Have you ever seen a jet powered school bus?
No, that’s not a rhetorical question. And no, I’m not about to launch into some futuristic, “back to school” rant (not yet).
The funny thing is I have seen a jet powered school bus. I saw one just the other day, along with 200,000 other folks. It was one of many highlights at the Westfield Air Show.
Recently, our Cub Scout leader made arrangements for our den to attend the air show with an overnight campout squeezed in between. My kids were crazy about seeing fighter planes, bombers and every other type of aircraft (including the aforementioned jet powered school bus). Me? Not so much. I’d never been to an air show before and camping is just not my thing.
I recall a co-worker once telling me about her childhood air show experience. At one point during the performance, a pilot lost control of his plane, causing it to crash in a ball of flames. Her father announced, “Okay, show’s over”, and hustled the family back to the car. Since hearing that story I’ve been apprehensive about air shows.
The plan (oh, we love plans, don’t we?) was that my husband was going to take the kids to the show, camping out afterwards. I, on the other hand, would stay home and revel in peace and quiet. But you know what they say about the best laid plans? My husband’s appendix had plans of its own, (more about that in another column). Suffice it to say, he was in no shape to take my kids anywhere, and so my son turned his sad, puppy eyes to me and said, “Can’t you take us mommy?” Grudgingly, I agreed to take them to the show, on the condition that I would be spending the evening, not in a tent, but in my own comfortable bed.
I regretted this decision when my alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. the morning of the air show. Given that Westfield is a good two hours away, we needed to make an early start if we were going to get there on time. We met up with our scout leader and another family at one of the rest areas on the pike and followed each other the rest of the way.
About three miles east of Westfield, the traffic suddenly stopped. This did not bode well. After crawling for a mile, a state trooper began to wave us out of the right lane and ordered us to move around the stopped cars. This we did, only to find that we would need to merge back into the stopped traffic at the State Police barracks, which was the temporary exit for the air show (it leads to the back of the airfield and an alternate parking lot). Several cars in the right lane made their displeasure known both visually and verbally as my cohorts and I had to merge back into their lane. Despite my protest that it was the police who ordered us to do so, my children got to hear a few choice swear words (prompting me to wonder if there’s a merit badge they can earn for that).
Finally we parked and then lugged our blankets, bags, chairs and coolers through the gates. This being a National Guard base, our bags where checked by uniformed guards. (One called out “Anyone without any bags or pockets knives can come through this way.” Pocket knives?)
We claimed our spot as planes began zooming all around us. My boys were in heaven, alternating between pointing out planes they recognized and holding their ears as the roar of jet engines shook the earth. In addition to the planes in the sky, huge assortments of military aircraft were stationed on the ground, allowing spectators to touch and even climb aboard. My boys were thrilled to walk through a Sea Stallion helicopter (“Mom, this is what they used in the movie ‘Transformers!’”) and peek inside the cockpit of a fighter jet. As we walked the midway, surrounded by corn dogs, funnel cake and t-shirt vendors, I couldn’t help but think, “It’s like the Marshfield Fair…only with fighter jets.”
The afternoon was a blur of F-16s, C-130’s and A-10 Thunderbolts (there was supposed to be a stealth bomber, but for some reason we never saw it.) As the show drew to a close, I had to admit that I had a lot of fun. Though I may not know the difference between a Sea Dragon and a Sea Stallion, I do know that there is only one thing more entertaining than a jet powered school bus:
A jet powered outhouse.
Recently, I published a column listing some of my pet peeves and random thoughts. Since that time, I’ve seen two people turn left on red, one friend driving with her dog on her lap, and received a photo from another friend vacationing in New Hampshire, showing off her new “This Car Climbed Mt. Washington” bumper sticker. Thank you all.
One response I received from that column offered up another random thought. A friend wrote, “What about those people who feel the need to keep their lawns watered despite the major water ban in town? It is like they have no idea how they can possible control the automatic sprinklers that were installed in their yard! This is probably one of my biggest pet peeves....those people who feel the rules do not apply to them.”
Great suggestion, but I hesitated to address it since several people in our town have private wells, thus allowing them to water to their heart’s content. Why make a big stink about scofflaws if the majority of folks are actually obeying the ban? I guess I’m one of those people willing to believe the best in other people, willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.
Except…I’m actually not one of those people (as much as I would like to be). Like my friend who made the suggestion, I do think that there are people in our town who don’t have private wells, but have decided to ignore the ban and continue to water their lawns. And now there’s proof.
