so suddenly?

As millions mourn, I join them in recognizing the loss of an immense talent. Despite the financial woes, legal battles and bizarre behavior, I will try to remember the Michael Jackson whose voice first entertained me for hours on a cheap turntable and entertained the world for nearly five decades.

Hooray for Summer

Summer is officially here (though you'd never know it by the weather). The last of the homework has been turned in, the kids are out of school and our routine is out the window. Still, there are things that I am looking forward to over the next eleven weeks (and how is it that eleven weeks sounds both incredibly short and impossibly long?)

I'm looking forward to our upcoming visit with my-out-of state family and friends (though I am not looking forward to my husband's high school reunion: at his last reunion I compensated for the fact that I knew no one by taking advantage of the open bar. My only memory is of hoovering five or six mini crème brulees from the dessert table...10 years is just not enough time to erase that first impression).

I'm looking forward to taking my kids to the beach. They're finally at an age where they can swim and surf without my constant, hawk like gaze upon them. I might even bring a book with me (or maybe just a magazine. I wouldn't want to push my luck) I'm not looking forward to the inevitable sunburn my children will get despite the long shorts, surf shirts and gallons of sunscreen I pour on them. I'm also not looking forward to seventy pounds of beach sand in my van over the course of the summer, but hey, motherhood’s a sacrifice.

I'm especially looking forward to visiting my friends with the beach house. Friends who have beach houses are right up there with friends with pools. They can make or break your summer. Top of the list are friends with pools and a beach house.

I'm looking forward to our annual trip to Canobie Lake Park. This is a great place for our kids because it allows me to gauge just when they are ready for our first trip to Disney. If they can't go on the big roller coasters, then I can't bring myself to spend thousands of dollars for a week in the Magic Kingdom. Last summer my older son finally went on the corkscrew coaster with me, so we're making progress

I'm also looking forward to the water park at Canobie Lake, Castaway Island. It's comforting to know that no matter how hot the day; the frigid cold water that gushes from every direction will still shock you into a heart attack. And though I'm the first to admit that I'm out of shape, going to any water park makes me feel like a supermodel. No matter how I look, there will always be someone who looks worse, and that person is usually wearing a string bikini. I walk out of that place feeling like a goddess.

I'm looking forward to those evenings when I surprise my kids by taking them out to JC's or The Dairy Twist for an ice cream. As the sun sets and the moths begin beating themselves against the neon lights, we debate the merits of soft serve versus hard, jimmies versus chocolate dip. These are our biggest decisions of the day.

I'm looking forward to eating dinner out on our deck, listening to our neighbors play in their yards, the smell of their grills as they cook burgers. I'm looking forward to catching fireflies and watching for shooting stars during the Perseid meteor showers in August. I'm looking forward to drinking a Mike's Hard Lime in the evenings as my kids tell me about what they've been up to in camp that day.
I'm looking forward to meeting friends at the YMCA outdoor pool and having Papa Gino’s deliver right to my picnic table (I am not looking forward to that sudden whistle blow that means we have to evacuate the pool immediately...sometimes its because of thunder and other times its because of a foreign object floating in the water.)

And just when I think I cannot take another perfect summer day, I'll be looking forward to school starting again.

Dispatch from Camp Squanto

For 37 years, Hanover sixth graders have performed a rite of passage; spending a week at Camp Squanto in Plymouth. Throughout the week, the middle schoolers enjoy games, crafts, sports and other activities that their sixth grade teachers have spent months planning. But Camp Squanto is about more than just archery, boating and fishing. Hanover's children spend those five days on a voyage of self-discovery. For the child who has never slept away from home, it's learning to overcome homesickness. The child whose parent does everything for him learns to clean up after himself and others. A child who typically follows others may emerge as a leader. The lessons that are learned at Camp Squanto are all about team building, relying on yourself, and doing things outside of your comfort zone.

Longtime resident Brenda Maver missed this experience by a matter of weeks. Brenda and her family moved to Hanover the summer before she entered seventh grade. Some of the first friends she made in Hanover regaled her with stories of their Camp Squanto experience. Brenda can't help but wonder how her life would have been different had she had that experience herself.

And now, 31 years later, Brenda finally made it to Camp Squanto. Mother to 12-year-old Mitchell, Brenda, along with several other parents, volunteered to put family and work aside for a week to assist the teachers with this year's trip to Camp Squanto. Brenda and I talked about her week over coffee and it was clear from the beginning of our conversation that the event had a profound impact on her. As the mother of a fifth-grader, I was eager to learn what my child had in store for next year.

