TV's Version of "History"

My children are huge history buffs.

“History”, of course, being defined by what they see on television’s The History Channel. You might be familiar with this channel. When it first aired on cable, people used to refer to it as The Hitler Channel, since 90% of their programming seemed to be documentaries about World War II.

Over the years The History Channel has broadened its programming to include an enormous assortment of shows, many which I question as being relative to “history”.
True, there are still the documentaries about WWII. Last week the channel held a Veteran’s Day marathon of the program “Patton 360”, a series which focuses on the battles led by “Old Blood and Guts” himself, mixing archival footage, interviews with veterans and state of the art 3-D animation. My kids were riveted, and I must admit that I got sucked into the Battle of the Bulge episode.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that my kids have an interest in history. Last year, my younger son was given the “class historian” award from his third grade teacher. She commended him for knowing so much about history, to the point where she learned from him. Often, my kids will spout some piece of information about the Mayans or Pompeii or the San Francisco earthquake or some other historical reference and when I ask them where they learned that, the answer is almost always, “From the History Channel.”

So the truly historical information they are retaining is wonderful. My younger son is talking about wanting to become a historian when he grows up. Although their interest in history is being sparked by a television channel, they are expanding that interest with books and other resources. All well and good.

However, it’s the other programming on The History Channel that I question. For example, they can identify almost every type of military weapon, modern or antique, from watching shows like “Lock and Load with R. Lee Ermey” and “Top Shot”. There’s something about my nine-year-old being able to tell an M16 from an AK-47 that makes me uneasy. This is history?

And then there’s “Monster Quest”, the program that delves into the history of Bigfoot, Birdzilla, The Jersey Devil, giant killer snakes, dragons and the Chupacabra (not to mention several other monsters I’ve never heard of). “Ice Road Truckers” follows truckers in Alaska who haul supplies across a 350-mile highway made of frozen lakes and permafrost. Since the frozen highway lasts for only 8 weeks, a spin-off series entitled “IRT: Deadliest Highways” takes these truckers to India to let them drive trucks along the narrowest mountain passes. When I ask my kids how this pertains to history, they parrot back the History Channel’s catchphrase, “Mom, it’s history made every day.”

Personally, I do enjoy “Pawn Stars”, a series about a family-owned pawn shop in Las Vegas. It’s kind of like PBS’s “Antiques Road Show”, only not as classy (Hey, it’s Vegas). People bring in items ranging from old motorcycles to Pez dispensers, though the items are secondary to the grouchy banter between the three generations of men who run the place. In each episode, Chumlee, a bumbling employee, is guaranteed to break something or screw up in some way. Hilarity ensues.

For those who like their antiques on the less seedy side, there’s “American Pickers” which follows antique store owners Mike and Frank as they travel cross country in their van searching for found treasure to be “picked” from other people’s attics, basements, barns and sheds. My big mistake was watching this show before heading to the Brimfield antique fair. Every dented, oil can and rusty tin sign caught my eye, practically shouting “What, you’re going to pass me by? If Frank were here, he’d buy me.” My in-laws have several buildings full of stuff. I’m tempted to drop a dime on them with the Pickers.

I guess we’re a History Channel household. There’s something for everyone, whether you prefer the gloom and doom of “Nostradamus” and “Life after People”, the Ragin’ Cajun folk on “Swamp People” (“...Clint Landry owns a turtle farm and camp where he and his buddies like to swim in the alligator-infested bayou and play pranks on each other…”) or just a good, old-fashioned documentary on the Third Reich. And though I sometimes question the “historical” aspect of some of its programs, it’s a heck of an improvement over the tripe being shown on Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network.

Hmm. There’s an idea. Maybe we can get the cast of “iCarly” or “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody” to go bayou swimming with the Swamp people. Now that would make history.

What Moms Do

Last week I read a news story about a political candidate’s mother stealing a lawn sign bearing the name of her son’s opponent. My first reaction was to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Then I imagined the embarrassment the mother must have felt, being caught red-handed. Add in the embarrassment of the political candidate, who will now be known as “… that guy whose Mommy stole a sign for him on election day.” How do you live that down in your political career?

After reading the entire article, it became clear that the mother was embarrassed, the son disavowed any involvement in the incident and I was left thinking about the things that we mothers do for our children.

Granted, I have never stolen a political sign for my child (I did take one once just for fun, but I had had a drink or two and the name on the sign was just too tempting: Herb Lemon. Political candidate? Or chicken dish?) I’ve also never hired a hit man to bump off the mother of one of my child’s sports rivals, as Wanda Holloway did in Texas in 1991. Holloway thought that if she killed the mother of her daughter’s cheerleading rival, the girl would be so overcome with grief she’d drop out of the competition for a coveted place on the cheerleading squad.