My husband called my attention to an article in the Patriot Ledger last Friday about the water restrictions in our town, and several neighboring towns. There was even a handy table which listed the average daily use of water in each town, both before and after the ban. Some towns had reduced their water consumption by 22%, 33% and 36%. Now take a guess which town tied for last place, reducing their consumption by only 14%?
Yup. My town.
I’d like to be that person who gives others the benefit of the doubt and suggest that perhaps these people are taking several showers a day, or have a toilet that just keeps running and running no matter how much you jiggle the handle, or went on vacation and left the faucet in the sink drip-drip-dripping, but the green lawns sprinkled throughout my town tell me otherwise. I’d like to think that maybe these folks just don’t have the wherewithal to deactivate their sprinklers (or as my friend said, maybe they don’t know how!) But that would mean me being a non-judgmental type of person and folks, we just don’t live in that world.
So what should we do about this? Do we drop a dime on our neighbors when we see their sprinklers go off? Who do we call? The police? The DPW? Dateline NBC? (If Keith Morrison can’t frighten them into shutting off their sprinklers, no one can.} Do we form a neighborhood lawn watch? I can just picture it, like a scene from “Frankenstein”, but instead of villagers with pitchforks and axes we have residents with watering cans and Poland Spring bottles tied to their bodies. Perhaps we need to go all PETA on these people, throwing gallons of red paint to mark their pristine green lawns, like a big scarlet letter.
Or…maybe we do nothing. Wait it out. Let the wheels of justice turn at their own pace. Sooner or later, these people will be forced to pay for their wrongdoing.
When the water bill arrives.
The other night my family indulged in a summer tradition: we had lobster for dinner.
True, lobster is a food that can be enjoyed any time of the year. But there’s something about these warm summer days that makes the idea of a lobster dinner seem that much more appetizing. Perhaps it’s the beach sand that’s infiltrated every corner of my house, despite my best efforts with the vacuum. Or maybe it’s the perfect pairing of boiled lobster with freshly picked corn that appeals. Whatever the reason, when the circular from my grocery store advertised lobsters for the bargain price of $4.99 a pound, I couldn’t resist.
I haven’t always been a lobster fan. For that matter, I haven’t always been a seafood fan. Growing up in New Jersey, my exposure to seafood was limited to breaded fish sticks. On the rare occasion my mother would serve these, I’d turn up my nose at those deep fried tubes that looked like chicken but smelled like the aquarium. After moving to New England to attend college, my roommate’s father treated us to dinner at Legal Seafoods. Predictably, I was the only person at the table to order steak.
I’ve been living in New England now for 30 years, and over time I’ve learned to enjoy a variety of seafood. Shrimp cocktail led to broiled scallops which gave way to swordfish, salmon and catfish. Clam chowder is another favorite, though I suspect it has more to do with the copious amounts of butter, heavy cream and potatoes involved and less about the clams. Though I pride myself on appreciating a variety of items from the sea, I still can’t get on board with oysters (too much like snot), calamari (french-fried rubber bands) or any really fishy tasting fish.
My husband was the one to introduce me to lobster. Something about these crustaceans always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s because they look like giant bugs and I hate anything that crawls (or creeps or flies…) Shortly after we began dating, my husband brought me home to meet his parents, who live in Central New York. His long-standing tradition was to bring lobsters home with him. Throughout the drive, I kept glancing at the back seat, wondering if these lobstrocities were working their way out of the travel pack, preparing to hijack the car. When we arrived at his parents’ house we were greeted with open arms and a pot of boiling water on the stove. My apprehension at meeting his parents quickly faded within minutes of meeting them, but my apprehension about eating lobster for the first time remained. What if I hated it? Could I ask for a hamburger instead?
Thankfully, the dinner was a success. Aided by a tutorial in claw cracking (as well as a veritable ocean of melted butter), I found the lobster to be mild and pleasant. Subsequently, my appreciation for this delicacy has grown over the years and there have been many lobster dinners since. I do, however, have my own set of rules when it comes to lobster. I never order it in a restaurant (too expensive). I never eat it as a lobster roll (lobster and mayonnaise? Blech!) Lobster can be enjoyed on the day it is cooked, but not as a leftover (see previous reference to lobster roll). It is acceptable as a filling for ravioli (but only with cream sauce, never tomato). It’s great in bisque, but when my husband ordered a lobster omelet at a favorite restaurant, I had to move to another table. And though some people enjoy it, I will never, ever eat that nasty green tomalley (I don’t do liver in any shape or form).