Brenda explained that long before the bus leaves for camp, the sixth graders have chosen a tent mate, someone who is their buddy for the week. These tent mates then chose other kids to be part of their campsite groups, approximately 35-40 kids per site. This way the children are able to surround themselves with other kids that make them feel comfortable. The campers are not limited to choosing friends within their homeroom or academic team. However, when it comes time for activities, the groups are then broken down into other groups that have been predetermined by their teachers. This way the kids are with their friends yet also making new friends throughout the week.

A typical day at Squanto can begin as early as 5:30 a.m. should a camper decide to try fishing. Breakfast is at 8 with morning activities following from 9-12. These might include crafts, archery, rock climbing, boating, or a number of other activities that have been developed by their teachers. Lunch follows at noon, with a 45 minute "siesta" afterwards. Kids participate in a series of structured activities such as yoga, self-defense, and swimming throughout the afternoon, returning to their campsite before dinner. Evening events include Beach parties, "Squantonian Idol" and games like Bingo and Capture the Flag.

One of the things that impressed Brenda the most was the tireless devotion of the teachers who work non-stop to make the Camp Squanto experience a memorable one for their students. It's not uncommon for a teacher to work 18 or more hours over the course of a day. The teacher who's there to supervise fishing at 5:30 a.m. might very well be the same teacher that comforted a homesick child just a few hours earlier. The sixth grade teachers spend months planning all aspects of the week. Having them in the role of camp counselor allows the children to be supervised by someone who has nurtured them for nine months throughout the school year, rather than by an unfamiliar camp employee.

The most amazing aspect of the week for Brenda was watching the children reach inside and achieve things they would have not thought themselves capable. Her voice broke with emotion when she spoke of kids in her group who started the trip scared and very tentative and by week's end were voted Campers of the Week for their homeroom. While some may question the lack of academic component, she feels that the lessons of inner growth and teamwork are invaluable. "The kid who returns on Friday and rates the experience a 6 will then rate it an 8 by Monday morning", Brenda says, 'and by the time that child is 18 years old, he'll rate it a 10."

Brenda wonders whether she would have been a stronger, more independent person earlier in her life had she gone to Squanto as a sixth grader. Calling one of her childhood friends from Hanover she was asked, "Did all your dreams come true?" Brenda admits that the experience is changing the way she parents her children, making her less likely to do something for them in an effort to save time and letting them have greater responsibility.

For the 225 kids who went to Camp Squanto this year, it was the experience of a lifetime. And for Brenda Maver, it was the chance to finally fulfill a dream.

No Money to Burn

I fell into conversation with some friends at the Memorial Day parade recently. We made a special point of attending this year since my youngest son was marching with his Cub Scout pack. What our parade lacks in duration (don't blink!) it makes up for in community spirit. As my friends and I chatted, I commented on the number of people who had turned out for the parade and lamented the fact that this year's annual bonfire was cancelled due to budget concerns.

This was clearly the first time my friend had heard the news. As her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped, she said "What do you mean there's no bonfire this year?" As the sad news sank in, I empathized with her and reflected on just how different my emotions were from the first time I witnessed the bonfire.

Here's a bit of personal history. I hail from New Jersey, a place where the Fourth of July is celebrated with two events: The parade (which goes on for hours complete with blaring fire trucks from several surrounding towns) and our annual fireworks. Each year my parents would pack us into the car with blankets and snacks and drive to the local fairgrounds. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting (and listening to us kids whine, "When will it start? How much longer?"), the fireworks would commence with breathtaking intensity, followed by the requisite "ooohs" and "ahh's". When the last rocket was fired at the end of the grand finale and the cannon-like echoes faded away, we would all head home with the feeling that the Fourth of July had been properly commemorated. In central NY, my husband’s town celebrated in a similar manner, though on a smaller scale.

Upon moving to Hanover, my husband and I were surprised to learn that the town didn't celebrate July 4th with fireworks. Driving through town that first year, I noticed a sign that said "Bonfire Saturday" but didn't think much of it. It wasn't until our second or third year as residents that we finally decide to investigate.

Sitting on a blanket with our young son in tow, we watched as the fire department began to light the enormous pile of pallets. We both thought it odd that such a large fire should be lit so close to a school. As the flames grew to a roaring pyre, and the baking heat reached all the way to our blanket, my husband and I looked at each other and it was clear that we both had the same thought: "What the hell?"

Instead of the majesty of fireworks we felt like we were dropped into some pagan ritual straight out of a Shirley Jackson story (and if you've never read her short story "The Lottery" you owe it to yourself to check it out.) Kids were running around in the firelight, adults were laughing and joking. I could only imagine what passing airplanes must have thought. When we'd had our fill of the heat and smoke, we packed up our child and our blanket and headed home. "That was weird," I commented to my husband, who agreed.

And yet, we returned to the bonfire the next year, this time with a group of friends and their children. Somehow it seemed less bizarre when shared with others. It's been ten years now since we moved to Hanover, and for most of those years, we've faithfully attended the bonfire. And while it still strikes me as an unusual way to celebrate the beginning of summer, I realized that the bonfire is less about pyromania and more about spending time together as a community.

