Who Needs Help Cutting the Cheese?

The other day I was walking through the aisles of Stop and Shop when a particular product caught my eye. It’s not new, and it’s one with which you may already be familiar. But for some reason, seeing it on the shelf set off a chain of thoughts in my head that compels me to address it.

Does anyone here like…Cracker Cuts?

For those of you who look at those two words in puzzlement (add my husband to that group) Cracker Cuts is a product made by Kraft foods, the people who bring you Cracker Barrel cheese (one of my favorites…yeah, I know.)

If you’re looking for a tasty cheese snack or cheese for entertaining, you could buy a block of Cracker Barrel. But if you’re ready to take that extra leap into the new technology of cheese, then my friend, you need Cracker Cuts. It’s like buying a block of cheese that has already been sliced for you. Actually, it is buying a block of cheese that has already been sliced for you. Amazing! It’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Here’s the description of the product from Kraft’s website: “Snacking and entertaining is made easy with Cracker Barrel Cracker Cuts Cheese. Treat yourself to the great taste of cheese conveniently pre-cut to fit perfectly on your favorite crackers.”
I’ve seen Cracker Cuts before, and have even been served them on occasion. But for some reason, seeing it on the shelf amongst the other cheese blocks prompted a slew of questions. The first being, “How lazy do you have to be that you can’t slice your own cheese?” Did the folks in product development at Kraft decide that there’s a whole market of customers who just cannot be bothered to slice their own cheese? Or am I being unfairly prejudiced about Cracker Cuts?

This started me thinking. Perhaps it’s not a question of laziness. Perhaps it’s a time management issue. Cracker Cuts is actually social commentary on the woman who tries to “do it all”. She holds down a job, is a devoted wife and mother and doesn’t have enough hours in her day to work, oversee homework, cook dinner, clean the house and drive the kids to their various soccer/ballet/hockey practices. When the kids are clamoring for a snack, or the neighbors are popping in unexpectedly for a cocktail, who has time to laboriously slice cheese? Cracker Cuts to the rescue.

Maybe time isn’t the issue. Maybe it’s perfection. Have we been so conditioned by Martha Stewart and others like her that we feel like failures when we don’t send out handmade holiday cards, make our own mac and cheese from scratch and craft centerpieces for our kitchen table out of chicken wire, corn husks and six different types of wildflowers grown in our own garden? Martha would be appalled if we were to serve our guests cheese slices that weren’t uniform in thickness and size (oh the horror!) The overhang of cheese to cracker must be no more than 1/100 of an inch. And what? You’re going to serve square cheese with round crackers? Heathen.

Oh, the smugness I felt writing this column in my head, until my good friend Julianne popped my bubble by saying, “Well, what about elderly people who have arthritis?” That stopped me in my tracks. I thought of another friend who’s younger than me that suffers from this ailment. Of course Cracker Cuts would be a good product for her. Then a client told me he had Cracker Cuts on a friend’s boat because, “You don’t want to try to cut cheese with a sharp knife on a boat that’s rocking side to side.” (Especially after a few beers). Hmmm. And what about picnics? And soccer practices? And kids who want to get their own snacks? And people with prosthetic hands? Or knife phobias?

I don’t know whether the folks at Kraft considered all these scenarios when they developed Cracker Cuts. Truthfully, they probably just wanted a way to increase market share while charging more for the product (Cracker Cuts are the same price as regular Cracker Barrel cheese, but look closely. Cracker Cuts weigh 3 ounces less. Those crafty Kraft people.) Even if their motives were driven by profit, not altruism, I now see how Cracker Cuts has earned its place in the great circle of life known as the dairy case.

I love it when I learn life lessons from the little things. But let there be no doubt where I stand on purchasing block versus sliced. Personally, I have no difficulty whatsoever when it comes to cutting the cheese.

(Admit it…you were waiting for that)

A Lesson in E-mail Etiquette

Okay folks, it’s time for a refresher course on e-mail etiquette. Like me, you probably get dozens of e-mails each day, from friends, acquaintances, strangers, department stores, online websites and countless others. Most are easily dealt with (deleted, delete, delete) but others can require a bit more thought.