Unfortunately, my husband and I have done ourselves a disservice when it comes to enjoying lobster. We’ve introduced our kids to it. At first, they turned up their noses and refused to even try it. Oh well, more for the rest of us. But little by little they’ve come around, asking for a piece here and there. At dinner the other night they each ate their own, whole lobster. We have only ourselves to blame for exposing our children to champagne tastes (on our beer budget).
So if you have not yet enjoyed boiled lobster this summer, remember; there’s only a few weeks left.
You better get crackin’.
Summer vacation is officially more than half over. As we shake our heads and marvel about how quickly the time passes, we must now buckle down and start crossing off all those items on our “to-do” list before the leaves turn gold, the air turns cold and the school bus doors unfold.
Time for a trip to Canobie Lake Park.
This has become a summer tradition for my family. Having grown up in New Jersey, I missed having my formative years revolve around “Story Land” and “Santa’s Village”. (We were too busy going down the shore, enjoying the rides at Seaside Heights long before Snookie and The Situation ever heard of the place).
Canobie Lake is the perfect day trip. It’s located just an hour from home and reasonably priced (with discount tickets from Costco, our family of four managed to get in for under $100). The park is large enough to never feel crowded, yet small enough to negotiate even with little kids. And it’s our family’s benchmark for measuring when my children are ready to visit Disney World.
As my kids are quick to remind me, we are the only family they know who has never been to Disney World. To which I reply,”When you can go on all the big rides at Canobie Lake Park, then we’ll consider taking you to Disney.” So far, no go.
My favorite ride in the park is the Canobie Corkscrew roller coaster. Each year we go directly from the park entrance to this ride so I can get my fix of being flung upside down for thirty seconds. On our last trip to the park, my oldest son successfully took the plunge with me (twice). This year, I was hoping for my younger son to join me. Would he make it? Or would he turn tail and run back down the ramp at the last minute? After watching his mom and older brother survive a run, he bravely, quietly accompanied me up the ramp. He solemnly climbed into his seat and pulled the restraint down over his head. I could tell the anticipation of the initial climb was making him anxious, so I reached over and held his hand. As we plummeted down the steep drop, the terror on his face turned to wonder as the coaster gracefully snaked its way through the corkscrew, turning his world upside down and back again. By the ride’s end, he was beaming. As we exited the coaster, I told him how proud I was of his accomplishment. He smiled and said, “It was scary, but fun.” “Want to do it again?” I asked, to which he replied, “No thanks.”
After several hours of rides, my kids decided it was time to visit “Castaway Island”, Canobie’s water park. Our very first visit to the park was on a cool day with a steady drizzle of rain, making the freezing cold water that spurts out of Castaway’s climbing structure even more miserable. But this year, we chose a warm, sunny day. As my husband and I relaxed on lounge chairs, our kids climbed up and down the enormous jungle gym of Castaway Island, spraying other kids with water hoses, dodging the giant bucket of water that dumps every thirty seconds, and sliding down the assortment of slides.
I’ve often thought that a visitor from another planet would be able to see just about every type of human specimen by visiting a water park. I’m pretty modest when it comes to my swimsuit; I wear one with enough coverage and spandex to keep everything essential covered and in place. Not everyone at Castaway Island subscribes to this same school of thought. The prevailing mentality was “If you’ve got it, flaunt it” (sadly, most of them didn’t have it, or they had too much of it). My friend always says if you want to feel like a supermodel, go to a water park. As an added bonus, we saw an incredible array of tattoos and body piercings (okay, I understand the pierced lip and the ear discs, but what’s with the black spikes that came out of that guy’s nose?)
Being frugal, I packed my family a lunch, which we enjoyed outside the park, but that didn’t stop my kids from commenting on every salty, fried concoction that went by. I treated each of them to a caramel coated apple (hey, it may be covered in sugar and sprinkles, but at least there’s fruit underneath). Before we left the park, I had to indulge in my own personal favorite: Funnel Cake. This treat is often hard to find, replaced by its New England cousin, Fried Dough. “What’s the difference?” my husband asked. Fried dough is a wad of bread dough deep fried and covered with butter and powdered sugar, while funnel cake is batter drizzled through a funnel into the fry-o-later, plopped on a plate, and also covered with powdered sugar. They sound the same, but in my opinion, when it comes to fried treats, funnel cake is clearly the victor.
