Thanksgiving is nearly here, a time when we reflect on the bountiful blessings we’ve received and give thanks for them. Ordinarily I would write a column listing all the things for which I am thankful. But “been there, done that”, and if there is something I strive not to do in this column, it’s repeat myself.
Instead, I think I’ll share all the things I could do without. I’m sure the Pilgrims had similar sentiments when they sat down to their Thanksgiving feast with their brethren and their new Wampanoag friends. They bowed their heads and gave thanks for their harvest, but silently they were thinking, “Lord, thank you for these new friends and all this food, but we could really do without smallpox and bitterly cold winters and chamber pots and that jerk King James back home. Amen.”
So in the spirit of those Pilgrims…
I can do without people who don’t know what to do at a four-way stop intersection. According to the driver’s manual “At a four-way stop, vehicles must go in the order they stopped. The first to stop is the next to go. If in doubt, give the right-of-way to the driver on your right.” There you go. Learn it. Live it.
I can do without middle schoolers wearing Lululemon yoga pants and Coach sneakers and carrying Vera Bradley handbags. When did twelve-year-old girls start dressing like 35-year-old women?
I can do without a perky computer-voice named Cheryl leaving messages on my answering machine asking me to call immediately to lower my credit card interest rate. Cheryl, you are not fooling anyone. You are a machine taking part in a scam to prompt citizens to divulge personal information to complete strangers. Shame on you Cheryl.
I can do without Christmas music on the radio 24/7 long before anyone sits down to carve their Thanksgiving turkey. It’s bad enough we’ll hear “Dominick The Christmas Donkey” hundreds of times as it is. Do we really need an additional three weeks of “Hee-haw, hee-haw”? Let’s take our holidays one at a time, shall we? Respect the bird, folks.
I can do without cryptic Facebook postings that are designed to tantalize the reader without giving any details at all. Postings like “I can’t stop scratching” or “I hate mean people” tell me nothing. Spill it our keep it to yourself.
I can do without advertisements for the CD “Now That’s What I Call Music 40!” We’re up to 40 now? Isn’t it time to change the name? The first CD, released in 1998, featured “Mmmbop” by Hanson. At this rate we’ll be listening to “Now That’s What I Call Music 99” in 2027. Way to brand, guys. Kris Jenner could take a lesson from you.
I could really do without store clerks wishing me a “happy holiday” next month when what I’m really looking for is a “Merry Christmas”. Heck, I’d even take a “Happy Chanukah” or a “Peaceful Kwanza”. I know many of these clerks are forced to utter the safe “happy holidays” by their employers. Psst, big box stores. In case you haven’t noticed, you are swathed in Christmas lights and menorahs. It’s okay to acknowledge the actual holidays that are filling your pockets.
And speaking of Christmas, I could do without the Christmas letters that will arrive any day. Rather than wasting time listing all of your family’s individual accomplishments, just sign your holiday card, “We’re better than you” and be done with it.
Several weeks ago I posted a message on Facebook asking people to write what they were thankful for. I received two responses. Today, I asked people what they could do without, and I received forty-two responses. Clearly I am not alone in my anti-thankful sentiments. So in addition to my list, add the following things my friends could do without: multiple holiday catalogs, school projects that cost $20 for materials only to be tossed in the trash, illness, ex-husbands who think that attending one of their child’s sporting events makes them Father of the Year, holiday-induced guilt from family members (“you don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t visit…”), professional basketball (wish granted!), crazy drivers, the word “proactive”, stress, the MCAS, internet passwords and Black Friday. Whew!
Of course, for every annoyance there is a blessing. So when I sit down to my Thanksgiving table this year, surrounded by family, wearing my L.L. Bean sweater and listening to “Now That’s What I Call Christmas 17”, I will give thanks for all the blessings in my life including one I absolutely cannot do without. My readers.
Happy Thanksgiving.
I’d like to tell you a story. It’s the story of a stick.
The stick began its journey as a branch. This branch served many purposes. In summer, its green leaves provided shade on hot days. In fall, its leaves turned brilliant hues of red and orange, contributing to a kaleidoscope of colors in the yard. In winter, the branch would bend and sway in the wind, sometimes carrying heavy loads of snow and ice during storms. Perhaps it was one of these storms that caused the branch to finally break and come to rest on the ground.
In the spring, a time of rebirth, the stick was collected and placed on a pile of branches and twigs that had suffered a similar fate. As the air began to warm, other boughs high above sprouted new green buds, but the stick remained in the pile of dried brush waiting for the next stage of its life.
Months later, a boy approached the brush pile. After careful consideration, the boy selected the stick, hefted it in his hands, and brought it across the yard to his back porch. Measuring the stick against his own height, the boy broke off a length until the stick was just tall enough to reach his chin. Under the watchful eye of his parents, the boy took out his pocketknife and began to carefully strip away the bark.
The boy had been given the task to create a walking stick as part of his Cub Scout badge. It was a requirement. This was a boy who preferred to stay inside and play videogames, but something made him to forgo the game controller and instead spend time outside, carefully preparing his stick. When all of the bark was finally stripped off, the boy and his father began the process of sanding the stick.
The boy spent hours rubbing the stick with different grades of sandpaper. The father helped the boy smooth down the sharp knots along the stick with a small hand sander. After hours of work, the boy could finally run his hands along the length of the stick and feel nothing but smoothness.
The father and the boy then brushed the stick with several coats of stain, giving it a warm, honey-colored hue. Weeks later, the boy brought his walking stick to a scout gathering at a local state park. The stick shone like gold in the late afternoon sun, while other boys admired it for its sturdiness and craftsmanship. As the boy walked through the woods, the stick bore his weight easily, supporting and steadying him on his trek across the uneven forest floor. The father walked beside the boy, fondly remembering the hours spent crafting the walking stick.
That boy is my son, his father my husband. The stick now resides in a corner of my living room, amongst other walking sticks, some carved decades ago by my son’s great-grandfather. My son’s walking stick adds a rich, golden glow to the collection, waiting patiently for the next hike, the next campout, and the next adventure.
The stick that began its journey as a branch on a tree has now become part of my son’s family tree. Perhaps one day it will sit in the corner of his home, and he will share with his own children the story of how a simple branch became a symbol of a father and son’s love.
This past summer millions of Americans sat raptly before their television sets and watched the Royal Wedding of Britain’s Prince William and Sarah Middleton. Not long after, America had its own “royal” wedding of sorts: The wedding of reality television star Kim Kardashian and pro-basketball player Kris Humphries. Though the wedding took place on August 20, the television special “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding: A Kardashian Event” aired on the E! Network on October 9 & 10. 4 million viewers tuned in to watch a fairytale wedding which had a decidedly “Grimm” ending. 72 days after the nuptials took place, Kim Kardashian filed for divorce. Her husband discovered this fact by way of the gossip site TMZ. The Brits have their royals and we have our royal pains in the butt.
In the annals of celebrity weddings, 72 days is nothing to sneeze at. Cher and husband Greg Allman were married all of 9 days the same amount of wedded bliss as Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra. Back in 1970 Dennis Hopper and Michelle Phillips made it only 8 days. Britney Spears and her childhood friend, Jason Alexander, were married for all of 55 hours (ahhh, Vegas…) And for those of you who are old school(or just old, like me) Ernest Borgnine spent less than a month married to Ethel Merman. In each instance, many us smiled and shook our heads and chalked it up to immature celebrities and their impulsive actions. Is Kim Kardashian any different with her 72 day marriage?
The answer is “yes”! While these other celebrities may have made mistakes choosing their mates (Nicolas Cage and Lisa Marie Presley? Lisa Marie Presley and Michael Jackson?) they made these errors off camera. The Kardashians have their own network broadcasting their every move around the clock. Somehow the E! Network became the Kardashian Channel, snowballing the success of “Keeping up with the Kardashians” by adding “Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami”, Kourtney and Kim Take New York” and “Khloe and Lamar.” (I guess Khloe decided to settle down after running out of cities to take.) I’m sure another show featuring younger sisters Kylie and Kendall are in the works. The entire network is like “The Truman Show” following one spoiled, overexposed Beverly Hills family.
When Kim said “yes” to Kris, was it because she truly loved him? Because he spells his name with a cutesy “k” like the rest of her family? Because she knew that E!’s ratings would skyrocket and advertising dollars would go through the roof? Or was it the modest, intimate proposal from Kris, conveniently timed to coincide with the season finale of “Keeping up with the Kardashians” that won her heart? That and the 20.5 carat diamond ring?
I purposely opted out of any wedding coverage, but several friends couldn’t wait to take in every detail of the fairytale event: The Vera Wang wedding gown, the $20,000 wedding cake, the $172,000 bridal registry that included a $7,000 vase and $1,600 silver place settings. By contrast Prince William and his bride asked that charitable donations be made in lieu of gifts for their wedding. Those Brits are classy, while our Kardashians are just…”krass”.
Is anyone surprised by this recent turn of events? Will it spawn yet another E! reality show? “Kris and Kim take Divorce Court”? “Keeping up with the Prenup?” Perhaps they can branch out to Lifetime Television for Women with a movie entitled “I Married a Stranger” or “72 days in Kardashian Hell”. It seems more than a little coincidental that Kim filed for divorce on Oct. 31, the day before the November television sweeps period begins. E! already had plans to repeat the two part wedding program on Nov. 2nd and 3rd, but when the divorce announcement was made, moved up the first part to Oct. 31, with part two to follow the next day. Not wanting to appear insensitive to the devastated couple, E! decided to move part 2 back to Thursday night. How thoughtful.
I feel a bit sorry for Humphries who got sucked into the Kardashian machine and was “krushed” in the process. Though Kim’s mother asserts that her daughter didn’t make “a dime” from the wedding, I suspect there might be untold millions made from photographs, interviews, and of course the subsequent airings of “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding”. I have to ask myself, what kind of world do we live in where so much media coverage is devoted to such an insignificant event?