Let’s start with my biggest pet peeve: People who do not understand the difference between “Reply” and “Reply All”. For those who have trouble with this, “Reply” means you are replying only to the person who sent you the e-mail. “Reply All” means you are replying to the sender and everyone else that was sent this e-mail . In most cases, “Reply” is the correct choice. In rare exceptions, “Reply All” is appropriate.

For example, let’s say your best friend Suzie is hosting a brunch. She sends out an email saying, “Please come to brunch on such and such date and time. Let me know if you can make it and what you’d like to bring.” Ah-ha! In this instance, “Reply All” is appropriate. Why? Because you want to be sure that your good friend Gertrude doesn’t bring the same artichoke dip to the brunch that you want to bring. By using “Reply All”, you can let both the host and everyone else attending know what you are bringing so there will be no duplicates.

Now, what if that same good friend Suzie sends you (and all her other friends) an e-mail inviting your child for a play date. The e-mail lists the date, time, and location and asks that you RSVP. In this case, “Reply” is the correct option. Too many times, I’ve received responses from other moms saying, “Little Carlton can’t wait,” and, “Baby Bubba will be there,” because” they hit “Reply All”. Honestly, I don’t need to know if Carlton or Bubba or any other child is thrilled, excited, wetting his pants or dreading this play date. Seriously folks, it’s okay to hit the “Reply” button on this.

Did you know that “Reply All” is one of the most dangerous buttons on your e-mail? Case in point: A few years ago, a friend (she was a friend at the time, we’re no longer friends for reasons soon to be revealed) sent me an e-mail which warned friends about a potentially poisonous hazard in an item most people purchase for their homes. The e-mail sounded a little fishy to me, so I checked with snopes.com, an urban legend de-bunking site, and found that the warning was indeed overblown. I crafted an email, complete with a link to snopes, chastising my intelligent, savvy friend for sending her e-mail without verifying the content first. I then sent the e-mail to my friend, unaware that I had inadvertently hit “Reply All” instead of “Reply”. Her entire e-mail list of friends, family members, colleagues and work contacts got my smug, condescending reply and I ended up losing a friendship. Lesson learned.

This brings me to my next e-mail pet peeve: online urban legends. Let me just state now that Bill Gates is not going to send you a free laptop computer or $10, or a Gap gift certificate or anything at all if you forward his e-mail to everyone in your address book. You do not need to register your cell phone with a Do Not Call list, you won’t get any free dinners at Applebee’s and little 9-year-old Craig Shergold is now 30-years old, cancer-free and no longer in need of any get well cards, business cards or any other card. (He’s already in the Guinness Book of World Records, so it’s time to move on.) There are several great debunking sites online, but www.snopes.com is my personal favorite. Bookmark it, use it, and stop clogging my-inbox.
Last, but not least, are e-mail chain letters. I don’t mind getting jokes, prayers, movies, cartoons, inspirational poems, or warm, fuzzy sentiments. What I don’t like is the threat of bad luck if I don’t immediately send that same e-mail to twenty of my friends. So be warned. If you send me one of those emails, instead of sending it to twenty friends, I will send it to you, the sender, twenty times.

Oh, and while we’re speaking of warnings… Remember that anything you write can be forwarded to anyone from anyone. So be careful what you say and to whom you send it.

Here’s hoping that this lesson in e-mail etiquette was helpful to you. I certainly feel better clearing the air. However if my hugging column is any indication, I’ll probably receive about ten times more “Reply All” messages from this point on. So be it.

The Dirty Dozen...with Donuts

I love the smell of pinesap in the morning. It smells like...money.

This was the thought running through my mind this weekend as I volunteered for my son's Cub Scout pack fundraiser. Each year the pack picks up discarded Christmas trees and hauls them to the DPW, where they are ground into mulch. The money collected ($10 per tree) goes to running the pack and paying for all those camp-outs and marshmallow roasts and other fun activities (so parents don't have to open their wallets.)

Would I have preferred to be somewhere else at 8:00 a.m. on the coldest Saturday of the year? Of course. Given my druthers, I would have remained in my nice, warm, cozy bed, snoozing between fluffy flannel sheets and dreaming of a tropical vacation with George Clooney. But then I thought about my friends from the other side of town. Their pack requires them to climb into the bottle bin at the transfer station in all types of weather, dumping out other people's swill and organizing redeemable bottles. I've seen friends in 90-degree heat with gloves up to their elbows, swatting bees.