As the sun set, we packed up our swimsuits, brushed off the powdered sugar and headed home. Recapping the events of the day, my youngest son overcame his fear of the corkscrew coaster while my older son tried out new rides like the Turkish Twist (centrifugal force at its best) and the Wave Blaster (guaranteed to jolt the lunch right out of you). However, both children refused to accompany us on the old wooden roller coaster, The Yankee Cannonball.
I guess Disney can wait.
Summer is the perfect time for travel. Each summer I enjoy spending weeks on end traveling to locations both exotic and familiar. So far this summer, I’ve traveled to Sweden, Louisiana, the San Fernando Valley, Cambodia and Africa.
Ah, if only my bank account allowed me to really travel to these places. Instead, I content myself with traveling only as far as my couch, the YMCA pool or a nearby beach. Once comfortable, I pull out whatever book I’m currently reading and let my mind travel to the places inside.
I’m a voracious reader by nature, but without the distractions of homework, after-school activities and soccer I am able to spend that much more time lazing around with a good book. I may not be able to physically jet off to parts unknown, but with the help of my local library, I can experience the next best thing.
When school let out, I transported myself to Sweden to enjoy the first two books of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy: “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “The Girl who Played with Fire.” I became well acquainted with two fascinating characters, journalist Mikael Blomkvist and computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, while learning about many places throughout Sweden, the country of my ancestors. There was even a mention in the first book about the tiny island of Arholma, where my grandfather was born.
Leaving Sweden I traveled to rural Wisconsin at the turn of the century to experience the story of a mail order bride and her wealthy husband in Robert Goolrick’s “A Reliable Wife”. Nothing is as it seems in this twisty, juicy read. From there I jetted to the heat of Africa where I found myself enthralled by the epic novel, “Someone Knows My Name” by Lawrence Hill. The novel follows Aminata Diallo, a young girl kidnapped in Africa, sold into slavery and transported to South Carolina, Manhattan, Nova Scotia and, finally, back to Africa. Blending real events and historical figures, the story gives a harrowing account of Aminata’s struggle to survive, eventually aiding the British in the Revolutionary War and supporting the Abolitionist Movement in London.
Needing to lighten up, I then traveled to The San Fernando Valley to hang out with “The Girls from the Revolutionary Cantina” by Mike Padilla. Though I’m not Latina, I recognized plenty of myself and my friends in the novel’s characters as they struggle with female friendships, romantic entanglements and trouble in the workplace. This lighthearted story was the perfect bridge between the heavy “Someone Knows my Name” and the next book on my list.
Just this morning, I finished “First They Killed My Father” by Loung Ung. Forced to flee her home in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in 1975, the author describes in horrific detail the five years her family spent traveling from village to village, hoping to escape imprisonment and death at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Completely engrossed in the story, I often forgot that the writer was only five years old at the time of the events.
Last, but not least, I’m joining my family on yet another adventure this summer. The required reading for my son entering fourth grade is “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson. I wonder what the school was thinking, assigning such a weighty book for a 9-year old. After watching my son struggle for a few days, my husband and I decided that each night we would read a chapter or two out loud to our children. My favorite comment so far is when my son said, “Hey, this character is named after a restaurant… Long John Silver.” We’re hoping to finish our pirate adventure before school begins.
With a mere five weeks left until school starts, I’m looking forward to taking a few more trips through the pages of a beloved book. If you can’t swing the money or the time off for a real vacation, why not join me?
It’s too darn hot.
Okay, I know it’s summer. I know it’s supposed to be hot. I know that, technically, the “dog days” of summer start in early July and run through September. But I am not mentally or physically prepared to deal with so many super-hot days in a row in mid-July.
Did you ever see the Twilight Zone episode called “The Midnight Sun”? In this episode, the earth has changed its elliptical orbit and is inching closer to the sun. Throughout the episode, the few remaining residents of New York City suffer as the temperature climbs higher, thermometers explode and paintings melt.
These past few weeks feel like that episode.
My thermometer is not in danger of exploding, but watching it hit temperatures in the high 80’s and low 90’s every single day is getting old. Though we don’t have central air conditioning, we do have window units that cut the humidity and keep us cool enough to sleep at night. It’s not fun weighing my family’s comfort against the impending electric bill. We have air conditioning in the car too, though I hate to use it for short trips around town. There are my FWPs (friends with pools, remember them?) and my FWBS (friends with beach stickers) and that helps too. But for one day, I’d like to not have to strategize about how to stay cool in extreme heat. I’d like to weed my perennial bed, sleep with the windows open and mow the lawn without dropping dead from heatstroke.