A krazy one.
Never underestimate “girl time”.
My life is divided into many compartments, each which demands its own amount of time in any given 24-hour period. There’s “family time, which typically comes first in my life. This may be time spent sitting around the dinner table sharing stories about our day, watching “Survivor” with my sons, or enjoying other activities with my husband and children without interruption from the outside world.
“Work time” is all-encompassing and can include writing my column, food shopping, housework, volunteering and about a thousand other things I do on a day to day basis.
There’s “me time”; time spent alone pursuing my own interests like reading, films shopping or exercise. Often, this time gets pushed aside in the day to day of life. I’ll read a chapter in my book, only to have to put it down to fold laundry, make dinner or drive the kids to one of their after school activities.
“Girl time” is a whole different animal. It’s the time spent with my friends for no other reason than to revisit, if only for the length of a luncheon or a shopping expedition, that girl I once was, before I was married with children. The girl who had discretionary income, to spend on glittery flip-flops or overpriced make-up; The girl who could indulge in an extra martini without worrying about seeming inappropriate in front of her children. A girl who could laugh about stupid things with like-minded friends and not worry whether anyone is judging her for it. Years before we were someone’s wife or mother, we were those girls.
This past weekend, I had a 24-hour stretch of “girl time” at a friend’s Cape house. The group was a mix of old friends, recent friends and a couple of new friends. The host’s invite was for a “Girls Gone Wine” weekend, so armed with bottles of red and white, we headed to Chatham on Saturday morning. Upon our arrival, we found that a couple of the girls had indeed “gone wine” the night before, and were sleeping off their actions. The rest of us headed into town, despite a steadily falling rain and the threat of a true nor’easter that afternoon.
My friends and I spent the next few hours strolling in and out of shops, eating a leisurely lunch, and capping off our afternoon with a cocktail to warm our bodies as the weather turned more cold and foul by the minute. The sheer luxury of being able to base decisions on nothing more than our own whims made a dreary, rainy afternoon feel like a breath of fresh air. We all felt a bit giddy to be free from our usual weekend routines. How nice to enter a store without hearing the inevitable, “Mom, can you buy this for me?” or to choose a restaurant without wondering if there’s a kid’s menu. It didn’t matter that we returned home drenched from the now-imminent nor’easter. By the time we arrived back at the house we were ready to pull on our lounge pants and relax in front of the fire with a glass of wine.
The rest of the evening unfolded lazily as we enjoyed dinner, music, television and most of all, each other’s company. Whether it was Wii Bowling or a viewing of “Poltergeist”, the hours were filled with lively conversation and many laughs. At one point I realized that what I was experiencing was a grown up version of the slumber parties I had enjoyed nearly thirty-five years ago. Though we are all a bit older than those teenage girls who traded nail polish, fan magazines and stories about the boys we had crushes on, the camaraderie remains the same. We’ve just swapped Coke and Tab for Pinot and Zinfandel.
After a night of wild wind and rain, we woke to a beautiful, sunny morning. Though we would have liked the chance to stay and enjoy another day of leisure, there were confirmation and birthday parties to attend, washers and driers to fill, and pumpkins to carve for Halloween the next day. We returned to our regular Sunday activities with some reluctance.
It may be a while before I can enjoy another full day of “girl time”. I’ll have to be content with the occasional lunch or movie. That’s okay. I love my “family time”, my “me time” and even my “work time”. But when the opportunity for “girl time” comes again, the wife and mother will temporarily step aside and let the girl come out to play with her friends.
On Sunday we will commemorate the 10th anniversary of 9/11. Can it really be that ten years have passed since that dark day in our nation’s history?
Ten years ago, I had a toddler and an infant. Ten years later, one is beginning his first year in middle school and one is finishing his last year there.
Ten years ago, 1,609 husbands and wives lost a spouse in the attack. Ten years later, some have remarried, and some have not, but none will forget the loved ones lost on that day.
Ten years ago, 3,500 children lost a parent in the attacks. Ten years later these children, who are a decade older, will continue to mourn their parents. Those who were too young or perhaps not even born on 9/11 will rely on photographs and videos of their mothers and fathers, listening to stories about the people who gave them life and left them far too early.
Ten years ago, parents lost children, most of them adults. Ten years later, parents continue to mourn the children that are gone, weddings they will never attend and grandchildren they will never enjoy. These parents have aged much more than a decade.
Ten years ago, New York’s tallest buildings became a 1.5 million-ton pile of smoldering rubble, which in turn became a gaping, empty hole, much like the hole left in the families of nearly three thousand Americans. Ten years later, a memorial and museum will be unveiled at the site of the World Trade Center, remembering the victims of the terrorist attacks and honoring the men and women who came to their rescue. The hole in the hearts of those left behind will never be completely healed.
Ten years later, firefighters and police officers will continue to honor their fallen brothers. Many will participate in “stair walks” nationwide, climbing 110 stories in honor of their lost comrades.
Ten years later, Osama Bin Laden has been eliminated, thanks to the unselfish dedication of our men and women in the armed forces. As terrorism continues around the globe, the United States and its allies will continue to flush out its sources, going to any length to protect its citizens.
Ten years later, newspapers, magazines and cable channels will revive and rerun photographs and video footage of the tragedy. We will turn to each other and ask, “Where were you on September 11?” trading stories about the day that changed every Americans life forever.
Ten years ago, ordinary citizens became heroes in New York City, Washington DC and in the air over Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Ten years later, their names will continue to be read and honored.
Children too young to understand 9/11 at the time will ask their parents questions about that day. Parents will reassure their children that they will keep them safe, while silently wondering if they can keep that promise.
The 10th anniversary, appropriately enough, falls on a Sunday. Many will sit quietly in church, praying for the victims and the survivors. They will pray that the world will never forget such an act of hatred. And they will pray that such an act will not happen ever again.
God willing.
At the risk of sounding like some old codger recalling her days of yore, I want to make the following statement:
I remember life before e-mail.
Heck, I remember life before cell phones. When I was pregnant with my now-thirteen-year-old son, I didn’t own a cell phone. Neither did my husband. We had pagers (also called “beepers” for you young’uns). But I digress.
Somewhere around this same time period, my husband bought a home computer and set us up with email. This was when you had two choices of Internet access: AOL or CompuServe (my codger is showing again). During this time, I had to choose a screen name. Thinking myself clever, I chose the same name as my freelance writing business: Asta Ink. Asta is my middle name and Ink because I’m a writer. I even had fancy business cards with images of fountain pen nibs. So I figured Asta Ink would be a unique screen name that would tie in well with my business.
Here’s the problem. As the Internet grew, so did the number of Internet providers. And while it was all well and good that within the world of AOL I was “Asta Ink”, outside of that particular part of cyberspace my screen name suddenly became one word: astaink.
Astaink…it could be “a stink” misspelled. It could be stink’s past tense: stank. It could be a combination of “stink” and “stank”. Add in a “stunk” and I could be a line from How The Grinch Stole Christmas.
In any case, it lost the professionalism and polish I had intended.
However, by this time it was the email address with which all my friends and business associates were familiar. It was on my business cards. It was on my resume. Every online website that had an account for me (eBay, Amazon, etc.) had that name. So the idea of changing my email identification, and all the work associated with it, was daunting. My vanity would have to take a back seat to practically. I stayed “astaink”.
Fast-forward ten years. The Internet is everywhere. My contacts, associates and accounts have increased a hundred fold. In addition to emailing, I’m Facebooking, twittering and blogging. Astaink is everywhere. I’m used to explaining it to the inquisitive and spelling it for help desk professionals overseas: “a” as in apple, “s” as in Sam, “t” as in Tom…” etc. etc. etc.
And yet, my whole history of being “Astaink” was jeopardized with just one wrong mouse click.
I received one of those “phishy” emails, the ones that seem like they might actually be from AOL or Bank of America or one of many other online accounts to which I subscribe. Typically I delete without even opening these emails, or if I think it could possibly be legitimate, I use my family’s Mac computer instead (Macs are nearly impervious to worms, viruses and other nasty creations typically targeted to PCs).
But something about this particular email seemed legit, so I did the unthinkable: I clicked. From my PC. And I have regretted it ever since.
Over the subsequent weeks, nearly every friend or contact in my address book has received emails from “astaink” touting everything from twitter to Viagra. I’ve tried running anti-viral software, to no avail. I changed my email password, twice. I had my friend’s husband, who is a PC mastermind, remove a “Trojan Horse” (that sounds nasty) from my PC and install even more anti-viral software. And I changed my password again.
And still the “phishy” emails are sent from poor, innocent, ignorant “astaink”.
And so it’s time to change to a new e-mail. I’ve switched my provider to Yahoo (appropriate since I consider myself a “yahoo” for falling for that “phishy” email in the first place). And though I toyed with the idea of continuing my use of “astaink” as part of my new email address, I decided it was time to let that part of my past go.
Goodbye “astaink”. It’s time to let the air clear and start fresh as someone else.
I think I’ve managed to create the perfect summer meal.
I start with pork spareribs, the baby back kind. I parboil the ribs for an hour and then finish them on the grill, basting them with barbecue sauce and turning them constantly to avoid burning. We bought our cheapo grill when we moved in twelve years ago and still haven’t replaced it, so sometimes the flame gets too high and things get a little crispy. When this happens I tell the kids I’m serving our food “Cajun style”.
My kids are true carnivores, grunting and moaning with delight as they gnaw the meat off the bones. Apologies to Dr. Mazzocco, our orthodontist. I’m fairly sure that ribs are on the no-no list for kids with braces. These type of ribs should always be served with extra napkins and wet-naps, as hands and faces get extremely messy. Or we can wait till after the meal and use the garden house to spray the kids down, like a scene from a prison movie.
