The Sounds of Spring

One evening last week, my son and I were driving to church when suddenly he said, “Mom, listen!” I slowed my car and rolled down the window. “Peepers!” he shouted. Sure enough, there was the telltale chorus of “peeps” coming from those tiny little frogs that herald the beginning of a new season. Spring is officially here.

Coincidentally, that same week both a friend in Hanover and my mother-in-law in Central New York sposted similar sentiment on their Facebook pages. My friend said, “I hear the peepers. Spring is here”, while my mother-in-law posted, “Spring is officially here when I hear the peepers, and they are just peeping their hearts out right now.”

Peepers (not to be confused with those nasty marshmallow Peeps that are also found this time of year), are “…small tree frogs found in woodland areas in the Eastern United States and Canada.” The Encyclopedia Brittanica goes on to say, “The spring peeper, with its high, whistling call, is one of the first frogs to vocalize and breed in spring.” After the breeding season, the peeper is seldom heard.
We may see daffodils and crocuses springing up in flower beds all over town, and smell the scent of damp, warm earth coming alive, but it is the sounds of the peepers that solidify spring’s arrival.

Of course, peepers are not the only sound that comes with warm weather. Now that my windows are open, I can hear an entirely different animal sound on my street; the call of the wild hog. Or more specifically, the Harley Davidson motorcycle. Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, “In the spring, the young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” What he didn’t mention was that the love in question was for a Harley CVO “Fat Bob” with a twin-cam Screamin’ Eagle 110 engine. I can appreciate the avid biker who excitedly stows his or her winter wheels in order to spend the summer gliding through the streets of my town. But damn, those bikes are loud. Still, they’re here to stay till the first flakes of winter, so I better get used to hearing those engines roar. Or perhaps it’s time to switch bedrooms with my son and sleep in the back of the house for a change.

One of the more pleasant sounds of spring is the song of the returning birds. True, I’ve heard many a chickadee and blue jay throughout the winter, but their chorus always seems a little thin. The full orchestra of spring birds have returned from their southern winter engagement, complete with the woodpecker playing percussion on the side of my house. What better way to awake in the morning than to the sweet harmony of birdsong?

And then there’s the lovely droning buzz of the lawn mower(such a happier sound than the dark, bleak, hopeless sound of its cousin, the snow blower) The lawn mower brings to mind images of lazy spring evenings, kids running bases at t-ball, moms and dads sitting on bleachers, cheering them on. The lawn mower represents Saturday soccer games and friends coming over to share a beer while you fire up the grill. The only caveat is that the lawn mower sound should be absolutely verboten before 9 a.m. in the morning. Yes, that includes Saturdays. Especially on Saturdays.

And then there is that one spring sound which fills me with both anticipation and dread. My stomach turns flip-flops when I hear this sound, and I have to slow my racing heart, take a few deep breaths and settle myself.

Have you guessed it yet? It’s the sound of my kids asking, “Mom, how many more days till summer vacation?”

Could This Be The End?

It is with a heavy heart that I write this, my very last column. I want to let all my readers know just how special this job has been to me. My editor and I had a very nice lunch last week, laughing and chatting about some of our favorite columns from the past nineteen months. Nineteen months? Has it really been that long? Time flies when you are doing something you love.

What a difference this column has made in my life. Writing about the funny (and sometimes not-so-funny) things that have happened to my family and me has helped me grow not only as a writer, but as a person. Being a columnist has allowed me to see humor in the little things in life, whether it’s brushing your teeth with antifungal crème, cringing over a smug Christmas letter or trying to boot your houseguests out after an extended visit. It’s also made me more aware of how much my own experiences mirror that of my friends and fellow readers.

If there’s one thing I’ve enjoyed more than anything else, it’s receiving all your feedback via phone or email (and often in person too…who knew I’d be recognized at Stop and Shop?). Your kind words of encouragement have been more precious to me than the small paycheck I receive for all the hours of writing I do each week. If I’ve entertained, informed, or even just made you stop and think for just a moment, then I’ve been successful.