I’m conflicted on hot, sunny days. A part of me feels that my kids and I should be outside enjoying the sunshine. After all, before we know it, there will be frigid temperatures and bitterly cold winds (though not soon enough, in my opinion). But when its 90 degrees with high humidity, all I want to do is hunker down inside my house, the mall or a movie theater and wait for the heat to break.
Last week we had a cool, rainy day. It was still quite humid, but the temperature never rose above 80. It was wonderful to wake to cloudy skies. For once there was no pressure to “…get outside and enjoy the sunny weather…” I’d forgotten what it was like to have grey clouds overhead, with no hint of blue sky. The rain did not come in a torrent, as is so often the case during summer thunderstorms. Rather, it misted and dribbled and dripped, teasing our water-starved lawns and flowers. ‘Hooray’, I thought, ‘lousy weather at last.’
And then it was gone, only to be replaced with another hot, sunny, sticky day. Sigh.
You might wonder how the Twilight Zone episode ended. As it turns out, the main character was suffering from a fever, which caused her to dream that the earth was moving closer to the sun. In true Twilight Zone fashion, the earth was in fact moving farther away from the sun. As the main character sweated through her delusion, the frigid cold snow swirled outside the window.
Sounds lovely to me.
The television show Saturday Night Live used to have a segment entitled “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey”. I used to love that segment because the thoughts were anything but deep; they were downright bizarre. Every now and then, a random thought will pop into my head and I’ll think, “I should write about that in my column.” Enough of these thoughts have crowded around the junk drawer of my brain, and I think it’s time to let them out.
So here they are: Random thoughts…by Laura Anderson.
What possesses people to drive with their dog on their lap? When I see this my first thought is, “What happens to the dog in the event of an accident? You wouldn’t drive with your child on your lap?” (Unless you’re Britney Spears). Are these dog lovers so attached they can’t bear to relegate their pets to the back seat? Is the dog programming the GPS or changing the radio station? Or are these drivers hoping that, in the event of a stroke or heart attack, their dog will instinctively take the wheel?
When did the red light become a stop sign and the stop sign become a yield sign? On several occasions I’ve had the driver in front of me suddenly turn left or charge through the intersection while the light is nowhere close to changing to green. I took Drivers Ed more than 30 years ago, but I’m fairly sure you’re still supposed to wait for the light to turn green. And more often than I care to count, drivers no longer stop at stop signs but roll through with hardly a tap on their brakes. Are they in a rush or are they just distracted by the dog on their lap?
This afternoon, I parked behind a large minivan with a bumper sticker that read, “This Car Climbed Mount Washington!” Should I be impressed? After all, it’s a car. I assume that Mt. Washington has a paved road for just this purpose (or did the car outfit itself at REI and climb up instead?) If the bumper sticker said, “This Car Climbed Mt. Everest”, then that would impress me. Ironically, the car’s driver was exceptionally well padded, which made me think that perhaps he would have benefitted from climbing the mountain himself instead of letting the car do all the work (at least he gave the car full credit).
What’s nearly as frustrating as entering a public bathroom stall with no toilet paper? Entering one with no hook for your purse. Sorry gentlemen, this random thought only concerns the ladies. More often than not, the smooth, shiny door has two holes where the hook used to be. Did someone’s heavy bag pull the hook from the door? Did a frugal woman unbolt it and bring it home for her own bathroom? Without a hook, where are we expected to place our handbags while attending to business? The floor? Our laps? The holes are already drilled. Replace the hook.
And while we’re on the subject of women’s accessories, I recently found an eBay store called Single Shoe Outlet. This store sells single high end shoes. I wondered, other than someone with a prosthetic, who is buying single designer shoes? Luckily their website provided the answer: People with severely mismatched feet (oh my). People who have lost one shoe of a pair (Cinderella?) People who have damaged one shoe of a pair (pit bull attack?) People who are part of the trend of wearing different shoes on different feet (seriously?) And my personal favorite: “Folks who cannot afford these expensive shoes can have one in their closets.” Imagine how proud these folks are when their friend asks for a tour of their closet and they toss off this phrase in a devil-may-care way: “That Christian Louboutin pump? Yes it’s lovely, isn’t it? I must have kicked the other one under the bed last night when I came home from sipping champagne at the Four Seasons.”
Thank you for indulging me in sharing my random thoughts. I expect that as a result all dogs will now travel in the back seat, all stop signs and red lights will be obeyed, hooks will be immediately replaced in all restrooms and cars will stop bragging about climbing Mt. Washington.
Now if only I could find that other Louboutin pump…