It wouldn’t be a summer meal without a few ears of native corn. One of my first columns was about the joys of summer corn and how local corn really is the best. If I’m up in Hingham, I always stop by Penniman Hill Farm and grab a few ears of their sweet corn. Sometimes I time it just right and arrive as they are unloading their bounty fresh from the fields. Fresh picked corn is sweeter than candy and when it’s in season I forgo French fries, tater tots and all the other starches my kids love and serve corn on the cob every night. Don’t worry Dr. Mazzocco, my son cuts his corn off the cob before eating. We have to draw the line somewhere. Sadly, my husband is allergic to corn, an allergy that reared its ugly head well into his adulthood. As the rest of us gorge ourselves on sweet corn, my husband has to make due with a sweet potato as a sad substitute.
Watering my basil and tomato plants every day has paid off as I prepare a heavenly salad of basil, tomato and buffalo mozzarella. My husband and I discovered this “Caprese Salad” while on our honeymoon in Italy. Though you can prepare this salad year-round, I think it tastes best with fresh ingredients picked right from your own plants, the scents of the basil and the tomato stem still clinging to your fingers. This year’s basil plants have grown especially large, so I make a homemade no-nut pesto for my family (sunflower seeds instead of pine nuts) and prepare a pesto pasta salad.
Our beverage of choice varies from person to person with this meal. My kids enjoy lemonade while I opt for the hard version and enjoy a Mike’s Hard Pink Lemonade over ice. My husband’s first choice is a bottle of cold Samuel Adams beer, enjoyed in the frosty mug he keeps in the freezer.
Dessert is sometimes a trip to a local ice cream stand, whether it is JC’s Dairy in Hanover, Heidi Hollow Farms in Hansen or Dribbles in Scituate. Our favorite, Far-Far’s in Duxbury, is just a little…well…far, so we only stop there when we’re headed home from the beach. Given the abundance of summer fruits, I like to shake things up occasionally and make a pie for all to enjoy. Earlier in the season when strawberries were fresh, my family enjoyed a strawberry-rhubarb pie. I make my own crust from scratch (it’s the allergy thing again). This time I decided on a peach pie, then on impulse threw in some blueberries we had on hand. The combination of the two flavors, lovingly wrapped in a flaky crust and topped with whipped cream, embodies all that is good about the summer.
While the foods may vary, the one element that remains unchanged for my perfect summer meal is having my whole family together around the patio table for a leisurely, unhurried meal. Soon enough we’ll be bundling up and enjoying cold weather soups, chili and stews. But for now the air is warm, the sun sets late, and my family and I can enjoy those perfect summer meals for a few more weeks.
Summer is the perfect time to throw your car keys in the key bowl, hop on your bike and enjoy the beautiful summer weather. Grab your water bottle and your helmet and just zoom off on your trusty bicycle.
Ah…if only it were that simple.
When I was a child, my bicycle was my primary mode of transportation. My friends lived within biking distance and most of the roads in my town had sidewalks. I biked to school, to my friends’ houses and, when I was a bit older, to Food Town, a local store a mile from my house that sold cold cuts, booze and hunting rifles. (But that’s a column for another time). Whenever I needed to go somewhere, I’d just grab my bike and be off.
Unfortunately, getting my family out on our bicycles is a much bigger production now. Sidewalks are virtually non-existent in our town and our steep driveway rolls straight down into the very busy street on which we live. When my kids were little, my husband and I would take them through our back yard, out our back gate and into the less crowded cul-de-sac neighborhoods behind us. Traffic is minimal there and the kids would have plenty of warning when a car approached.
But my children are 10 and 13 now, and they’ve long since outgrown the neighborhoods behind us. How many times can you ride around the same circle before you become bored? (The answer is 16 times.) Given that my kids are still not the most confident bikers and the lack of sidewalks in our town, our remaining choice is to load up the bikes and drive somewhere safer to ride.
Not so fast. First there’s an elaborate production involved to getting our bikes ready. Our garage is filled with stuff, including a 1979 MGB convertible that hasn’t run since we moved here 12 years ago (actually, I don’t think it ran even then). So my husband and I keep our bicycles suspended from ceiling hooks, while the boys’ bikes are entangled in the rest of the clutter. Once our bikes have been extracted, inevitably tires will need to be inflated. Apparently just the act of sitting stagnant in the garage allows tires to lose air. My husband pulls out the world’s smallest, slowest portable bike pump and begins inflating our tires.
Two hours later, when all the tires are nice and firm, we’re ready to head to our destination. Except we’ve now got to load the bikes into our mini-van, which only has room for three of our four bikes. So one of the bikes ends up on the roof of the car, lashed down by an elaborated network of bungee cords. In addition to our hillbilly bike rack, these bungee cords have also served as our hillbilly ski rack and our hillbilly luggage rack. My husband still maintains that this is one of the best Christmas gifts he’s ever received from my dad.
An hour later when all the bikes are stuffed inside and strapped to the roof, we’re ready to collect our water bottles and bike helmets and head off to Wompatuck state park, a twenty minute drive from our house. The bike on top rests on an old rubber mat, ostensibly to protect the roof of our van, but provides the added bonus of a disturbingly loud flapping noise throughout the drive. The kids are hungry; I didn’t pack lunch because I didn’t think it would take two and a half hours to prep our bikes and reach our destination. I tell them to drink water and be quiet. Once we reach Wompatuck, it’s another fifteen minutes before the bikes are out the van and ready to ride. But wait…my husband’s rear tire is flat again. Apparently sitting inside a mini-van is just enough activity to deflate his tire. Out comes the world’s smallest and slowest portable bike pump. “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh,” goes the pump as my kids and I sit in the shade, slowly starving to death.
Finally, at long last we are all pumped and helmeted and ready to ride. The paths at Wompatuck are beautiful. It’s a warm, dry sunny afternoon and the kids have stopped complaining. Perhaps it is worth all the time and energy spent when the result is a blissful family ride.
But then bliss turns to blister after my son grips his handlebars too tightly. My other son is trying to get the hang of shifting gears, causing his chain to fall off…twice. After less than an hour of riding, we head back to the parking lot to clean and dress my son’s thumb wound. At this point the kids are hot and cranky and ready to return home. In go the bikes; out come the bungee cords and soon (okay, twenty minutes later) we are headed home.
Pacified with ice cream, my kids thank us for taking them on “a fun ride” and ask when we can do it again. I assure them we’ll schedule another ride soon, wondering whether it would just be simpler to sell my house and move to a bike-friendly neighborhood rather than go through that production again.
What do you do?
You’re a single mom with a child in high school. You work full time to support your child. Your ex-husband lives one hundred miles away. The school-subsidized bus that used to take your child home from school has been eliminated due to budget cuts.
What do you do?
With the economy the way it is, you’re lucky to have a job. You wish your job was closer to home. You can’t leave work to bring your child home from school every day. You scour the want ads and hope that a job opportunity becomes available nearby. But for now, you’re stuck where you are.
What do you do?
You reach out to other parents who are in the same situation. You try to get a bus together on your own. But not enough parents are interested in this option. You’re told that “…most kids don’t want to take the bus anyway…they call it the ‘loser cruiser…”. School officials tell you they assume most kids will get a ride with siblings or friends who are upperclassmen. But your child has no older siblings and all his friends are the same age.
What do you do?
You try to arrange carpools with other families, but their problem is the same as yours: they can manage the morning drop off but can’t leave work in order to pick up their kids at 2 p.m. Some work from home or part-time, but if their child is involved with after-school activities, they may not pick them up for an hour or two past dismissal.
What do you do?
People ask why your child can’t walk or ride a bike the three miles between school and home. With a very heavy backpack and no sidewalks for most of the route home. What happens when it rains? When the temperature dips below freezing and the wind whips through town? What about when it snows? When the streets are covered with ice and slush? When the plows leave a wall of snow, narrowing the roads further and limiting visibility.
What do you do?
You ask the school where children are supposed to wait if they need a later pick-up. If the school library is closed, you’re told that your child can do their homework in the cafeteria. You are told that there are always teachers and janitors “around”. But on the day when your child tries to do his homework in the cafeteria, he’s told that there is a meeting scheduled there, and that he can’t be in any other room in the building without adult supervision due to fire laws. So your child waits outside in the rain for two hours before someone is able to pick him up.
What do you do?
You scramble. You rely on the kindness of friends and neighbors and your father who lives 25 miles away and is willing to come twice a week to drive your child the three miles home from school. You worry about the day when you don’t have a ride lined up. You understand budget cuts; no one wants their child in a classroom with 30 other students. You don’t want your school to cut music or art programs. You realize that the money has to come from somewhere. But shouldn’t getting students safely to and from school be a priority? It may not be “the law” but isn’t it the right thing to do?
This is what friends of mine are dealing with now. And when my child moves up to the high school next year, I will be dealing with it as well.
So…what do you do?
I’m a bit of a botanical burglar.
Okay, maybe the term burglar is a stretch, but I have a tendency to covet flowers and plants that grow in places other than my own yard.
I’ve written in the past about my black thumb. My houseplants are frequently in a state of being either over or under watered. Outdoor potted plants stand a 50/50 chance of surviving their season and only then if there is regular rain and sun it’s beyond my capability to remember to water something daily in hot weather. My perennial beds are overloaded with bulbs that haven’t been split in years. Clearly my abilities to keep anything other than my own children alive are limited.
My life of crime began in my last house, which had a small, scraggly, spindly lilac bush in the back yard. This sad little plant usually yielded only a sprig or two of my absolutely favorite, fragrant flowers. Meanwhile, neighborhoods all around me were bursting with the heady scent and purple and white beauty of Syringa vulgaris. I could never bring myself to clip flowers from someone else’s yard without their permission. However…there was an enormous lilac bush which used to grow in the parking lot of my bank. Sometimes, when using the drive thru, I would lean out my left window to stick my ATM card in the slot, then lean out my right window and snip a few buds off the lilac flowers that were brushing up against my passenger window. Coming home, my husband would observe, “I see you’ve made a lilac withdrawal.” When we moved to our current home, my back yard contained not one but two healthy lilac bushes. Finally I could clip my favorite flowers without feeling guilty. To assuage my past sins, I’d even clip extra blossoms and give them to my friends and neighbors.