I guess a few hours on a cold Saturday morning is a small price to pay after all.

The DPW office was filled with moms, dads and scouts, all crowding around the table laden with coffee, donuts and other baked goodies. Our fearless pack leader stood at the head of the table, laying out maps and spreadsheets like an army general about to send troops into battle. As we stood around the table, listening to instructions, it felt like a scene from the movie "The Dirty Dozen" (only with donuts).

Each team was comprised of a flatbed truck driver and a parent riding shotgun with a route map and a list of pick-up sites. Following close behind was the "chase car", which contained another parent (or two) and a passel of cub scouts, by this time all hyped up on (yes, you guessed it...donuts).

As we received our assignments, the mom standing next to me gave my outfit the once-over. She was dressed in several layers of fleece, with warm, waterproof boots on her feet. I was in sweats, a fleece top and sneakers. "Are you going to be warm enough?" she asked with concern. I assured her I'd be fine as I slid into the heated front seat of my minivan (now known as the "chase car"). I guess she had the idea that I would be the one hopping out from stop to stop and hauling trees into the truck. Really. That's why I volunteered my husband.

Another scout's dad (my designated navigator) hopped into the passenger seat ("Is this seat heated?" he asked with wonder) and we were off. Our list of pick-up sites was in alphabetical order, but within minutes my co-pilot and I had plotted the most time-efficient route. The van rolled through town like a Sherman tank (a Sherman tank with a DVD player blasting "Star War: Clone Wars"). At each stop, we'd check for traffic, then open the side door as the kids burst out shouting, "Move! Move! Move!" like a team of commandos. One would grab the money in the attached Ziploc bag while the others would grab the tree and tug it, grunting and heaving, to the flatbed truck. At this point, my husband and my co-pilot would heft the tree up onto the flatbed. The commandos would throw themselves into the back of the van; swing the door shut and we'd be off to the next stop. Mission complete.

This cycle would repeat itself 44 times over the next three hours. By lunchtime, more than three hundred trees were collected, thanks to the combined efforts of the scout leaders, volunteers, truck drivers, moms, dads and, of course, the scouts themselves. As we drove back home with the scent of pine clinging to my children's clothes, I thought of all the future camp-outs the kids will enjoy as a result of that morning's work.

Of course, while they're camping out, I'll be home in bed, dreaming of George Clooney.

To Hug or Not To Hug?

Okay, confession time: I'm not a hugger.

You know those people who can't say hello or goodbye without enfolding you in a warm, loving embrace? I'm not one of them.

I enjoy hugs. I could hug my children forever. (I try, but they somehow always manage to wriggle free). I love hugging my husband too. I'm comfortable hugging my parents.
But as far as everyone else is concerned, hugging is out of my comfort zone.

Why? Well, for one thing I'm not a germaphobe (actually, the term is mysophobia, a fear of contact with dirt). I have no fear about catching someone's cold, flu, Ebola or dandruff. Germaphobes don't sit in hotel hot tubs for hours and hours. (A friend of mine who is slightly mysophobic is probably gagging as she reads this.) I'm not afraid to be touched (aphenphosmphobia, to be accurate, and does that even look like a real word? Too many letters.). I don't jump out of my skin if someone lays a hand on my shoulder or my arm.

I guess I just find social hugging to be awkward. We standoffish Americans have somehow adopted the more European custom of full-body greetings. In a nutshell, the handshake is out and hugging is in. Not that I've ever been all that comfortable with the handshake either: One pump or two? Loose grip or firm? And how do you handle that one person who lets their hand sit like a dead fish while yours does all the work? Clammy hands? Don't get me started. But I digress.

If the mechanics of the handshake are difficult to master, think about what's involved with the hug. Where do you put your arms? Around the neck, like a high school slow dance? Around the waist, like someone about to perform the Heimlich maneuver? Maybe just one arm up, and one arm down to be safe. But what if they put up the same arm? Uncomfortable colliding ensues, which necessitates someone having to readjust his or her arm position, which makes the hug even more awkward.

And lets say you get your arm positions right on the first try... How hard to hug? Do you give a big squeeze ("Gosh I've missed you!") or apply light pressure ("What's your name again?") Who releases first? If you do, and the other person is still hugging, you're an uncaring jerk. If they release first and you're still holding on, you're clingy. As if huggers aren't bad enough, watch out for holders. These are the folks who keep their arms encircled around you for an uncomfortably long period of time, for agonizing seconds or minutes after the hug has ended. One friend confided to me that another friend (a holder) hung on so long she thought she was going to be rocked to sleep.