The movies are full of female characters that go to great lengths for their children: Barbara Stanwyck as “Stella Dallas”, Joan Crawford’s “Mildred Pierce”, and of course Shirley MacLaine’s frantic turn around the nurse’s station, screaming for her daughter’s medication in “Terms of Endearment”. Though I haven’t had histrionics in the middle of a hospital, I do try to be the “squeaky wheel” when it comes to being an advocate for my child.

Here’s the problem. We all want to do everything we can for our children. But each day is a balancing act of just how much is too much? We don’t want to be classified as a helicopter mom, the ones who hover constantly over everything their child does. But childhood can be a minefield of tricky situations. When should we step and in when should we step back?

For example, if my child has an issue with another child, my first inclination is to let them work it out themselves. As long as my child isn’t being bullied or abused, it’s healthy to let them try to work out the situation without parent intervention. However, if that other child crosses the line, I have no qualms about picking up the phone and speaking with the teacher, or the other child’s parent. I would expect that parent to do the same if their child was on the receiving end and my kid was to blame (and guess what…I have gotten those phone calls. They are not fun.)

Homework is another issue. My friend, who is a mom herself, always asks me how many hours my parents spent cracking the whip while I did my homework. My parents were always available if I needed help, but they operated under the general assumption that I was completing my homework each day, on my own (I was). There was no constant redirecting of my attention to the books; they simply asked me if my homework was finished before I went to bed. Maybe this hands-off, sink-or-swim approach would work better than the constant badgering directed at my 7th grader each night.

When it comes to academics, social situations, sports and other activities, we just want our kids to do well and feel good about themselves. But what about those times when they do poorly? What about those times when they don’t feel good about themselves? When a child gets cut from a sports team, receives a poor grade on a test, or is not invited to a birthday party, do we step in and try to “fix” it or do we use it as a teaching moment? The road ahead is full of challenges. Do we soften the blow now or do we let them toughen up for those situations in their future when they will really be challenged.

There is no right or wrong answer. Some of us will hover. Others will let their kids tough it out on their own. I try to look to my own mother as an example. She didn’t steal lawn signs or hire hit men or call my teachers every week. She didn’t demand to know why I wasn’t invited to birthday parties or try to scrounge up some long lost cousin for a prom date. She didn’t chase the neighborhood boys away with threats, but she did visit my 8th grade principal to stop a classmate who was bullying me. She didn’t hover, but in everything she ever said or did for me, she let me know just how much she loved and supported me.

What better example to follow than that?

Trying to Live in the Moment

I love the fall. It’s my favorite season. Every year at this time, I drive through the streets of my town and marvel at the incredible palate of colors on display. Each day brings more beautiful colors than the one before, and I consider myself truly blessed to live amongst such a breathtaking display of nature. There’s something about an October sky that sets off these leaves to their best advantage. It seems as if the outline of each leaf stands out against the sharp, blue sky. Indian summer is always nice, but my favorite part of the season is the crisp cool air with just a hint of wood smoke. The air is also filled with the scent of dried leaves, and they make a crunching, shushing sound as you walk through them.

It’s true that I complain about our bitterly cold winters and our hot, humid summers. But I know that if I moved to an area with a different climate, I would miss those few weeks each year when the trees change from shades of green to rich hues of gold and red and orange.

Alas, I’ve noticed lately that there are now more leaves on the ground than on the trees. Thanks to a few rainy, windy days, many of the trees have shed most of their leaves. My front lawn is completely covered with leaves. At this point in the season, the beauty of fall suddenly becomes tinged with a bittersweet sadness. Rather than enjoying the last few days of nature’s unique art show, I begin envisioning bare branches, icy cold weather and a winter that seems to last for eternity.

Why do I have such a hard time appreciating the “now”? Why can’t I just live in the moment and not try to rush whatever might be in store for me tomorrow?

This is a common problem for me. I prepare a meal and, rather than taking my time to enjoy it, I rush through it to get to the next item on my “to do” list (in this case, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher). When I go to the theater to see a much anticipated movie, I check my watch several times throughout, wanting to get this experience “done” rather than just enjoying each minute of it. When my children were little I wished that they could be just a little bit older, so they could do more for themselves. Now they’re rapidly approaching the age where they won’t need me for much more than a ride to the mall and some cash for their wallets.

Maybe I should blame it on society. My first column dealt with the fact that people consider July 4th the mid-point of summer. Before the true mid-point of summer arrives, stores are touting their “back to school” items. This year I saw my first Christmas commercial on October 10th. We hadn’t even reached Halloween yet and suddenly it’s time to get ready for Christmas. We worry about our third grader’s MCAS results because one day (ten years in the future) that same score may prevent them from graduating high school. So can you blame me for having a hard time appreciating the “now”?