It’s been my pleasure to announce your birthdays, anniversaries and academic accomplishments. I feel as if my town is an extension of my own family. You have included me in the events and achievements which make you most proud, and for that, I am grateful.

Still, all good things must come to an end. It’s time for me to follow other dreams, chase other rainbows, and close this chapter in the book of my life. And so, dear readers, I bid you a fond farewell. I wish you nothing but the best.

Oh, and one more thing…

Happy April Fool’s Day!

A Life Lesson Learned from a Pencil

This week, the student council at my son’s elementary school held a pencil sale. Kids were encouraged to bring in money and purchase pencils to send to their friends. My son asked if he could have a dollar to purchase a pencil and send it to a classmate. These weren’t just any pencils. These pencils change color when exposed to heat and cold (same premise as those straws you get at Friendly’s).

The day of the sale, my son came to me after school and showed me the pencil he had received. On the slip that came with it was a message from the student council, wishing him luck on his upcoming MCAS test. His face crumpled as he sadly told me that none of his classmates had sent a pencil to him. His pencil was a kind of consolation prize (anyone not receiving a pencil from a friend got a pencil from the student council). My heart broke as he mentioned several kids in class who had received 10 or 12 pencils each. I recognized the names: the popular kids. (Amazing, there are “popular” eight-year olds) I hugged him, comforted him and told him I would buy him a hundred pencils if it made him feel better. As I dried his tears, I thought back to a similar incident in high school.

Every Valentine’s Day, our high school would sell carnations. You could purchase a carnation and send them to friends, girlfriends or boyfriends. White was for friendship, pink was for love and red was for something else that I can’t remember (Passion? Lust? I doubt the school would have emphasized those emotions to the under-18 crowd.) My friends and I were not usually recipients of the pink or red variety. Not wanting to be the only ones in the class to receive zero carnations, we schemed ahead of time to send each other as many white flowers as we could afford. Better to have a bouquet of white carnations than none at all. But still, as the flowers were distributed, we secretly hoped that one unexpected pink carnation might make it into the bunch. (I’ll end the suspense right here…it never happened).

Ah, the life lessons learned from pencils and carnations. Looking at my son, I knew that there would be more lessons like this throughout his life: Parties he might not be invited to; girls that may not want to go out with him; colleges that might waitlist him; jobs he may apply for and not get. None of it because of who he is (or isn’t) but simply because that’s just the way life is. As a parent, I’m torn between knowing these experiences will toughen him up for life’s challenges ahead, yet wanting to shield him from hurt or rejection whenever possible.

As my son settled down, I asked whether the friend he sent a pencil to received any other pencils. No, my son said, just the one pencil that he had sent. I told my son to think about how sad he felt, right at that moment. I said, “Your friend might be feeling sad just like you, if you hadn’t sent him that pencil. You made someone else feel happy instead of sad.” He nodded his head as he thought about that and a tiny hint of a smile appeared. Another lesson learned.

Because when it comes right down to it, the value of our lives is not measured by pencils or carnations. It’s measured by the person we know ourselves to be, and how we treat those around us.

At least, that’s what I’ve learned.

How to Celebrate St. Paddy's Day

Erin Go Bragh!

My last name is Anderson. My father’s parents were right off the boat from Denmark and Sweden. My mom’s maiden name is Rockwell (English). In her family tree there are Flints (also English) and Knouses (German) and Tillous (France). There’s even a thread of Buchanan (Scottish). So I it’s safe to say that I’m one of the rare folks living in the Boston area that doesn’t have even a drop of Irish blood.