Making the social hug all the more complicated is the addition of the social kiss. Within a split second, you have to evaluate whether the hugger is coming in for a kiss as well. On the lips or on the cheek? Left cheek or right? And is it a real kiss, or an air kiss? God forbid someone comes in for an air kiss (it's really just your ears kissing at that point) and you plant your lips on their cheek. I'm not comfortable kissing anyone on the lips (other than my husband) so if someone looks like they're coming in for the real thing, at the last minute I shift to plant it to the side of their mouth (more than an air kiss, but not the full lippage).

How do men handle all this? They've got to evaluate whether to do the hug, the handshake, or that freakish combination of handshake that turns into a chest bump (not quite a hug since the arms don't always encircle the back). If men do go for the full hug, do they add the back slap, or just leave it be? And what's with the fist bump? It's like the human version of mountain goats ramming their horns together. The male-male social hug seems to have endless variations over the female-female variety, but for some reason kissing doesn't seem to enter that mix.

I guess what it boils down to is that while I'm not adverse to hugs from friends (or even modest social acquaintances) I'm not going to be the instigator. When encountering someone at the store, the library or a party, I'm perfectly content with a friendly smile and a hand raised in greeting. Physically, I feel no need to take it to that next level.

I have a close friend who feels the same way I do. She had me over just before Christmas and as I was leaving, I wished her a happy holiday and said I would see her in a week's time. We looked at each other for a moment. I said, "Should we hug?" to which she replied "That thought never entered my mind."

Ironically, I could have hugged her for that.

Not Your Typical End Of The Year Column

Well, it’s the end of another year. Heck, it’s the end of a decade. I’m surrounded by newspapers, magazines and websites publishing their “Best and Worst” lists, letting readers know which books, movies and music they should seek and avoid. They’re gathering up their lists of the year’s highlights (and lowlights) including the inauguration of a new president, an empty hot air balloon, a pair of presidential party crashers, and the release of an epic, $300 million film that took 15 years to make.

Though I am tempted to do the same, I’ll try to refrain. I mean, does anyone really care to know what my favorite books (“The Help”, “Columbine”), movies (“The Hangover”, “Zombieland”), or television programs (“Modern Family”, “Glee”) are this year?

You’ve heard me rant about the Henne family, who fooled an entire nation into thinking that their boy Falcon (really…Falcon?) was free-floating in a homemade hot air balloon. Do I need to rehash it again? (Ok, does anyone else notice that their last name is pretty close to a word that is a slang term for buttocks? Coincidence? I think not!) And while we’re on the subject, can I just applaud the fact that both mother and father were sentenced jail time for their little stunt? If only someone can hand them an invoice for the personnel and equipment utilized for the “rescue effort”, I’d be a happy woman.

But I digress. Getting back to the fact that I’m not going to write one of those “best of” columns, doesn’t everyone love the new Target? That sure was a highlight in our year, especially when it came to Christmas shopping. And speaking of new construction, this year also saw the groundbreaking of Friendship Home, a respite facility for adults with developmental disabilities, located on the property at the United Church of Christ in Norwell. We also saw the groundbreaking for the new Hanover Senior Center, being built just a stone’s throw from my own home (so convenient for when I pick up my Meals on Wheels). And hey, how ‘bout that new high school? We were thrilled to see construction begin. We were devastated when an injunction stopped it. We were thrilled (again) when the injunction was lifted. Never a dull moment where this high school is concerned, is there?

And by the way, was anyone surprised by the fact that Cathy Harder-Bernier won the Spirit of Hanover award this year? (No? Neither was I). Aside from all the other volunteer work that Cathy does, she maintains one of our most valuable resources, Around Town on the Web. Nice job, Cathy.

While Swine Flu (sorry, H1N1) was certainly a lowlight of the year (those darned Mexican pigs spoiled spring break for everyone), I can’t help but be impressed by the way our town responded with their vaccination clinics. While other towns (most other towns, I might add) reserved their vaccine supply for their own residents, our town generously shared our supply with others. Who’s up for adopting the motto, “The Town That Cares ”?