When I discovered that the bonfire had been cancelled this year due to budget cuts, I was surprised by the intensity of my disappointment. Was there a way to find funding for the event? Perhaps a corporate sponsor? How about the Taco Bell Bonfire? (It’s muy caliente!) Or maybe I could do a little digging and find a government grant? I'm sure someone would like to perform a sociological study on community gatherings and the impact of fireworks versus fiery pallets. No?

Sigh. Perhaps the economy will improve next year and our town will be back to its old torchy ways. In the meantime, we'll just have to resign ourselves to the fact that until things get better, we just don't have money to burn.

My First Tae Kwon Do Tournament

I never thought I would get such pleasure out of watching two grown men kick the living stuffing out of each other. Okay, perhaps I should clarify that statement, lest you think I've suddenly become interested in cage fighting.

My sons have been students at Hanover's Xcel Taekwondo for a few years now. My younger son became interested when he attended "buddy day" at the school, or dojang, with a friend. The owner "Mrs. T" (Kyria Gallagher Takahashi, a nice Irish girl) had an impressive list of medals, awards and accolades, but what impressed me most was the way she handled her class of Little Dragons (kids 6 and under). Trying to corral a group of pre-schoolers is like serving soup with a slotted spoon: it can get very messy. Yet at each class Mrs. T had her students in organized lines, eyes focused on her, following instructions. She’s like a friendly, lovable drill sergeant. My son quickly learned to answer with a loud "Yes Ma'am." My son also learned from "Mr. T" (no gold chains or Mohawk here...and yet I pity the fool who messes with Fabio Takahashi). In addition to learning blocks and kicks, each month the class would focus on words such as self-control, respect and discipline. I quickly realized my son was learning more than just roundhouse kicks and how to count to ten in Korean.

Several months later, my older son, who was adamantly against learning martial arts, decided to give it a try. Too old for the Little Dragons, he joined the class for ages 7 and up. It was immediately apparent that his class was different. He learned a variety of kicks, blocks, self-defense moves and "forms", a series of choreographed moves that made me realize just how ridiculous that old "wax on, wax off" scene in "The Karate Kid” really was. But what threw me was when he would don protective gear to spar with the other students. He looked a bit like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, but without the nasty attitude.

Up to this point my exposure to martial arts had been watching old episodes of "Kung Fu Theater" with my father (and if you've never seen a man with a genius IQ giggle over those badly dubbed films, you're missing out). My husband studied Karate before we met and while we were dating made the ill-fated suggestion that we try Ninjitsu. After realizing I was too creaky to do a forward roll, I gave up Ninjitsu and returned to step aerobics (I may not be stealthy but I can sure keep a beat.) In Taekwondo, sparring is all about the kicks.

Watching my sons spar is both a thrilling and terrifying experience. At the end of the hour they are completely sweaty, so it’s a great workout. However, watching them get nailed in the chest by other students can be a little unnerving. Still, their balance has improved, their confidence has increased and their participation in class and on the school's demonstration team have helped them forge new friendships.

This past weekend, the school sponsored a tournament at the South Shore Vo-Tech. Several of Xcel’s students have participated in tournaments around the country, bringing home gold, silver and bronze medals. When my younger son, now old enough to spar, asked to participate, I agreed.

When we arrived I was floored by the number of competitors, which included a busload of students from Quebec. The Vo-Tech gymnasium had been transformed into a real tournament arena with four separate “rings" allowing for simultaneous competition. The excitement from the competitors and the parents was infectious. I had to remind myself to stay with my son whenever a part of me wanted to wander off and watch something else. Nervously I watched my son do his forms (which yielded a bronze medal) and spar with a member of the French Canadian team (silver medal this time) And while many students left once their event was over, I insisted we stick around to watch some of the adult black belts spar.

Watching my sons spar in class was nothing like watching these guys go at it. Yes they wear pads, and yes there is a referee, but other than that it was like someone had spliced together scenes from "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", "Gladiator" and "Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo" (okay, I didn't see that last one...) Some competitors were aggressive and impulsive while others were introspective and strategic. In addition to a flurry of well-placed (and sometimes missed) kicks there were moves designed to fake out the opponent or throw him off balance. There were kicks to the head (the head!) Watching these black belts spar was like watching poetry; granted it was sweaty, violent poetry, but poetry nonetheless. Had I not promised my son a trip to Friendly's, I would have gladly stayed till the last second of the final match.

I hope my kids make it to black belt. I hope they continue to benefit from the confidence and discipline and sportsmanship they learn as part of their training. And I hope that if they do reach the level of black belt, they won’t mind if I shut my eyes when they step into that sparring ring.