My friend Julianne is a Health and Wellness coach. Part of her mantra is to focus on the moment. Don’t dwell on yesterday (it’s gone) and don’t worry about tomorrow. The most important thing is to concentrate on this moment in time.
Julianne’s good advice applies to more than just exercise and eating habits. Rather than worrying about how to pay for my child’s college tuition in six years, why not just enjoy the progress report that came home with all “A”s? Instead of worrying about my parents’ future health, why not be thankful for their current good health and enjoy all that it allows them to do? Instead of beating myself up for the junk food I ate yesterday, why not embrace the healthy choices I’m making today?
And instead of picturing cold, icy roads and barren branches, why not enjoy the spectacular display of colors that is right in front of my eyes until the very last leaf falls to the ground?

Hey, it’s a start.

Get Ready For Halloween

Halloween is Sunday. Are you ready? Have you draped your house in cobwebs, set-up fake gravestones and dusted off your favorite Spooky Sounds CD? Have you been to the Spirit Halloween store countless times to see what new and disgusting items are available this week? Have you scoured the internet looking for that obscure piece of your child’s Halloween costume, a character so below the radar that not only is the costume impossible to find, but your child is guaranteed to prompt endless inquiries of “And what are you supposed to be?”

If not, you better get going. Halloween was a big deal when I was a kid, for the sole purpose of the pursuit of candy. Yes, we wanted cool costumes, but that took a backseat to the potential trove of sweets awaiting us on Halloween. Back then, costumes were limited to the ones that came folded in cardboard boxes with clear plastic fronts, all the better to see the cheaply made masks of Wonder Woman or Superman. There were no specialty party stores where you could chose from hundreds of clever (and crass) costumes. It was either a boxed costume or your own imagination (and your mom’s sewing machine). When all else failed, we raided our father’s closets and went out as bums (what my kids now call hobos).

The costume selection has changed significantly over the years. During the fall, party stores devote a huge amount of floor space to elaborate costumes for both children and adults. And speaking of adults, since when did Halloween become more of an adult celebration than one for kids? I don’t recall my parents ever dressing up and attending Halloween parties. This year I was invited to three adult gatherings, each mandating that attendees come in costume. Adult parties prompt the dilemma of what type of costume to choose: Funny, clever, scary or sexy?

I enjoy the funny and clever costumes the most. A friend’s husband attended a party with what looked to be a large magnet around his neck and little yellow chicks glued to it (chick magnet.) A friend of mine once dressed in a grey sweat suit with shipping labels, packing peanuts and bubble wrap glued to him. He was a shipping magnate. It’s also fun when couples coordinate their efforts. One year my friend and her husband bought matching tacky tourist costumes, but added a twist: she dressed as the husband, complete with mustache and he dressed as the wife, with anatomical (ahem) enhancements. That same year my other friends decided to tap into pop culture crafting their own coordinating costumes: Britney Spears and K-Fed. It was frightening how well they nailed the look, she with a cheap blond wig and a baby doll hanging precariously off her waist and he in a white tank top and porkpie hat. I give them props for creating their own husband/wife costume, rather than resorting to the tired plug and socket combo from the party store.

Last year I attended a party dressed as a midwife from Hell, complete with bloody scrubs, surgical mask and a two-headed baby doll in tow. When it comes to Halloween parties, I’d rather have a silly or scary costume, but many women prefer to go the sexy route. Check out Iparty or ItzAParty and you’ll find that 90% of women’s costumes are short, skimpy, sexy outfits that have little to do with their subject matter. Lucky us! No longer are we limited to being Naughty Nurses or French Maids. Now you can be a High Speed Hottie (NASCAR), Caddy Shack Cutie (Golf), Naughty Wizard (Harry Potter) or the worst offender of all: Sexy SpongeBob. Imagine leaving your kids with the babysitter as you sashay out the door in your Sexy SpongeBob outfit? At least the manufacturers have thoughtfully included plus-size versions of these costumes so those of us who aren’t a perfect size 4 can join in the madness.

Why the flood of risqué costumes? My friend Jessie claims its all part of what she calls the “Snookification” of America. Too many hours spent watching programs such as “Jersey Shore” and “Rock of Love”, resulting in a warped view of how women should dress and act. Think I’m kidding? Iparty has a “Jersey Shore Snooki” leopard dress costume this year. Just add your own barf bag and arrest record and you’re all set to party.

Sexy or scary, clever or crass, or simply chaperoning your little princess or goblin, here’s hoping that no matter how you choose to celebrate Halloween, you give yourself over to the spirit(s) of the season.

Trick or Treat.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Recently I wrote about the milestone birthdays I’ve helped celebrate this year. This weekend, I will celebrate one of the most important of all.

This Friday is my dad’s 80th birthday.