The next flowers on my oh-how-I-wish-I-could-grow-these list were hydrangea. I fell in love with them on my visits to Nantucket, where my husband has family and we were lucky enough to be married. There is something about those fat, vibrant blue and purple flowers that provides so much visual pleasure. Each summer it lifts my spirits to see hydrangea in bloom. The one small bush my husband planted two years ago has yet to yield even a single bud (surprise, surprise). Luckily I have several friends who have bushes that are flush with flowers. Taking pity on their poor, blossom-less friend, they have encouraged me come share their bounty. Thank goodness, because I’d look pretty ridiculous creeping through their yards in the middle of the night, dressed in black with clippers in hand.
And now that summer is over, there’s another blossom I’m coveting. This one I’m thankful is not growing in my yard. A floral-minded friend introduced me to the beauty of Bittersweet. These are vines that contain small yellow berries. During the fall the berries shed their yellow skin and reveal a vibrant orange color underneath. As the vines dry out, they are used to make wreaths or can be draped along mantels or placed in vases for a beautiful, autumnal display. My friend has a keen eye for bittersweet, and points them out to me whenever we drive anywhere together in the fall. However, it’s important to point out that there are two types of bittersweet: American bittersweet, Celastrus scandens, is disappearing quickly. Oriental bittersweet, Celastrus orbiculatus, is an invasive vine which can threaten other vegetation. American bittersweet have berries which cluster only at the tip of the vine. Oriental bittersweet produce berries all along the length of the vine. It’s important to make this distinction before clipping any vine in order to preserve the dwindling supply of American bittersweet. However when I see the oriental variety, I feel no guilt about clipping a few vines off and bringing them home to dry. It beautifies my house and I’m doing my part to help remove an invasive species from my town. The idea that something so pretty could also be harmful is…well…bittersweet.
I’m glad that I no longer need to resort to theft to obtain some of my favorite flowers. Thanks to generous friends and a plentiful invasive species, I’m able to enjoy these beautiful buds on a regular basis.
Otherwise, I’d be in withdrawal.
Does the following sequence of events sound familiar?
I grab the laundry basket from my hall closet and then head into the bedroom to pick up any dirty laundry lying around. While I’m there, I notice that the bed hasn’t been made, so I put down the basket and start making the bed. Once the bed is made, I notice that there’s too much clutter on my dresser, so I start putting things back in their proper place. As I’m doing this, I trip over the laundry basket. Oh right, the laundry. I abandon my dresser and pick the basket back up, grab the dirty clothes and head down to the laundry room.
I start the washer but then notice that I don’t have a full load, so it’s back upstairs to the kids’ rooms to see what needs to be washed. While doing this, I notice my son left his dirty cup from breakfast on his bedside table, so I bring it to the kitchen to rinse and place in the dishwasher. The pots and pans from last night’s dinner are still soaking in the sink, so I give the cup a quick rinse and then start washing the pots and pans. Once those are done, I head back into my son’s room, only to stand there stupefied, with no clue why I am there.
I head back into the kitchen and realize that the counters need cleaning. We’re nearly out of paper towels, so I head back down to the basement for another roll. As I enter the furnace room I again completely forget why I’m there. I notice that the light is on in the laundry room so I walk over to shut it off only to discover that the washer is filled and waiting for the rest of the dirty clothes that are somewhere in my son’s room. Oh right…That’s what I was doing in the first place.
I know I’m edging ever closer to 50, but is it possible that I’ve got both a mild case of Alzheimer’s combined with an undiagnosed case of adult ADD? In my previous life as a video producer I could juggle casting sessions, shoots, edits, script revisions and a hundred other tasks effortlessly. When I had my children, I could still run a load of laundry while paying my bills online and feeding a bottle to my infant. What happened?
Now when I try to multi-task the results are far from favorable. On a recent afternoon I decided to get a jump on dinner by grilling some chicken breasts. I threw the chicken on the grill and wandered back into the house where my focus was immediately claimed by several other tasks that needed attention. Sometime later I drifted back into the kitchen and wondered, “What’s that smell?” only to discover the forgotten chicken breasts outside on the grill. Hey kids, it’s blackened Cajun chicken tonight!
I also find that my brain doesn’t always kick into gear as quickly as it used to. In conversation I often find that key words refuse to make the jump from my brain to my tongue. This also happens with names. A few years back I hosted a brunch for several friends and while making introductions my mind went completely blank when it came to the name of my friend’s husband, someone I’ve known for years. While it was an embarrassing aberration at the moment, it’s happening more and more frequently of late.
Are these instances what my friend calls “menopause brain” or something more serious? When my book club read “Still Alice”, a novel about a woman with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, we were all convinced we had it too. Then again, one friend reassures me that,”It’s okay if you forget where you left your car keys…it’s not okay if you forget what those keys are for.”
I’m wondering if what I’m experiencing is what my parents refer to as “senior moments”. I guess it’s not a big deal that I have to call my own cell phone once in a while to find where I left it (and don’t you wish you could do the same thing with your car keys and the television remote?) It may take me a little longer to remember someone’s name or a word I’m trying to verbalize but eventually they do come. Rather than trying to accomplish multiple tasks at once, I’ll focus on just completing one before moving on to the next.
Thankfully I’m not alone. A friend recently recounted that she tossed her Kindle on top of her laundry and brought the basket downstairs to catch up on reading while doing the wash. She inadvertently threw some towels on top of the Kindle and a short time later dumped the whole load into the washing machine. Three minutes later, when she couldn’t find her Kindle, she realized her mistake. Despite her efforts to revive it, the Kindle was dead. We could chalk this up to a “senior moment” but she’s quite a few years younger than me.
This story made me feel better. I may burn the chicken and lose my keys and forget your name and start and stop a dozen tasks throughout the day, but at least I know that Kindles are hand wash only.
This weekend I hopped into my time machine and traveled back 30 years. The time machine was my car and the time travel involved my 30th high school reunion.
Just acknowledging the fact that I’ve been out of high school for thirty years is enough to depress me so I fill the five hour drive to New Jersey with music from the 70’s and 80’s. Shaun Cassidy, Styx and Journey blast from the speakers and a wave of nostalgia hits me as the “Welcome to New Jersey” sign comes into view. My parents have lived in the same house for over 50 years, so I consider myself fortunate that I’m able to revisit my childhood home often.
When I pull into my parent’s driveway I step out and close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of the grass and indigenous trees bring back memories of my childhood, and for a split second I can pretend that it’s a summer day back in the 1970’s and I’m about to spend the day roaming the neighborhood with my friends. Reality sets in and I haul my adult size bags in the house and up to my old bedroom.
One the day of the reunion, I check the Facebook page of the classmate who is organizing the event. There’s a list of those who are scheduled to attend and as I scan this I see the names of classmates from as far back as first grade. My best friend Tracey, who I’ve known since fifth grade and still see several times a year, is my wingman for the evening. We meet for a drink prior to the reunion and make a pact to stick together, rescuing each other from banal conversation if necessary.
I don’t know what to expect from this reunion, having been to both my 10th and 20th previously. The 10th was fun, the 20th was impersonal (a reunion company was used) and the 30th is scheduled to be held at a local Knights of Columbus hall. As Tracey and I pull into the parking lot, we see several middle aged women who look in no way familiar to us. Perhaps this is due to the fact that our graduating class numbered more than seven hundred. We enter the K of C and sign in.
As I wait in line, I notice that the room is filling up fast with receding hairlines and beer bellies. The women look a bit better but many of them are starting to show the same pre-menopausal muffin top that I’ve been sporting. Faces look the same but many (including mine) are surrounded by a few more chins. I whisper to Tracey, “Wow. When did we get so old?” and this is emphasized by the name tag I’m given bearing my senior photo from 1981. Though the face in the photo is much thinner, my hairstyle was thicker; an afro. I console myself with the fact that in the intervening thirty years, I’ve learned about the benefits of hair products and no longer look like a doppelganger for James Caan.
As I mingle through the crowd, I’m reminded of how strange reunions really are. Someone you first met when you were six years old might not have given you the time of day in high school, but thirty years later we are hugging and exclaiming , “It’s great to see you!” We make our way through the crowd, squinting as we try to read each other’s name tags and see if the name or face rings a bell. Since many of us are friends on Facebook now, we already know what some people look like, what they do for work and how many children they have. Instead of whipping out our wallets with photos of our children, we pull out our smart phones and display an entire photo array of our kids.
The evening flows smoothly as the DJ plays hits by The Knack, Styx, Journey and Kansas. The Knights of Columbus are our bartenders for the night, pouring soda and beer and wine from a box. Several people have brought their yearbooks with them, and we pore over the pages, comparing the faces from yesterday with the reality of today. One guy in particular, who was thin and blond and hot in high school (and kind of full of himself) is totally unrecognizable with the addition of an extra hundred pounds and a Grizzly Adams beard. My friend says this makes her feel sad but personally it makes me feel great.
This time around I’m excited to catch up with Kim, a close friend from high school who has not been back to a reunion until this one. We reminisce about the perverted Psych teacher who supervised Driver’s Ed, how we tormented our French teacher, and the time we braved a snowstorm to see Cheap Trick in concert. Kim also tells me about the passing of both of her parents and how proud she is of her three children. Though we are Facebook friends, these are moments best shared in person.
Tracey and I sneak out before the reunion ends and find a quiet bar where we can share a drink and recap the evening. We laugh about the folks who have changed and the folks who haven’t. Though I enjoyed seeing all the faces from my past, I’m reminded of the fact that the most important friends from school are the ones I still see regularly, in particular the one who is sitting next to me at the bar sharing an order of potato skins.