But I’m not about to let that stop me from suggesting the top 10 ways you can celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Sure, my friends with the last names McAuley, McWade, McLaughlin and O’Toole might be better suited to suggest how to spend this homage to St. Patrick. But I’ve lived in Boston now for nearly 30 years, and after careful observation, I think I can manage a few suggestions. So here we go:

10. Enjoy a slice of Irish Soda Bread. Raisins? No Raisins? Icing? However you like your bread, you can’t beat something that can be used as both a mid-day snack and a doorstop. How is it that soda bread is so delicious, yet weighs a ton? It’s like fruitcake (only edible).

9. Watch “The Quiet Man” with John Wayne and Maureen O’Sullivan. Growing up in New Jersey, in a predominantly Jewish community, this movie was the closest thing to hearing an Irish brogue. Ah the quaint villagers. The sweet old lady, handing the Duke a stick with which “…to beat the lovely lady.” And who doesn’t love that climactic fight scene? Classic John Wayne. But in Ireland.

8. Wear an Irish fisherman’s sweater. Once again, here’s something Irish that weighs deceptively more than it appears. And if you’re allergic to wool, or can’t stand the itching, you’re out of luck. Pray that it doesn’t rain, because if you pair the sweater with a yellow slicker you’ll look like the Gorton’s of Gloucester fisherman. While you’re at it, add a jaunty cap, the type cabbies wear. Now you’re getting it!

7. Read “Angela’s Ashes”. Wallow in misery. Thank God that you weren’t raised in a poor Irish home having to share one pair of socks amongst fifteen brothers and sisters. Or you can lighten up and read a Maeve Binchy novel instead. Less misery, more romance.

6. Drink Beer. Lots of it. Green Beer, pale ale, stout, lager, it doesn’t matter whether you get it on tap, in a bottle or in a can. Beer is the official drink of St. Patrick’s Day. When you run out of beer, switch to whiskey. When you run out of whiskey, call the ambulance.

5. Listen to Irish music. Start off with some rousing standards from The Clancy Brothers. Move onto the hardcore stuff, the more “deedlee-dee” the better. My friend’s husband (who is Irish) lovingly calls it “puppet music”. Bring on the bagpipes. Turn the volume up to “11”. When you can’t stand it one more minute, switch to The Dropkick Murphys and U2.

4. Dance a jig. So what if you look ridiculous, this is St. Patrick’s Day and if you’ve had enough beer by this point, you won’t care. Tie a ribbon around your forehead, jam your arms to your sides and pretend you’re Lord of the Dance. Fall down. Pick yourself up. Sadly note that your 5-year-old niece can kick your butt when it comes to step dancing. Have another beer.

3. Eat corned beef and cabbage. Who thought of this amazing idea to cook the living daylights out of a hunk of meat, a head of cabbage, potatoes and carrots for a week until its one lovely, pinkish gray pot of mush. Not into corned beef? Try shephard’s pie. Not into shephard’s pie? Time for another beer.

2. Wear green. This should be obvious. Green is the official color of Ireland, due to the lovely rolling green hills. Kelly green, sea green, spring green, forest green, it doesn’t matter what shade you wear, it just matters that you clothe yourself from head to toe in green. When you get to looking like the Jolly Green Giant, paint some shamrocks on your face. It’ll look cool. Really.

1. Go to South Boston. If you’ve never been to Southie’s St. Patrick’s Day parade, you’re missing out. Where else can you see marching bands, fire engines, soldiers, politicians and even Darth Vader (because really, what’s St. Patrick’s Day without Star Wars characters?) And speaking of characters, check out the ones lining the sidewalks on either side of the parade. They’re much more entertaining than the parade itself. Its one big cheering, weaving, staggering, boisterous crowd of happy Irish (and Irish wannabe’s). Watch out for public urinators. Nothing puts a damper on your St. Patrick’s Day celebration faster than having to explain to your child why it’s okay for that guy to pee in public. Marvel at the number of people drinking from open containers on the train ride home.

Here’s hoping you all have a safe and fun St. Patrick’s Day. And remember: May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face;the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.