You might know my dad from the bits and pieces I’ve included in my columns over the years. He’s the man who crafted my favorite Halloween costume of all time; a pack of Tareyton cigarettes. It was also my dad who took me to scary movies when I was a teen, though he would always see the movie first to be sure I could handle it. (“The Exorcist” when I was thirteen? What were you thinking Dad?)

It’s my dad who likes to order Christmas presents from the “Everything 3 for $20” catalog (I have two sisters…). Speaking of Christmas, it was my dad who happened to be standing next to my younger sister in church on Christmas Eve when she set her hair on fire during the candlelight service. Luckily, Dad beat out the flames before anyone noticed. You may also recall that my dad has eaten countless servings of Spam and Bean pie as well as the black jelly beans that no one wanted at Easter. Dad’s the one who tapes the Thanksgiving Day parade, so we can play back any mishaps ad nauseaum.

Dad’s the one who clued me in to our real family history, complete with gravediggers, jugglers and prostitutes. He’s the one who gave us rides on his back in our swimming pool, took us to the Jersey shore for two weeks every summer and who sent me a letter shortly after my college graduation telling me just how proud he was. He’s the man who still does the NY Time crossword puzzle in about 20 minutes…in pen.

These are all tidbits about my dad that you may or may not remember from my columns. But those are just a fraction of the things that make up my dad.
My dad was the first kid on his block to own a television. He charged his friends comic books to come and watch it. He has a divot in his forehead where one of those friends hit him with a rock.

My dad can build or fix anything. Our house is filled with bookcases and cabinets built by my father. When something breaks, the first person I seek out is my dad.
My dad is smart, MENSA smart. Yet he still enjoys watching “America’s Funniest Home Videos” and “Kung Fu Theater.” A doctor of education, he spent more than 30 years working as an elementary school principal in a tough neighborhood. After disciplining unruly students all day, my dad came home to three unruly daughters. But he stuck it out, year after year, in order to provide for his family.

Somehow my dad managed to send all three of his kids to college, including his middle daughter who chose a fancy, private college which didn’t offer much in the way of financial aid (hint…it’s me). He then proceeded to pay off that same daughter’s student loans. He bailed me out when I proved myself unable to manage my first credit card. He loaned money on several occasions and held me to a payment schedule to teach me the responsibility of paying back a debt.

My dad was the one who went driving around at 2 a.m. searching for his teenage daughters who ignored their curfew and didn’t think to call home. This was long before cell phones, and now that I’m a parent myself, I can’t imagine how awful that must have felt.

My dad gave each of us away at our weddings and danced with us at the reception, though he wasn’t much for dancing. He surprised us by joining an amateur theater group and played small roles in productions of “The Crucible” (as a magistrate) and “You Can’t Take It With You” (Mr. Kirby). He laughed about a reviewer’s assessment of his “wooden” performance. After he retired, he surprised us again by becoming a Mason. Zooming up the ranks of the order my agnostic father was appointed the group’s chaplain. He assured me this was proof that even God has a sense of humor.

Dad slices pizzas with scissors, loves licorice All Sorts, and once scared the hell out of his 2-year old grandson by plunking a Santa hat on his head and booming “ho ho ho” (we have it on video). He is generous beyond belief, devours library books by the dozen and is nearly deaf as a post. His back deck is the world’s largest buffet for the neighborhood birds and squirrels. He is on AOL Instant Message almost every day, and I chat with him every chance I get (it’s easier than shouting over the phone). He has been married to my mother for over 50 years, and has been a steady, stabilizing influence on his three daughters for nearly that long.

What do you get for someone who has done so much? A gift just seems inadequate. So Dad, this column is my gift for you.

Happy 80th Birthday, Dad. I love you.

Friday Night Lights

This weekend I got my first real taste of “Friday Night Lights”.

Let me be clear up front: I am not a football fan. Though I hail from the land of the Giants (and the Jets), football was never really a sport that interested me. I’m married to a Patriot’s fan, so I’m willing to give up television time for the sake of my spouse. Occasionally I’ll watch the Super Bowl, but only for the commercials.

I do enjoy watching other sports. Baseball is fine, though a little slow. Basketball, hockey and soccer are fast paced and exciting. But watching football at home, on television is my equivalent to watching paint dry…or grass grow. It’s just oh so slow.

Perhaps the problem lies with the fact that I have no idea how the game is played. This is what I have learned from watching football: One team has the ball. They go five feet. They stop. They go ten more feet. They stop. Somehow, someone else gets the ball and they go ten feet the other way. They stop. The referees have microphones so everyone in the neighboring state can hear what kind of penalty is being issued. And they dress like Foot Locker employees. The cheerleaders have perpetual smiles pasted on their faces and double stick tape on their short-shorts to avoid unpleasant wardrobe malfunctions on national television. And the commercials are all for mass-produced American beer, Doritos and Chevy trucks.