If I were going to write one of those end-of-the-year columns, (which I’m not) I’d have to include all the famous people who died this year, like Patrick Swayze, Farrah Fawcett, and of course, Michael Jackson. Somewhere, the King of Pop is singing while Johnny Castle twirls one of Charlie’s Angels ‘round the dance floor. (Nobody puts Farrah in the corner).

I’d also have to mention how 2009 was a sad, sad year for Red Sox fans. Not only did our boys not make it to the World Series, we had to watch those devils in pinstripe waltz off with the trophy. And speaking of sports, was this the year to knock sports figures off their pedestals? As if it wasn’t bad enough that Aquaman Michael Phelps was photographed with water pipe in hand (performance enhancer?), we had to endure the whole Tiger Woods saga (Who knew that Elin Woods could slice, hook and chip as well as her husband?)

Yes, those year-end columns are so clichéd, I’m certainly going to avoid writing one at all costs. Because when it comes right down to it, it’s much better to look to the future than to dwell on the past, right?

Happy New Year!

Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Christmas TV Specials

I learn something new every day, and this being the holiday season, I realize that just about everything I need to know I learned from watching Christmas television specials.

For example, Rudolph teaches us about tolerance for others. I learned that even misfits have a place in this world, whether you are a red-nosed reindeer, a Charlie-in-the-box or yes, even a dentist. Oh, and Bumbles bounce.

Buddy the Elf is right: The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear (unless my husband is the one doing the singing, in which case you want to run far, far away).

Heat Miser and Snow Miser taught me that while brothers may not like each other all the time, they are willing to compromise for their mother’s sake. I'd like my own boys to take a cue from this. If the Misers can agree to let it snow in South Town, then my boys can share their Legos.

Frosty the Snowman taught me to choose my friends wisely. Frosty might have been cute and charming, yelling "Happy Birthday" all the time, but he also got himself and the children into trouble with the local police. Plus, he knew the dangers of entering a steamy, hot greenhouse and went inside anyway. Kids, stay away from friends who make bad choices.

In “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” I learned that a doll may get you a date with the cute teacher, but a yo-yo doesn't cut it with the Burgermeister. And speaking of him... kids, remember to pick up your toys! It only took one stray toy left on the steps to ruin it for everyone in Sombertown.

Ebenezer Scrooge may have been a stingy, hard-hearted skinflint but he proved that it's never too late to make changes in your life.

The Little Drummer Boy taught me that if you don't look both ways before you cross the street, you might end up with lamb for Christmas dinner.

And speaking of the little drummer boy...is there a more bizarre musical combination than Bing Crosby and David Bowie? Oh right, Elton John and Eminem.

Ralphie, the hero of "A Christmas Story", teaches perseverance. He was unwavering in his desire for the beloved Red Rider BB Gun (despite his mother, teacher and Santa Claus all predicting that he would shoot his eye out). The film also shows that grown-ups are right most of the time...as evidenced by Ralphie's broken glasses at the end of the film. ("I shot my eye out!"). And finally, TBS teaches us that even the most treasured Christmas film can be beaten into the ground by being shown 24-hours a day every Christmas. Wouldn't we value it more if it were shown only once? Just a thought.

Charlie Brown, that follically-challenged tyke, taught me that a little love can work miracles (along with a few of Snoopy's ornaments and Linus's blanket.)

George Bailey, from It's A Wonderful Life, thought himself a failure until an angel taught him that even the most humble, small-town folk can have a life-changing impact on those around them. And of course, no man (or woman) is a failure who has friends. We also learned that it's best not to go into business with relatives. Really, whose idea was it to trust Uncle Billy with eight thousand dollars?

And finally, the most valuable lesson of all comes from The Grinch via the immortal words of Dr. Seuss: "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store. "Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

Merry Christmas.

A Christmas Dilemna: Live Versus Fake Trees

My son’s Cub Scout pack holds a fundraiser each year, which involves picking up people’s Christmas trees and hauling them away (for a nominal fee). Parents are encouraged to help, so last year I offered to make calls to residents who had used this service in the past. Two-thirds of the way down my list, I was disheartened. Many of the responses I received were, “Thanks, but we have an artificial tree this year.” Not only was the pack losing money, but it was becoming clear to me that my family was part of a shrinking minority: Those who purchase real Christmas trees.