I guess you can go home again after all.
Last week, on what turned out to be the hottest day of the summer (so far), I found myself with a few blessed hours without my children. One was working as a CIT at our town’s park n’ rec camp and the other at a friend’s house. Rather than spending my few precious hours catching up on the latest episode of “Dance Moms” or luxuriating in a pedicure chair, I chose to run errands.
My destinations included the bank, the transfer station, the pharmacy and a few other stops. In each instance I reluctantly dragged myself out of my air conditioned mini-van and trudged through the hundred degree heat to dump my garbage, pick up prescriptions and cash a check. The extreme heat and humidity were taking their toll on me. With each errand I felt more like a wet noodle and less like a human being. And then I stopped at my final destination before heading home and discovered an untapped oasis in the midst of the baking heat.
The library.
As I walked through the front door, I was immediately enveloped in an embrace of air conditioned silence. The skin on my arms, previously slick with sweat, immediately developed goose bumps. As I slid my books into the return slot, I received a smile and a warm welcome from Judy, one of the librarians who happened to be working at the Children’s Desk. As I climbed the steps to the Adult Circulation area, I congratulated myself on making this the final stop on my list of errands, rather than the first. Had I started my round of errands with the library, I might never have left.
I am a huge fan of libraries in general and Hanover’s John Curtis library in particular. Where else can you find thousands of books, movies, CD’s, magazines and even video games that you can bring home and enjoy without paying a single penny? Unless, of course, you forget to return them on time.
In my younger, carefree days, I used to buy books. Lots of books. But I’m older now and have things like a mortgage and camp payments and a million other fiscal responsibilities. So with a few exceptions, my book-buying days are behind me. Which makes the library that much more valuable to me. Whenever my kids clamor for a new book, my first response is “Let’s see if the library has it.”
I also love that my library is part of the Old Colony Library Network, which means if my library doesn’t have a particular item, it’s a safe bet that one of the other libraries will. From the convenience of my own computer I can log onto the website (www.ocln.org), search for items and put them on hold. The network will even deliver the item to my own library.
There have been times when the library hasn’t had a particular item I’m interested in. Let’s face it, not everyone is as much of a zombie enthusiast as me. When that’s the case, I just fill out a card requesting that they purchase the item I’m interested in. More often than not, the item is added to the library’s collection and I get to be the first person to take it out.
Another godsend in the summer are the library passes that enable my family to visit places like the Peabody Essex Museum, the Roger Williams Zoo, the Museum of Science and countless other area attractions for a discounted fee. Again, from the convenience of my computer I can see when passes are available and place a hold on them. Last summer my kids enjoyed the Institute of Contemporary Art for the first time and have been clamoring to go back.
Our library also hosts author talks, book signings, magic shows, animal shows and countless other events throughout the year. Currently there is a photography exhibit showcasing the work of Matt Gill, former news editor for the Hanover and Norwell Mariner (I’ve seen it, it’s fabulous!) At the end of the summer the library will host an art exhibit featuring the work of South Shore Art Teachers.
If you simply must buy books, the John Curtis library has an impressively stocked used book room which features books, videos and puzzles for both adults and children. Most books are $1 or less and the thousands of dollars raised from the book room goes right back to supporting the programs offered by the library.
With everything the library has to offer, it’s a wonder I don’t spend all my time there during the summer (except Saturdays and Sundays when they’re closed). Much as I’d like to, there are other chores and errands that require my time and attention. But it’s nice to know that when the heat and the noise of summer gets to be too much, there’s a nice cool, quiet respite just a mile from my house.
See you at the library.
It’s time to say “goodbye” to an old friend.
Actually, make that several friends. This Friday, July 15, audiences worldwide will have the chance to bid farewell to Harry, Ron, Hermoine and Hagrid. Appropriately, the movie posters promoting the film say it best: It All Ends.
J.K. Rowling’s novel, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” was first published in 1997. Over the next decade, Potter fans (and I count myself among them) have immersed themselves in a world of wizards, witches and whomping willows. We’ve watched young Harry Potter grow from an 11-year old boy living in a cupboard under the stairs to an adult taking on the most powerful and evil wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort. We know that the spell “lumos” illuminates the tip of a wand, that Berty Bott’s Every Flavor Beans include flavors like vomit and earwax, and that good eventually triumphs over evil, though at a price.
Three summers ago, I wrote a column both hailing and lamenting the final Harry Potter novel in the series: “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”. At the time, I was excited and apprehensive about the novel’s release. At last readers would know the outcome of the long battle between Harry and Voldemort. Was Severus Snape really evil? Would Ron and Hermoine finally acknowledge their feelings for each other? Would Harry continue to be The Boy Who Lived or would he pay the ultimate sacrifice to free the wizarding world from tyranny?
I could not read that final book fast enough, and yet I tried to savor every word, knowing there would be no more to follow. Once I was finished I passed it to my husband and when he was done we took turns reading it, chapter by chapter, to our children each night before bed. As sad as I was to bring that final epic story to a conclusion, I consoled myself with the fact that there were three more movie adaptations to enjoy.
And now, in less than 48 hours, the last of those three films, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2” will be unveiled. Once again, Potter fans will line up, this time to buy tickets instead of books. Some will don 3-D glasses (not me), some will stay up way past their usual bedtime to be the first to see the film when it premieres at midnight (again, not me) and nearly all will breathe a final sigh of satisfaction tinged with sadness when the end credits roll for the last time. Since the first film premiered ten years ago, audiences have watched each adaptation with baited breath, hoping the filmmakers could do justice to their beloved story. In my humble opinion, each film successfully achieved that goal.
The first movie captured all the wonder and wide-eyed magic of Harry’s unexpected entrance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Following the tone of the novels, each film has grown progressively more dark and ominous. Looking back I realize that the film version of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” was released a mere two months after the events of 9/11. As America battled her own dark forces of evil, Harry began his cinematic journey to fulfill his destiny as “the chosen one” and bring down Lord Voldemort.
My children were just three and six months when the first film premiered and now with the final chapter just hours away, they are thirteen and ten. As audiences have watched the characters of Harry, Ron and Hermoine grow into adulthood before our eyes, I shake my head and wonder how my own son could possibly have grown as tall as me. My husband and children have shared my passion for Harry Potter over the years and I look forward to experiencing this final chapter as a family. Or to quote Harry in one of the film’s oft repeated trailers: “Let’s finish this the way we started it…together.”
Now that summer is here, it’s time to pack our boogie boards, slather on sunscreen and head to the beach.
Or…not.
Actually, I used to love the beach. When I was young, my parents would take my sisters and me to the Jersey Shore for two weeks every summer. Each day we would head out to the beach just after breakfast, setting up camp with our towels and radios and trashy romance novels. We’d smear our bodies with baby oil (yes, baby oil), and bake on the beach till lunchtime. After lunch, we’d troop back to the beach and spend a few more hours baking and burning and bouncing in the surf. After rinsing off in the outdoor shower (is there any shower better than an outdoor shower?) we’d eat dinner, then head back to the beach for a walk along the shore, collecting seashells and rocks and flying the kite we’d brought with us. At that point summer just seemed to last forever.
Do you know why the beach was such an idyllic place to go as a child? I finally figured it out. It’s because our parents were the ones who packed all the blankets and towels and snacks and boogie boards and sunscreen and bug spray and yes, that darned kite! Our parents shopped for the food that sustained us each day, and the drinks that kept us hydrated and shelled out cash each night when we’d hear the ding-a-ding-a-ding of the ice cream truck. I don’t know when that sweet, tinkling bell was replaced by the warped, distorted version of “Turkey in the Straw” but I sure do miss that ice cream truck.
I didn’t mind sand in the house back then because I wasn’t the one sweeping it up each day and shaking it out of the beds and washing it down the drain. I didn’t mind getting sunburned because I knew it would fade to a tan, or peel like crazy and then fade to a tan. I didn’t think about the fact that in forty years my neck and chest would look like the side of Samsonite luggage.
When my kids were little, I loved the idea of taking them to the beach. Notice I say I loved the idea… In my mind we’d sit placidly on the beach, our umbrella shielding us from the sun as we dug sand castles and jumped in the surf holding hands. The reality was much different however. My toddlers thought the beach was a great place to run in opposite directions. It was like “Sophie’s Choice”, trying to decide which kid to run after and which to abandon. And then there’s the stuff. Even if I could get my little ones to carry one small sand pail or towel, that still left me to haul the cooler, the beach bag, the umbrella, two boogie boards and a sand chair. It’s not like I could make two trips. Without my husband along, it was like a family consisting of two small children and one pack mule. After a day of sweating and swearing (under my breath), I’d haul my two little ones and all our gear back to the car and begin the process of de-sanding everyone and everything before loading them into the vehicle. Inevitably, the kids would scream for ice cream on the ride home when all I wanted to do was kick up my feet and open a cold one.
Going to the beach now is still a production, but less of one. Now that my “little ones” are 10 and 13, they get themselves ready. They pack their own goggles and towels and spray themselves with sunscreen. Last week I barked “Make your own sandwich” and to my surprise, they did. They each have to carry their own boogie board and sand chair to and from the beach. And while I still keep a watchful eye on them when they are in the water, it’s nice to know that I can sit several hundred yards away in the comfort of my beach chair and scan a page or two of my magazine. They build sand castles without my assistance and when they ask if they can walk down to the jetty on their own, I’m fairly comfortable saying yes. When we head home I’m the one who suggests we stop for ice cream.
The task of vacuuming up all the sand that finds its way into my house still falls to me. I hang the towels on the back deck to dry and run the bathing suits through the wash while my kids plop their exhausted bodies in front of the television. I still moan and groan when my kids ask if we can go to the beach, but I take them because now I’m old enough to know that the summer doesn’t last forever. Like my children’s youth, it’s all too fleeting.