Granted, I’ve seen exciting moments in football. For example, the Doug Flutie “Hail Mary” pass. Imagine if Gerard Phelan hadn’t caught that ball? Talk about the agony of defeat. Speaking of defeat, how about the moment that ended Joe Theismann’s career? Whenever I mention the words “Joe Theismann” in my husband’s presence he winces in pain and tries to think of something else. Then there was the Patriots’ Super Bowl win over the St. Louis Rams in January 2002. I remember that game well in that it was one of the rare times that I’ve seen my husband cry (a feat to be repeated a few years later when the Red Sox won the World Series).

My kids have never had much interest in football, neither watching nor playing. Both of them enjoy soccer instead. However, many of my fourth grader’s friends are playing football this fall, and he asked if sometime we could watch a game so he could cheer his buddies on. Most of the football games conflicted with our Saturday morning soccer schedule, but this weekend’s game was scheduled in the evening, so we bundled up in warm coats and boots and headed off to the game.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for football, there’s something about sitting on freezing cold bleachers on a crisp, autumn evening that seems so right. As we walked to the field, the setting sun filtered through the red and gold leaves while a teenage girl sang the national anthem. Since we were the visiting team, our hike to the visitor’s bleachers was lengthy. Our opponents that evening were the Scituate-Cohasset Sharks, a team with the unlikely nickname of “Sci-Cohs” (pronounced like the Alfred Hitchcock film.) I guess that’ better than being known as “Sickos” but it still seemed odd every time the announcer made a comment about a member of the “psycho sharks”.

We don’t have announcers in soccer. When my kids play, no one is sitting up in the booth giving shout outs to players over a loudspeaker. Given my ignorance of the game, the announcements were quite helpful to me. Whenever one of my son’s friends got a mention, I’d let out a huge cheer. Luckily, none of them were injured or taken off the field on a stretcher as that might have made my cheering a bit embarrassing.

My sons discovered another bonus to football: the snack shack. Dollar after dollar found their way into my kids’ hands for popcorn, hot chocolate, Swedish fish and Reese’s peanut butter cups. I consoled myself with the fact that the walk from the visitor’s bench to the snack shack was long enough to burn off the calories of anything they ate.

Did I learn anything from watching the 4th and 6th graders play? Well, if anything it was more difficult to understand the game itself, without the advent of overhead cameras, telestrators and instant replay. But from sitting in the bleachers, I could feel the camaraderie of the parents as they cheered for each other’s kids. I could see the devotion of the coaches as they rotated players in and out, trying to insure that each kid had his fair share of playing time. I watched the younger brothers running up and down the sidelines, tossing footballs to each other and anticipating the day when they could become part of a team. And I marveled at the way my son, who has no real interest in football, jumped up and down, cheering and waving to his friends on the field as they each played their part in an hour of glory under the stadium lights on a crisp October night.

I get it now.

When Kids Can Watch Themselves

Last weekend my husband and I planned a movie date. Like many couples, we spend most of our weekend time with our children, shuttling them to sports activities, overseeing weekend homework and sharing that rare family occurrence when everyone sits at the dinner table at the same time.

So “Date Night” seemed like a good idea. We chose the movie, checked the theater times, fed the kids dinner, bid them goodbye and were off.

Do you recognize what’s missing in this series of events? The noticeable absence of a babysitter. Until recently, any outing that involved both my husband and me required a babysitter to watch our two children. Unlike many of my friends, my husband and I have no family in the area to help with the kids, so we’ve relied heavily on sitters over the years. Most of my babysitters began sitting for me when they were twelve. Now my own “baby” is twelve, and over the past year I’ve been allowing him to take responsibility for watching himself and his younger brother without a sitter.


I tried to calculate just how much money I’ve spent on babysitters these past twelve years. $ 5 -$8 per hour multiplied by all the hours spent at book club, Newcomers, my Pampered Chef business, dates with my husband, weddings and funerals equals enough to purchase a luxury vacation for my husband and myself (a vacation we couldn’t take because that would require…a babysitter).

This led me to reflect on my own experience as a babysitter. As an early teen, my Saturday nights were spent sitting on a scratchy couch keeping an eagle eye on Adam Gilbert, age 4. Surrounded by metallic wallpaper (this was, after all, the 70’s), I’d watch “Love Boat” and “Fantasy Island”, sneaking chips or cookies from the pantry in unnoticeable increments, despite the Gilbert’s admonishment to “Help yourself to whatever you’d like.” Sometime after midnight I’d be roused from sleep by the sound of the garage door opener, at which point Mr. Gilbert would drive me home as quickly as possible, always in silence, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of making conversation. For this I earned the princely sum of $1 per hour, an amount that seems like slave wages compared to today, but one that paid for a steady supply of candy necklaces, Tiger Beat magazines and worthless trinkets from Spencer Gifts.

