Remembering 9/11

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.

Astaink no more...

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.

The Perfect Summer meal

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.

It's Like Riding a Bike...

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's a Mom to Do?

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?

The Orchid Thief...

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.

Approaching Senior Moments...

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.

Hop in the Wayback Machine

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.

Taking Refuge in the Library

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.

Fairwell Harry Potter

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.”

Life's a Beach

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.

A Fun Fourth

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.