The 4th of July is almost here, marking the unofficial start of summer. How will you spend the holiday? Will you trek into Boston to sit amongst a million of your closest friends on the Esplanade? Or will you enjoy the Pops from the comfort of your own living room? Here are just a few tips on how to celebrate your holiday to the fullest.
Get grillin’. Nothing says summer like a good old fashioned barbeque. Invite family or friends over and fire up the grill. ‘Weber’ you prefer gas or charcoal, everything tastes better when it’s prepared over a flame (except maybe jello…and salad). Supplement your meats with plenty of corn on the cob, baked beans, fresh greens and any food that features mayonnaise: pasta salad, potato salad, deviled eggs and coleslaw. Mayonnaise is one of the official condiments of summer, right up there with ketchup and mustard.
Head to the beach. What better way to welcome summer than by digging your toes in the warm sand and listening to the calming sounds of the surf? No one enjoys being a pack mule for the holidays, so stop by Job Lot first to purchase a beach wagon to tote your boogie boards, coolers, sand pails, umbrellas, towels, skim boards and beach toys. Try to forget that the film “Jaws” took place during the July 4th weekend and hope that you don’t see any fishy-looking fins off shore. Reapply sunscreen often; The ER’s will be jam packed with folks who have blown their digits off with fireworks, which means you’ll have a long wait for someone to assess your third degree sunburn.
Find a parade. What would July 4th be without a parade? They are the perfect balance of marching bands, fire trucks, beauty queens, clowns and candy. When my kids discuss favorite parades of the past, invariably the parades where tootsie rolls and Dum Dums are flung are the most popular. But candy’s not the only thing you can get at a parade. Several years ago during a July 4th parade, a group of soldiers in period costume marched by us and fired off a few rounds from their antique rifles. I spied the shell casings in the road in front of us and urged my older son to dash out and grab one as a souvenir. Lesson learned for both mom and son: shell casings are hot. Though the burn on his hand was minor, the memory is seared into his brain forever. Whenever I mentionthe words “4th of July parade”, my son pipes up, “Remember when you made me grab those hot shell casings?” That’s one stellar parenting moment I’ll never live down.
Tap into your reservoir of “friends with…” Friends with pools, friends with boats, friends with beach houses. I have been blessed with generous friends who frequently include my family in their July 4th pool or beach party. Be sure to bring plenty of food, fireworks and firewater to thank them for their invitation.
Regarding fireworks… I’m not suggesting you drive to another state, obtain fireworks, transport them back to this state, and then set them off illegally. That would be irresponsible (Phantom Fireworks, Rt. 95 in Connecticut, just over the Rhode Island border.) I’d rather eliminate the worry, the danger and the potential stiff fine and leave fireworks to the professionals. Many towns still set off fireworks, despite budget cuts. Grab a few lawn chairs and some bug spray and park yourselves under the stars. Be sure to practice your “oohs” and “ahhhs” ahead of time.
Finally, take a moment to reflect on what July 4th means. Our ancestors came to this country to flee oppression. For 235 years we have fought to maintain our freedom. Despite the economy, environmental issues, partisanship and other areas that might divide us, we still live in the greatest country in the world. On July 4th, if you happen to see one of the many members of our armed forces, be sure to thank them for their service to our country. Without them, we might just as well have never left England.
God Bless America. Have a safe and happy 4th of July.
My husband and I took our kids to see “The Green Lantern” this weekend. The film was mediocre, but as I left the theater I found that I did have one strong opinion about it.
Enough of the 3-D already.
The first movie I remember seeing in 3-D was”Dial M for Murder”. Lest you think I’m much older than I claim, I did not see the film when it first came out in 1954. I went to see a revival of it in 1981 when I was a freshman in college. My boyfriend at the time was a big movie buff, and he insisted we see the Alfred Hitchcock classic in all its 3-Dimensional glory. I don’t remember much of the 3-D details, but I do remember a scene where Ray Milland, the evil husband, takes a key from under the stairs and points it straight toward the camera. Oooo. 3-D.
I rank 3-D up there with Smell-o-vision and Sensurround and all the other kitschy gimmicks geared towards moviegoers. These movie “enhancements” are a novelty…for a while. What begins as something fun and unique quickly becomes tired and tedious. If every movie is made (or projected) in 3-D, what makes it special?
I have to admit that when my husband suggested we see “Avatar” in 3-D, I was excited at the prospect. He and my sons had already seen it in 2-D and gushed about what an amazing experience it was. 3-D could only make it better…right?
As someone who is optically challenged, the idea of having to wear glasses on top of my glasses isn’t appealing. I stopped wearing contact lenses years ago, so if I decide to see a 3-D movie it’s double glasses or nothing. It’s hard to concentrate on the film when I ‘m sitting there literally making a spectacle out of myself.
So I sat through “Avatar”, and yes it was spectacular, though the story was a little too “Fern Gully” meets “Dances with Wolves” for me. As for the 3-D…I found it to be a distraction. Rather than immersing myself in the plot and the visual effects, I was constantly adjusting my 3-D glasses, peeping over them to compare the 3-D images with the regular ones. In all, I would have been perfectly happy seeing “Avatar” the old fashioned way (which I finally did when it came out on DVD, watching it on my sad, 1990’s era 2-D television. And it was great!)
It seems like every movie that comes out now is offered in 3-D. I can understand it for action movies like “Thor” and “The Green Hornet”, but “Justin Bieber: Never Say Never”? I think resurrecting Smell-O-Vision would have been a better choice for that one (and if you’re wondering what Justin Bieber smells like, I’m betting he smells like teen spirit.)
Clearly the studios have decided to hop on the 3-D bandwagon for no other reason than to charge more for ticket prices, thus boosting the box office results of their 3-D films. What’s next? “Jane Eyre” in 3-D? I can’t wait to see the definition of Rochester’s mutton chops. How about the upcoming Justin Timberlake/Mila Kunis vehicle, ‘Friends with Benefits”. If the title is suggestive of the film’s plot, you can bet there’d be some interesting scenes that could be enhanced by 3-D. Or maybe the upcoming adaptation of the bestselling novel, “Sarah’s Key”. They could pay homage to “Dial M for Murder” by enhancing all the shots of…well…Sarah’s key.
Getting back to “The Green Lantern”. I was disappointed that the only things that really looked three dimensional in the film were Ryan Reynolds’ pecs and a desk lamp. Everything else on the screen pretty much blended together and it’s safe to say that the film would have been just as mediocre in 2-D.
With theaters charging an additional $2 and up for 3-D films, I think I’ll save my money and stick with the 2-D versions from now on. Except of course for “Jane Eyre”.
I’m a sucker for 3-D mutton chops.
My friends call me The Ice Queen.
Perhaps I should clarify. I’m not a cold person. I’d like to think that overall I’m warm and friendly (when I’m not being sarcastic and snarky.) But my friends refer to me as The Ice Queen because I have a reputation for being one of those women who never seem to cry at anything. Movies, books, news stories…not a drop. This is, of course, not true. But I can see how my friends might perceive this.
It’s not that I don’t cry. It’s that I don’t like crying at things that obviously try to manipulate me. For example, those movies that use music and dialogue and dewy sentiments that practically scream “You will cry now” at the audience. I hold it in just to spite them.
My friend and I went to see “World Trade Center” several years ago. Nicholas Cage starred in the true story of two Port Authority officers who were, against all odds, pulled alive from the rubble at Ground Zero. It was an incredibly moving story and my friend sobbed throughout the entire film. I didn’t sprout one single tear until the very end, when the main character is pulled out on a stretcher and he tells his wife “The thought of you kept me alive”. That did it. One solitary tear rolled down my face.
That same friend and I went to see “My Sister’s Keeper” a few years back. This was the fictional story of a girl who has to decide whether or not to donate her kidney to her dying sister. People were bawling all around me as the audience was bombarded with emotional images and maudlin music.
I shed not one tear. In fact, I kind of wished the folks around me would pipe down so I could hear the dialogue.
Thus my reputation as the Ice Queen grew. My book club would discuss books that had everyone in tears at the end...everyone, that is, except me. Even in bible study, while I was touched by the personal stories shared, I would remain dry-eyed while people around me reached for the tissue box. What’s wrong with me? I wasn’t always this way.
When my children were small, they took music classes in Scituate and at the end of every 8-week session, Miss Beth would play “Pomp and Circumstance” and hand out graduation certificates to the children. My eyes watered every single time. The same thing happened when Miss Vicky played the Olympic theme song as my kids showed off their toddler gymnastic skills at TumbleFun and placed medals around their necks. And the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life” always left me in tears. (“To my big brother George…the richest man in town!” Sniff…sniff).
So what happened? Have I become hardened with age? Is it my changing hormones as I approach fifty? Have I run out of tears? Whatever the reason, I’m no longer crying at the drop of a hat. Yet, I don’t think the term “Ice Queen” is completely appropriate.
Where are these people when I’m standing at a baseball game listening to the Star Spangled Banner? As soon as they get to the line “Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave?” and people start cheering, my throat gets tight and tears spring to my eyes.
Or how about when I took my kids to see “Toy Story 3” and had to wipe my face constantly during the last 20 minutes with butter-stained napkins? That scene where Andy reluctantly hands over Woody and all his other toys killed me. My friend looked at me askance over the top of my son’s head as I dabbed at my eyes. Was the Ice Queen really crying over Toy Story?
Worst of all was this past week at 4th grade memory day. The event was my son’s graduation from elementary school and I warned everyone well in advance that the Ice Queen would be bustin’ out the tears. One friend said, “Take a picture for me, I want to see what that looks like.”