Now that my son is the same age that I was when I began sitting, I’ve eased him into the idea of being home alone. At the start of fifth grade he was given a key to the front door and strict instructions to call my cell phone if I’m not home when he gets off the bus. In sixth grade, he graduated to getting himself in the door and getting his brother off the bus shortly afterwards. I would always arrive home soon after, since leaving these two boys together was like leaving a lit match in the company of a powder keg. On the rare evening when I needed to go to book club or a school event before my husband arrived home, I would entrust my boys to watch each other for the overlapping hour. Even this resulted in no panicked phone calls to my cell phone or bloodshed.

Then last month, the true test: We left our kids home on a Saturday night in order to attend a friend’s party. The party was five minutes from home, and our children had already been fed dinner, minimizing the risk of cooking or choking incidents. From 7-11pm, we mingled with other grown-ups without worrying about how much the evening was costing us in babysitter fees. A friend at the party whose kids are older than ours, said, “It’s great when the kids are old enough to watch themselves. See, it was totally worth having them!”

We arrived home that night to find the house and children still intact, and that’s when it dawned on me that my husband and I could now get some of that all-important alone time that was sacrificed when our kids were little. We no longer have to wait for a “special occasion” to get out for a few hours on our own. We don’t have to go to the bank or make change to pay the babysitter, or take turns driving her home. We don’t have to take out a second mortgage in order to pay for dinner, a movie and a babysitter.

We do, however, have to figure out a way to get the kids to put themselves to bed before we arrive home past their bedtime.

Baby steps.

On Milestone Birthdays

This has been a year of milestone birthdays.

Thankfully, none of these milestone birthdays have been mine. My next “big” birthday ushers in a whole new era, allowing me to apply for membership in AARP and checking off that box on surveys for people “50 and above…” But that’s three years from now, so let’s return to the milestones I helped celebrate this year.

In June, my mother-in-law celebrated her 70th birthday. On the last day of school we picked up our kids and drove to central New York to share this momentous occasion. As a child I thought 70 to be a particularly ancient age, but my in-laws run their farm, volunteer and participate in several social organizations in their community. I’m often exhausted when I read emails from my mother-in-law Sara, detailing the myriad of weekend activities. If I’m this tired on the dark side of 40, how does she manage to stay so active at 70? Maybe Sara can clue me in to the secret of increasing your energy as you get older. Good clean country living…or Geritol?

In September, my nephew turned 21. Sadly, the emphasis of this milestone birthday is the ability to drink alcohol legally. Since you can drive at 17 and vote and serve in the armed forces at 18, the one remaining activity restricted to age 21 is drinking. Visiting the party store last weekend, I noticed that all the “milestone” themed items for ages 30, 40 & 50 were very different from the “21” items. The majority of these novelties revolved around alcohol. My nephew is a smart kid, his one vice an excess of video games. I’m hoping that now that he’s “legal”, he’ll stay smart and drink only in moderation.

Recently, my sons’ taekwondo teacher invited my husband and me to a local pub to celebrate her husband’s 30th birthday. 30? An unpleasant truth settled in my brain: I was old enough to be his mother. Pushing that thought aside, I tried, without success, to recall how I spent my own 30th birthday. I have no memory of it whatsoever. I can, however, remember my husband’s 30th. Vividly. It was my first visit to his parents’ house. His stepfather had planned a barbecue for the occasion, but as he fired up the hibachi, it began to rain. Undeterred, his stepfather brought the hibachi inside, setting it on top of the woodstove. Smoke filled the house as my future husband ran from room to room opening windows: A truly unforgettable milestone birthday.

Last weekend, I helped organize a party for a friend who turned 40. She accepted this milestone with good grace, though she looks about 25 so perhaps that makes all the difference. On my 40th birthday I spent the day in my bathrobe, crying and feeling sorry for myself. Then the two dozen roses arrived from my husband and I managed to pull it together. When he arrived home with a spa gift certificate and tickets to the musical “Mamma Mia”, 40 suddenly didn’t seem so bad. The day ended with several friends taking me to dinner, and I finished that milestone on a high note.

Next month I travel to New Jersey to celebrate my father’s 80th birthday. This milestone is bittersweet: my dad is reaching it but many of his friends and past acquaintances did not. Though his mind is as sharp as ever (he still does the NY Times crossword puzzle in about 20 minutes…in pen), his body is feeling its age, something that concerns us both. I’m thankful that he is reaching this birthday, but then again I am grateful for every year that he and my mother bless my life.
Which brings me to my final thought: Isn’t every birthday a milestone? Is 30 that different from 29? Will 50 be that much different than 40? All of the milestone birthdays this year had one thing in common: they reinforced the notion that time passes all too quickly, and we need to appreciate every day, every hour, every minute that passes, regardless of whether this particular birthday happens to have a zero on the end of it.