My husband and I have always purchased a live Christmas tree (“Live” being a relative term, since it begins to die the minute you chop it down). He grew up on a farm, surrounded by acres of trees. What would Christmas be without a trek into the woods with a handy hatchet (or chainsaw), dragging home your prize behind you?

Meanwhile, growing up in suburbia, my parents decided to forgo a real tree the year our cat knocked the tree over, not once but three times. This was also the year I received a tape recorder for Christmas, which fortuitously captured one of the incidents on tape (I think I listened to my mother’s shriek over and over till New Year’s.) From that point on, it was artificial trees only in my parents’ house.

Doing a little research I discovered that the Addis Brush Company produced the first artificial Christmas tree, on the same manufacturing equipment used to make (yes, you guessed it) toilet brushes. Artificial trees have come a long way since then, but my parents’ first fake tree looked like we could clean over hundred toilets in the event our regular toilet brush went missing.

My husband has always insisted on a real tree, but maybe it’s time to face facts. Should we break down and buy a fake tree? Wouldn’t it save us money over the years? Isn’t it actually a “greener” option than killing trees each year? I knew what his response would be, but I had to throw it out there.

Yes, the fresh cut tree is more costly. A $200 artificial tree that lasts 15 years works out to be about $13 per year ($13 wouldn’t buy us a decent wreath, let alone even the most pathetic, Charlie Brown tree.) There would be no pine needles on the floor. No pinesap on my hands when I dragged the tree out the front door on New Year’s Day. No daily watering. Reduced fire hazard. (A friend’s husband is a firefighter, and when he’s not blowing out all the candles at Christmas parties, he’s talking about how quickly that tree can go up in flames). Artificial sure sounds like the way to go.

My husband pointed out that from a “green” perspective, the live trees are actually the better choice. They are farmed for just this purpose. As they grow towards maturity, they absorb carbon dioxide, helping to clean our air. Each year, my husband takes our Christmas tree from the previous season and recycles it into peanut butter bird feeders. The trees picked up by the Cub Scouts are chopped into mulch. And let’s face it, they do smell nice. Vacuuming up all those pine needles is a pain, but it leaves my vacuum smelling piney.

On the other hand, artificial trees (which come in a cardboard box) are made from metals and plastics, including PVC, which can contain lead. (85% of all artificial trees are made in China. Remember those toy recalls last year?) Though an artificial tree may last up to 15 years in your house, they last for eternity once they make it to the landfill.

So we’ll continue buying a real tree, even though we’re in the minority. No, I won’t be able to use a clicker to light my tree (like my friend with the snazzy, fake, pre-lit version), and I’ll have to be sure not to wedge it in between the fireplace and the heater. But my house will certainly smell nice. And if you’re pining for the smell of a fresh tree, be sure to stop by.

For more on the “real versus fake” debate, check out www.christmastree.org

A Letter to My Lego Robtotics Team

A Letter to my Lego Robotics Team

Dear Brick Builders:

This past Saturday, we spent 8 hours together in a hot, crowded gymnasium at North Quincy High School. The FIRST Lego League Quincy Qualifier was the culmination of seven weeks of your hard work. I say "your" because you ten boys did every ounce of work. That's what FLL is all about: kids do all the work, with guidance and encouragement from their coaches.

When we first met, we were ten boys and three moms in a classroom. Saturday, we entered the gym as a team. The definition of that word is "...a number of persons associated together in work or activity." While that applies to your effort, it doesn't begin to scratch the surface of your accomplishment.

Let me recap everything you achieved over the seven weeks. You worked together to build our FLL Field, an obstacle course of Lego components that included a bridge, a truck on a ramp, several walls, barrels and that dreaded dynamometer. (Did any of you know what a dynamometer was before this? I didn't).

You designed and built a Lego robot. Right up until an hour before your first match, you were making modifications to the wheels and the attachments. You pooled your good ideas together to create the robot, debating the merits of front motors versus rear motors, a fixed wheel versus a swiveling wheel. Everyone had an opinion on what might work and you respected that. You never said words like "That won't work" or "That's a dumb idea." Instead, you weighed the pros and cons and together decided what worked best.

You learned how to program that robot, and discovered that it didn’t always perform the way you wanted it to. How many times did you go back to the computer, making tiny changes to your program? One hundred? Five hundred? As a team, you didn't get discouraged or give up. You kept working until the last minutes of the last class. You learned perseverance.