For one hour and fifteen minutes, I sniffed and snuffed and dabbed at my eyes. From the first strains of “God Bless America”, the waterworks began. As the children marched into the gymnasium, I cried. When the principal read an emotional speech about giving our children back to us, I cried. When we watched a multimedia presentation featuring our kids, I laughed…and cried. When the principal said, “I give you the 2011 Graduating Class of Sylvester School” I cried. And when she asked the students to turn around and applaud their parents, I bawled. My son caught my eye and mouthed the words “I love you.” I mouthed the words, “I love you too” as the tears streamed down my face.
True to my word, I took a picture for my friend just so I could prove that even the Ice Queen is capable of melting every now and then. I’m only human. But don’t expect to see me dabbing at my eyes in the movie theater anytime soon.
Unless, of course, they decide to make Toy Story 4.
As a parent my job, first and foremost, is to keep my children safe.
This is no easy feat. When our children are babies we lash down car seats and nestle them in beds with crib bumpers. When they are toddlers we install child locks and safety gates. As they grow we insist they ride their bikes on the sidewalk and wear their helmets. We admonish them when they run with a lollipop in their mouths or a stick in their hands.
We do our best right up until the moment they leave us at which point we cross our fingers, say a prayer and hope that all our lessons will be heeded as they climb the kindergarten bus, drive off with license in hand for the first time or enter their college dorm room.
Still, despite our best efforts, as parents we can only do so much.
I still vividly remember the horror of September 11, 2001. I had a 3 year old and a 6 month old. That day my children climbed the jungle gym and dug in the sandbox at a local playground, blissfully unaware of the hate and destruction that was occurring a few hundred miles away. As I watched them play, a sick feeling formed in the pit of my stomach, growing stronger with each passing moment: the realization that no matter what I do, I can never fully protect my children.
This feeling was reinforced last week when my son and 191 other students and chaperones from the middle school band and chorus went on a field trip to Six Flags in Agawam. The trip is an annual event, and my son had been chattering about it excitedly for months. Being a nervous mother, I was worried about his safety on several levels; rides designed to toss his body around at high speed; the park’s proximity to a city known for its crime; a cold which had caused his asthma to flare up.
Still, I knew that part of my motherly duty was to let him go and trust that he would do everything in his power to keep himself safe. He had his inhaler and the chaperones would keep an eye on everyone throughout the day. All the bases were covered.
What I didn’t plan on, however, was a tornado.
The forecast for the day was hot and humid, with the chance of severe thunderstorms in the afternoon. I hoped that perhaps the bad weather would skirt the area around Six Flags or turn foul sometime after they left the park. As the wind picked up in my area, a mother of another child on the trip texted me a copy of a weather alert she had received on her phone: “A tornado watch has been issued for most of Massachusetts”.
I knew the difference between a “watch” and a “warning”; a watch means severe weather is possible while a warning means that severe weather has been observed, or is expected soon. Though the idea of even a possible tornado made me uneasy, it seemed highly unlikely and so I tried to tamp down my fears.
Shortly before the kids were due to leave the park, another mom called and asked if I was watching the weather reports. She said that a severe thunderstorm was 20 miles west of Six Flags and moving fast. The tornado watch had been upgraded to a warning. I called my son, who had just gotten off a ride, and told him to start heading toward the busses. I felt like that scene in the film “The Perfect Storm” where the female boat captain tries to warn George Clooney by screaming, “You’re heading right into the mouth of the beast.”
Over the next hour I divided my time by trying to reach my son on his cell phone, texting and calling other moms with information, and praying. One friend said she received a text from her daughter saying a tornado was going by and the bus was shaking. She didn’t know if her daughter was joking or not. I somehow managed to miss a call from my son, who left the following message: “Mom, you will not believe this. I have literally just seen a tornado form next to the bus and it’s cutting a path of destruction across the road”. Another mother called to tell me that one of the teachers was phoning the same information in to the local news.
Thankfully, the middle school busses were spared and quickly left the area, heading home. According to a friend who chaperoned the trip, the drivers were in constant contact with their superiors who instructed them on which route to take to avoid the worst of the weather. Still, as I listened to reports of additional tornadoes, lightning and hail, I continued my prayers until my son walked safely in the front door.
My son, unaware of the true devastation of the storms, thought the trip was an adventure. He was more intimidated by some of the roller coasters than the tornado that swooped by his bus. It wasn’t until the next morning when news stations reported the extent of the damage and the lives lost that he was truly able to process just how close a call it had been for them.
And for me, this experience served as yet another reminder that, despite my best efforts, I cannot always keep my children safe. Thankfully, the bus drivers, chaperones and God were able to fill in for me on this one.
I have a new appreciation for baseball.
I’ve always enjoyed professional baseball. Growing up in New Jersey, my friends and I followed the Mets. This continued with my first post-college boyfriend who was a hardcore Mets fan and nearly cried with joy in 1986 (sorry Sox fans). I then became a Red Sox fan when I began dating my husband, who actually did cry with joy in 2004 and 2007 (not much crying lately though).
My renewed appreciation for baseball comes from my son’s recent return to a 4th grade baseball team.
Both of my children played t-ball in Kindergarten. I have to admit that I thought the “t” stood for torture. Baseball can be a slow game, but t-ball can be interminably slow. The t-ball field is conveniently located at the intersection of two extremely busy streets, with no fence to keep spectators or players from running out into the road. At the time when my 6-year old son played t-ball, my -3-year old had to remain strapped into his car seat in my van watching videos for the duration of the game. The alternative was to spend an hour and a half chasing after my toddler, trying to keep him from becoming a grease stain in the road.
I did appreciate the tee which allowed my sons to actually hit the ball (most of the time). However, when my kids were in the field, they failed to grasp the finer points of the game. Whenever a ball was hit anywhere near them, they (and about 20 of their teammates) would run in a clump towards the ball, hoping to be the one to grab it. Not that there would be anyone left on base to throw it to (they would all still be in that clump). At the end of every game, just when I thought, “Thank God, it’s over,” the coaches would inevitably say, “Hey, how about one more inning?”
My older son played a year of rookie ball, but after repeatedly being reprimanded for sitting down in right field, he admitted that he found baseball to be too slow and boring. That year he switched to soccer instead.
My younger son never picked up a bat or glove after a year of t-ball. The game was just a little too slow for him, and his frustration level at never actually catching the ball (too many kids nearby) proved overwhelming. We stored our baseball gear in the garage.
Fast forward four years. My younger son is now in 4th grade, and just when I thought soccer was his game, he suddenly announced that this spring he would like to take another crack at baseball instead.
“Are you sure you don’t want to do soccer again?” I asked hopefully. Soccer involved only one practice and one game a week.
“Nope, I want to try baseball.” He said firmly.
Reluctantly, I signed my son up for a baseball skills class at an indoor sports center. The 12-week class taught him the basics of hitting and fielding, while adding in plenty of running and stretching as well. It also included an invaluable private batting lesson and an hour of free batting time every Friday night. He also participated in a week-long skills camp over April vacation. Trying to cram four years of baseball experience into three months wasn’t easy, but when the first game rolled around, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.
He was disappointed with his first at bat: he struck out. A few silent tears rolled down his face as he struggled to keep his composure on the bench. This did not bode well. The next time at bat he walked. The next time… another walk.
After a couple of games, I nicknamed him Walker Texas Ranger since his strength lay in the pitcher’s weakness. A few more games and he started getting hits. He got an RBI. He stole second base. He stole third base. He started chewing sunflower seeds and giant wads of gum. His motivation for playing well is the snack bar next to his field. A game that was once too slow for him is now just his speed.
And my attitude has changed since t-ball. Though I initially prayed for rainouts, I’m now okay spending two nights at the field every week. Game night dinners are casual (hot dogs or pizza). Though baseball games last twice as long as soccer games, there is an unhurried, languidness to the game. What felt interminably long a few years ago now feels like an opportunity to slow down, enjoy a warm summer night, socialize with other parents and cheer on all the players equally.
I’ve come to enjoy watching my son play. I like hearing his infinitely patient and supportive coaches call his name in their thick, Boston accents: “Coop-ah!” I like that he doesn’t get upset if his team loses. I like that he feels good about himself.
And I like his answer when I asked if he wanted to play summer baseball.
“No thanks, it’s too hot.”
Whew!
Amidst all the rain, drizzle and fog of recent weeks, for one brief day the skies cleared, the sun shone, and Cub Scouts from all over the South Shore enjoyed a day of fun and friendship at the 2011 “Chuckwagon “ , held at Camp Squanto on May 21.
My younger son has been a Cub Scout for three years. As a Webelo, he participated in the Klondike Derby this past winter. For the uninitiated (that would be me), the Derby allows Scouts to demonstrate their skills in fire building, tent assembly, first aid, citizenship and a host of other areas. As they drag their sled from station to station, the scouts earn points, and winning packs are acknowledged at the end of the day. This year’s Klondike happened to fall on one of the coldest days of the winter. Add in all the snow we received this year and it made for a challenging day. My husband, knowing my intolerance for the cold (“You won’t last 20 minutes”) graciously offered to take my son to the Klondike while I enjoyed the comforts of central heating.
Fast forward four months to The Chuckwagon Derby, an event designed purely for fun. Scouts decorate a wagon according to a theme, don costumes and parade through Camp Squanto, and then spend the day participating in fun activities. Given that the event is held in (relatively) warm weather (and my husband’s prior commitment to coach my other son’s soccer team), it was my turn to chaperone.
This year’s theme was Disney. My son’s pack chose “Toy Story”; an ordinary wagon was decorated with a camouflage tank constructed entirely of cardboard boxes and tubes. A large round bin that had served as a recycling bucket in a previous life was painted to look like Andy’s Bucket of Soldiers. Each scout was decked out in army green pants, jackets, helmets and boots, looking for all the world like those plastic soldiers featured in the film. I guess my son isn’t the only one who frequents the Army/Navy store.