So when my next milestone birthday comes, think I’ll be okay with it. I’ll celebrate with a smile, a prayer of thanks and a cup of coffee purchased with my senior citizen discount.

Antiques Roadshow

It’s comforting to know that there’s a place where you can buy a prosthetic leg, a stained glass window, or an ammunition container, if you need one.
And that place is the Brimfield Antique Show.

Brimfield Massachusetts is home to three thousand residents. But for one week each May, July and September, the town welcomes over 250,000 visitors and 5000 antique dealers. True antiques muscle for space with found objects, collectibles, knickknacks, clothing, tools, books and pretty much anything else you can imagine.
Let me just state for the record, I’m not an antique aficionado; I wouldn’t know a priceless antique from a worthless piece of junk. But with the advent of programs like “Antiques Roadshow”, “Pawn Stars” and “American Pickers”, my interest in secondhand treasure has piqued.

I inadvertently purchased a “collectible” in 1987, buying a sealed copy of a limited edition Stephen King novel. “I can’t wait to read it“, I enthused to the bookseller, causing him to literally look down his nose at me and reply, “You don’t buy this book to read it.” At which point I shrank to about six inches in height, paid for my “collectible” and slunk out the door. The book is still encased in plastic, buried in my attic, now worth about $250. I read the paperback instead.
I first visited Brimfield 15 years ago, with an interior designer friend. As we trolled through trash and treasure, I noticed a vendor displaying what looked like large wooden hatboxes. This was during my hatbox-collecting phase (they’re all in the attic now too). The vendor explained that these were, in fact, cheese boxes, once used to store giant wheels of cheese. While I debated about whether to buy one or two, (there were three for sale) my friend offered up this interior design nugget: “You should only group things in threes and fives.” Who knew? I bought all three and they still reside in my living room (not the attic).

I haven’t been back to Brimfield since, though a friend and I often talked about going. Bad weather cancelled an attempt last fall, but this year the week’s weather turned out sunny and cool.

My friends picked me up at 5:30 Saturday morning and we were off. As our coffee kicked in, we talked non-stop all the way to Brimfield, to the point where we completely miss our exit, necessitating an 8-mile backtrack. Riding up Rt. 20 into Brimfield, we marveled at the lack of traffic. Apparently everyone else decided to sleep in. As we drove along the main road, flanked by fields of tents, we could see someone already rolling an early morning purchase to their car, an antique claw foot bathtub. We parked our car in the middle of town and began to wander through the vendors. Some were still closed, others just opening for business, but many were ready to bargain with eager customers.

Not wanting to spend great amounts of money, a friend suggested I play “the dollar game”. She had been to Brimfield many times and always tried to find the best item for one dollar. As we walked through the stalls, my cohorts began racking up purchases: a tin wall decoration ($20); a decorative tree made from twigs ($25); and the one item my kids would have fought over: an authentic army ammunition box ($20). I debated about that one, but suggested my friend purchase it for her son instead. Not wanting to lag behind, I bought a mason jar with the words Queen Wide Mouth and an old anesthesia bottle for my 9-year-old’s bottle collection. Vintage comic books, one for each son, depleted another two dollars from my wallet, but who can resist a title like “Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos”? I bought a metal “X” for my son Xander and a two-dollar wooden shoe last. My friends found other bargains, such as a stained glass window for $50 and a wooden wall carving for $30. And my “dollar game” purchase? A magazine from 1960 entitled “Calling All Girls” which lent a peek into the decade in which I was born.

We spent the day laughing over items like the single-legged-lion-head-end-table and the abundance of scary clown art. As we headed home, our bodies tired from miles of walking, we recapped the events of the day and declared it a huge success.
But the best part of our excursion wasn’t the items packed in the trunk of our car; it was the time we spent together. Our wallets may have been a bit poorer, but we drove home rich with memories.

A Different Sort of Homecoming

This past weekend I attended Homecoming. Often when you hear that word, Homecoming, your thoughts turn immediately to football. Homecoming brings to mind images of a crisp, autumn day; cheerleaders shaking pom-poms, their cheeks rosy from the cold as heavily padded football players take the field; pretty girls wearing pastel gowns and cheap tiaras, smiling and waving to a crowd of cheering onlookers, bundled up in LL Bean and North Face jackets, a cup of steaming coffee or cider warming their hands.