When it came to our research project, you voted on everything from our team name to how we defined our community. You brought in lists of every possible type of transportation in our town and brainstormed ideas on how to make improvements. In the end, you chose teleportation as a solution. Other people might have dismissed that idea as science fiction, but you researched everything you could find on the subject and discovered that scientists are making advances in the field. You wrote an extremely funny commercial for a teleporter, incorporating all the ways that teleportation could improve our lives. When it came time to present your project to the judges, you boldly assembled in front of the classroom and performed flawlessly.

Throughout the long, exhausting day, you held it together. When it was time to put the robot through its paces, you stood in pairs at the mission table, in front of hundreds of cheering spectators, and calmly ran your mission. You graciously let every team member who wanted to take a turn at the table have one. When you weren't running a mission, you were on the sidelines, wearing your tie-dye team shirts proudly. My fondest memory is seeing your group, at the top of the bleachers, shaking your bodies to the music and cheering on not just Hanover, but teams from all over the region. (Of course when it was Hanover's turn, you cheered the loudest.) Although our team didn't win an award, you cheered for the Hanover Middle School team that did. You knew that a win for any Hanover team was a win for all of us.

You learned a lot these last seven weeks. Did you know that I learned something too? Yes, I learned about robots and programming and all the rules of the competition. But I also learned that you can take ten kids with wildly different personalities, encourage them to think big, ask them to respect each other, get them to tap into their creative abilities and have them come out the other side as a team to be reckoned with. You taught me that you don't necessarily need to play music to be a rock star.

Your assistant coaches, Mrs. Marriner and Mrs. Courtney, invested more than just their time. They invested their encouragement, patience, and enthusiasm. They deserve a medal too.

Your team reminds me of the 2004 Red Sox. No matter where you go from this point, no matter what future team you may join, no matter what your achievements might be, when I see one of you I will remember the incredible team I had the pleasure to coach for seven weeks in the fall of 2009. Thank you.

Your Coach,
Mrs. Anderson

When to Let Go?

How to know when to let go? That’s the question with which I often wrestle. Our lives are filled with a series of relationships and associations: Family, jobs, friends, pets, etc. Sometimes they are easy to maintain. Sometimes they are extremely challenging. Sometimes we want to just quit, but decide to push through instead. Sometime that’s the wrong decision. How do you know when to let go?

My husband and I purchased a Saturn sedan in 1996. We were newly married at the time, and when my old, failing car finally bit the dust, we decided to splurge on a new car. That Saturn has seen us through two houses, two births, several career changes and countless miles roundtrip between our home in Hanover and my husband’s office in Providence. After 13 years and 350,000 miles, it finally blew a head gasket. The day we dreaded had finally arrived. Should we sink more money into the old car and limp along for a little while longer? Or was it time to let go?

For seven years I worked as a direct sales consultant. I started my business when my kids were one and four years old. This was my way to get out of the house a few nights a month, make a little extra money for my family, and spend time with people who didn’t think the sun rose and set on the Teletubbies. What started as a hobby grew into a part-time business that gave me the confidence to speak in public, the ability to initiate conversation with anyone, and many new friendships. As much as I enjoyed my business, by the end of year six I found myself less enthusiastic about working it. I wasn’t following up on leads, I wasn’t attending monthly meetings, and I wasn’t reading the consultant newsletter. Was it time to bring this chapter of my life to a close?

Most times I find my inability to let go fueled by my fear of the unknown. If our car dies, how will we afford a new one? If I close my business, how I will make money? I’m sure that these thoughts, these fears about what lies ahead are the reason that many people stay in unfulfilling jobs, unhappy marriages, and toxic relationships. The irony is that once we finally break free of our fear and enter into that great unknown, we often find that it’s not nearly as scary as we anticipated, and relief often replaces the fear.

A close friend owns several pets including a very old dog. The dog has reached the point where it can no longer stand up on its own. It needs assistance getting in and out of the house. It can’t control its bowels. And yet, she can’t bring herself to put this beloved pet to sleep. So she continues to help the dog stand up, help it go outside, and clean up the accidents around the house. If this sounds familiar it’s because most of us with pets have faced the same situation. It’s a delicate balance between the animal’s quality of life and our own inability to say goodbye. How to know when to let go?