I spied a few other Toy Story wagons that day, as well as a group of scouts in white t-shirts with black spots (a nod to “101 Dalmatians”) and several “Maters” from the film “Cars”. However, there was a plethora of pirates. Apparently the release of Disney’s fourth “Pirates of the Caribbean” film inspired quite a few dens to don eye patches and bandanas in hopes of channeling the soul of Captain Jack Sparrow. This was no surprise given that many Disney films revolve around princesses; of course the scouts were going to choose movies that embrace guns and swords.
The boys visited stations throughout the day that combined scouting skills and general kid fun. The “Magic Carpet Ride” had scouts creating a stretcher from a blanket and two poles, toting teammates around to several points where they could answer questions about Disney movies. At “Space Mountain” they built homemade rockets from colored paper and launched them into space with a contraption made of PVC pipe, duct tape and an empty soda bottle. Several rockets got stuck in the treetops, in direct contrast to the “leave no trace” rule. “Mickey’s Monsoon” sounded ominous (we knew water would be involved), and the kids were delighted to find a rig that resembled a reverse dunk tank. Rather than throwing beanbags and dunking an adult in water, the kids attempted to trigger a water balloon to splatter on the grown-up’s head. Had I known that the other parents and I were going to become part of a wet t-shirt contest I would have packed extra clothes for myself in addition to my son’s.
After lunch the boys got down to the good stuff: BB guns and archery. Although many of our scouts were familiar with paintball and air soft guns, my son was a novice. I’m sure that wearing head to toe camouflage fanned the flames of his excitement as he listened carefully to instructions on how to safely load and shoot his weapon. For five glorious minutes the boys blasted away with Red Ryder BB guns (I resisted the urge to yell “You’ll shoot your eye out.”) Upon hearing “ceasefire” they obeyed like good soldiers and waited till it was safe to retrieve their targets. My son proudly held up his paper and showed me his direct hit in the center of the paper. Apparently all those hours spent playing “Call of Duty” on the Wii had paid off.
The packs headed back to the parade field mid-afternoon for the judging results. Each group had been given voting slips at the beginning of the parade with the opportunity to vote for best wagon design and best costumes. The kids in my son’s pack were ecstatic when they heard their pack number called as the third place winners for both wagon design and costume (First and second place in each category went to pirates…surprise).
At the end of closing ceremonies, the scouts and their families were given the option of setting up camp and staying for a campfire and skits. Tired but happy, my son opted to head home to show his older brother his prized BB target and tell about his day. In all, the Chuckwagon was an experience neither of us would forget.
So you still may not see me at the Klondike Derby next winter, (even if it’s a mild winter) but you can bet I’ll jump aboard the Chuckwagon in 2012.
Throughout my life there have been only a few men who have had a profound influence on me. First to mind is my father who has always been, and continues to be, a steady, stabilizing presence as I navigate the waters of childhood, adolescence, adulthood and parenthood.
My 11th grade Humanities teacher, Mr. Michaud, was a life-loving free spirit who somehow managed to get hundreds of self-centered, hormonal teenagers to share his passion for Federico Fellini films, e.e. cummings poetry and Saul Bellow stories. Every field trip was an adventure; every class was an exercise in absorbing the emotion, beauty and spiritual essence of the world around us. Long before Robin Williams starred in “Dead Poets Society”, Mr. Michaud was urging his East Brunswick High School students to “Seize the Day.” Years later, I would remember Mr. Michaud on my wedding day as a friend read my favorite e.e. cummings poem during the service.
Certainly my husband has been the most influential man in my life. What began as a work relationship blossomed into friendship and then love. He has been my biggest cheerleader throughout our 16 years of marriage, the voice of reason when I fly off the handle, the ever-patient father of my children, my partner in crime and the person who believed in my writing even when I didn’t believe in it myself.
This brings me to the next influential man in my life: My soon-to-be-ex-boss Matt Gill. When my predecessor, Cathy Harrington, chose to retire from writing this column, it was my friend Julianne who pushed me to call and ask for the position. But it was Matt who gave me the job, opening the door and allowing me to find my voice as a writer.
I’m sure I sounded a lot more confident than I felt as we sat down outside the South Shore Natural Science Center for my “job interview”. I was picking my kids up from camp and Matt was heading down to this office in Marshfield. Given that this was my first interview in years, I prepared a resume and brought several writing examples from my blog. I must have said or done something right, because Matt gave me the job and asked me to have my column in within a week.
That was nearly three years and 147 columns ago (but who’s counting?) I have to give Matt credit for allowing me complete creative freedom over my topics. Whether I wrote about pre-sliced cheese, smug Christmas letters, talking to your child about 9/11 or recipes for spam and bean pie, Matt’s feedback has always been overwhelmingly positive. Headlines have never been my strong suit, so I’ve left that particular chore up to him, which yielded such beauties as “Wii are enjoying our new video game system” and (my personal favorite) “My Undying Love for Zombies”.
While I appreciate feedback from family and friends, I look forward each week to Matt’s opinion. There’s something about being critiqued by a fellow writer that carries more weight than anyone else. And I’m flattered that Matt sought my opinion on his articles and columns as well.
Sadly, this will be the final column that Matt critiques as he leaves his position at The Mariner and turns his creative talents to corporate writing. I’ll miss the headlines, the comments, the bad puns and the humorous emails we’ve shared. Though he’ll no longer be my boss, I’m glad that he’ll still continue to be my friend.
Good luck Matt.
Do you remember your first concert?
I put this question to several of my friends this week because I took my son to his very first concert. My friends’ answers ran the gamut of musical tastes. Some were cool: Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, U2 and Jethro Tull. Others were less cool: Andy Gibb, Back Street Boys and New Kids on the Block. Bands like Bob Seger, Charlie Daniels Band and Kool and the Gang fell somewhere in the middle.
My first rock concert was not really rock but pop. It was Shaun Cassidy, brother of teen heartthrob David Cassidy of “The Partridge Family”. I has Shaun’s album (back in the wonderful days of vinyl) and listened to hits like “That’s Rock and Roll” and “Hey Deena” for hours. When his tour came to the tri-state area, someone (my parents?) bought tickets. I have a vague memory of the concert, sitting in nosebleed seats while a tiny white dot the size of an ant belted out “Da Doo Run Run”. I screamed and sang with all the other teenage girls and went home satisfied with my first real concert. I assumed I was 11 or 12 at the time, until my older sister recently burst my bubble. “I took you to that concert, remember?” she reminded me, “I had just gotten my license and we drove all the way out to the Nassau Colliseum”. Doing the math I realized I must have been 15 when I saw that concert. An 11 year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is sweet. A 15-year old seeing Shaun Cassidy is lame.
As I grew older I walked that fine line between cool and lame with subsequent concerts: The Kinks were definitely cool, but Styx (who I still love) falls on the lame side of the fence. Queen was cool, and Cheap Trick was cool and The Ramones were definitely cool (even though they played at Six Flags). U2 and Bruce Springsteen were cool as well. Def Leppard was interesting (saw them in London). Peter Gabriel was quirky. Lyle Lovett, James Taylor and his brother Livingston were all laid back. A recent AC/DC concert was super cool and super loud. Looking back at the handful of concerts I’ve attended, I would definitely say they were more cool than lame. However, I can’t help but think that you are somehow defined by the first concert you go to.
This is why I took such great pleasure in bringing my older son to see My Chemical Romance this past week at The House of Blues. For those of you not familiar with the band, My Chemical Romance’s music, according to Wikipedia, is described as “…a blend of gothic rock, punk, heavy metal, glam rock, metal and progressive rock…” I became enamored with their music when they released their 2006 album, “The Black Parade”, and dragged my husband to the DCU Arena to see their concert. With his tastes trending more towards blues and The Grateful Dead, my husband indulged what he assumed to be a mid-life crisis moment and sat dutifully in his seat as I cheered and yelled and sang my way through the concert.
Fast forward a few years to MCR’s next album, “Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys”. As I perused their website I noticed an upcoming tour date at The House of Blues. I knew either my husband or a friend would indulge me again, so I purchased two tickets. Much to my surprise, in the months between purchasing the tickets and the concert itself, my older son became a fan of the Danger Days album. Back in 2006 he would hold his hands over his ears anytime I’d try to play “The Black Parade” and beg me to put on something else. I guess I couldn’t expect a 9-year-old to appreciate the nuances of their music, but with age comes wisdom and I suddenly found myself living with a full fledged MCR fan. When he asked if he could join me at the concert, I agreed.
After loading all of the band’s music on my son’s iPod, showing him their videos on YouTube and letting him read a few interviews in music magazines, he was frothing at the mouth to go. The bands’ single “Sing” was featured in promos for American Idol and used in an episode of “Glee” (much to Glenn Beck’s dismay). Suddenly MCR was everywhere.
We drove into Boston on the designated evening with my son wearing my Black Parade tour t-shirt (it looks better on him). Arriving at the House of Blues we walked to the end of a line which stretched all the way down Lansdowne Street, through the alley and behind the House of Blues. As we took our place at the back of the line, I noticed many teens and twenty-somethings in the crowd, but also several kids younger than my son and quite a few adults older than myself. As we entered the House of Blues, my son experienced his first security pat-down. We took our place in the floor section, about 50 feet from the stage and waited…and waited…and waited. My son’s concert initiation included not one but two opening acts. He deemed the first “pretty good” and the second “slightly more demonic”. Nearly three hours after we had entered the House of Blues, My Chemical Romance took the stage.
My son and I spent the next 90 minutes jumping, dancing, cheering loudly and singing along with each song. As the band blasted their hits, I snuck a peak at his jubilant face and knew that bringing him had been the right decision. When the music ended, we bought a souvenir t-shirt and walked out of the House of Blues, slightly more deaf than when we walked in. We returned home at midnight, tired but happy.
Years from now someone will ask him about his first concert. Hopefully he will smile and remember the night when he and his mom bonded over a “cool” rock and roll band.