But this weekend was a Homecoming of a different sort. This Homecoming was held at my church, The United Church of Christ in Norwell. For many, Labor Day is the official end of summer, but for me it is my church’s Homecoming Weekend. On that day, our Sunday service returns to its regular 10:00 a.m. time slot. Those of us (and I consider myself one of the worst offenders) who spent summer Sunday mornings sleeping in, reading the paper and making our leisurely way to places like Canobie Lake Park, Duxbury Beach or the New England Aquarium now set our alarm clocks in order to be showered, fed and in our seats by 10:00 a.m.

Summer is a time for vacations. Families take vacations from their everyday lives. Workers take vacations from their jobs. Kids take a vacation from their studies. And I, unfortunately, despite my best efforts, tend to take a vacation from the things that are good for me: healthy eating, exercise and religion.

During the summer I have every intention of eating fresh fruits and healthy salads. I tell myself that I will bring the kids with me to the gym, or go while they are in camp. And I will absolutely, without a doubt, continue to attend church every Sunday. Unfortunately, burgers and margaritas are awfully tempting, and when the kids are in camp it’s much more fun to go to the beach than the gym. And though our church’s summer service lasts only 45 minutes, most Sundays I just couldn’t seem to get myself out of bed in time.

Muscles that are not worked regularly become flabby, and the same holds true for my soul when I skip church for too long. It doesn’t help that my weekly Wednesday morning bible study takes a break during the summer months. While tidying my bedside table, I was disheartened to find a thin film of dust on my bible. A friend and I had decided to do a bible study together on our own this summer, had even gone so far as to order the workbooks online. We made it through one chapter.
That’s not to say that God wasn’t present in my life during the summer months. I found myself praying all summer long; for friends who needed strength; for my husband as he lay in the emergency room with acute appendicitis; for my children as they traveled on the bus to and from camp. Still, it just wasn’t the same

So clearly, Homecoming was an event that could not be missed. As I parked my car, I wondered if anyone would reproach me for being away so long. The first face I saw was my friend Cathy, who runs the church school program. “There she is!” she cried exuberantly as she threw open her arms wide for a hug. We caught up for a few minutes on our respective lives before I walked up the stairs and into the sanctuary. I nodded and greeted other familiar faces as my sons and I settled in our seats.

Throughout the service, I realized just how much had I missed the sounds of our impressive choir, the sweet strains of the organ, the steady sureness of our minister’s sermons. I missed hearing the sincere prayers voiced by other members of the congregation, reciting The Lord’s Prayer while holding hands with the person on either side of me, and greeting those around me with a warm handshake and the word, “Peace”.

It was all so familiar, and yet there were subtle changes as well. A young couple sitting behind me had a new baby in tow. There were new faces in the choir. Friendship Home, which was still a construction site last spring, is nearly complete. And my older son, who used to enjoy going up to the front of the church during the “time for children” opted to stay in his seat instead, whispering ,”Mom, I’m too old for that.”

When the service was over, I collected my things and made my way to the back of the church. A woman came up to me and said, “I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” There was no reproach in her voice, just a warmth that told me she was genuinely glad to see me again. I admitted that I had been the invisible woman all summer. “However,” I said, “I’m back now.”

With a smile, she replied, “That’s all that matters.”

I now know why they call it Homecoming.

Food Fight

There is unrest brewing in my town. People are taking sides and there is a line being drawn in the sand. And sadly, that line is made up of…hot dogs.

Each September, the start of the school year brings new teachers, new friends and new adventures in learning. This year, our town also introduced a brand new school lunch menu. With childhood obesity growing at an alarming rate, a group of concerned residents and school staff members created a Healthy Kids Initiative with the goal of providing our children with better food choices during school hours.
In general the whole buy-lunch-or-bring-lunch debate splits right down the middle at my house. My older son prefers to bring lunch every day, while my younger son prefers to buy it. Though it takes me very little time, I don’t enjoy preparing the older one’s lunch each day (Yes, he’s old enough to make his own lunch. Perhaps it’s time to suggest that). So the lazy part of me has always enjoyed the fact that my younger son prefers to buy. True, I sometimes have to scrounge through seat cushions or the bottom of my purse to come up with the change for lunch each day, but it’s a small price to pay for having one less task in our usual chaotic morning.

The downside to my son buying lunch each day is the possibility of him living on hot dogs and bagels. He’s the type of kid who likes to try new things, but on days when he’s unwilling to risk his taste buds on something exotic, a hot dog or bagel is his trusty stand-by.

The night before school began, I looked up the lunch menu online and immediately noticed that hot dogs were no longer an option. The plain bagel is now replaced by a whole wheat bagel. I told my son that the menu option was ham and cheese on a croissant and that hot dogs were no longer available. His response: “Okay, I’ll bring my lunch instead.”

The next afternoon, while on Facebook, I was surprised by the volume of comments posted on multiple friends’s pages regarding the new lunch menus. No hot dogs? No plain bagels? Some kids chose to skip lunch all together, rather than trying one of the healthy options, and came off the bus starving. