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.