Visiting my family in NJ this weekend, I planned a visit with a close friend I’ve known for over 35 years. My kids love her kids and my husband genuinely enjoys the company of her husband (despite the fact that he’s a Yankee fan). This weekend, I called to finalize our plans and noticed, for the first time, an undertone in her voice. Why wasn’t she as excited to get together as we were? Were we burdening her with our visit? After a few probing questions, she finally admitted that on past visits I’d made comments that she felt were sarcastic, judgmental and disrespectful to her. I was taken aback. Admittedly, I can be sarcastic and judgmental. I just never realized that I had directed that attitude towards her. Had I unintentionally caused our relationship to become toxic? And if I had, this led to a larger issue. Was I trying to maintain a friendship that had run its course? Did we have anything in common other than our shared past? Was it time for me to let go?

There are no easy answers. Sometimes you just have to face your fear and go with your gut. When our car finally died, we asked our folks to lend us money for a new one. I decided to resign from my direct sales business, replacing it with more freelance writing. And my friend? Despite my fear, I met her for coffee and asked her to explain what I’d done to offend her. For once, we were able to talk without being interrupted by husbands or children. By the time we finished our coffee, we had cleared the air and agreed that we both wanted to stay friends for the next 35 years. And in this instance, I’m thankful that it’s not time to let go.

Thanksgiving Traditions

Thanksgiving is here. On Thursday we will settle in and perform a series of rituals that we, as a nation, have developed since 1621, when the Pilgrims sat down with their new friend Squanto and gave thanks for their first bountiful harvest of the New World.

There must be turkey, of course. In the olden days, the turkey was hunted, plucked, dressed and cooked. How archaic. In modern times, my mother hunts the turkey. She does this by shopping at the same grocery store for 6 weeks prior to Thanksgiving, accumulating bonus points with each purchase. Once she earns enough points: free turkey. On Thanksgiving Day, my mother performs an old family tradition. The turkey’s pop-up timer pops. My mother says, “Oh the turkey popped. Do you think it’s done?” I assure her that it is, at which point my mother says, “Oh, I don’t know. I think I should let it go a little longer.” Her fear of salmonella is greater than her fear of overcooked turkey. Thank goodness she makes killer gravy. I bought her a digital thermometer in order to avoid this ritual, but she just incorporates it. Now she says, “The turkey popped and the thermometer beeped. Do you think it’s done?” Sigh.

Another tradition is the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. What is it about the parade that fascinates us so? Is it the inane banter between Matt Lauer and Meredith Vierra? (Do they recycle that banter each year? Same script, different hosts?) Is it the unbelievably bad lip sync from the celebrity performers? (Whom do they think they’re fooling?) Are we just waiting to see if a rogue balloon might accidentally take out a few unsuspecting tourists? (Welcome to the Big Apple folks. The hospital is this way.) My parents videotape (now Tivo) the parade each year. One year a woman in a chorus group, who sang a little too exuberantly, flew backwards off her float, and my parents caught it on tape. This clip was replayed more times than the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald.

Here’s one Thanksgiving tradition I can’t quite wrap my head around: green bean casserole. The ingredients seem fine on their own, (green beans, mushroom soup, fried onion rings) but mix them all together and it makes my stomach churn. It’s like some post-apocalyptic monstrosity from the Valley of the Jolly Green Giant. Were the Campbell’s soup kids involved? Somehow this freakish dish has been designated a Thanksgiving classic. Pass the Alka Seltzer, please.

And then there’s football. Not being a football fan myself, I can’t explain why this sport has become such an important part of our national day of thanks. Is football a digestive aid? My sisters and I would just as happily watch re-runs of “The Sound of Music”, making snide comments about Rolf, the Nazi-in-training. But my husband and my brother-in-law do try to shoehorn in a few minutes of one game or another in between musical numbers. When I do watch football on Thanksgiving, I find myself feeling sorry for the players since they’re separated from their families on a holiday. Then I remember that they make millions of dollars and my sympathy ebbs away.

Whether you enjoy football, turkey, the parade or, yes, even green bean casserole, here’s hoping that one Thanksgiving tradition you will enjoy is the company of family and friends. On the list of things that I am thankful for (and it’s a long list indeed), my family takes pride of place at the very top.

Happy Thanksgiving.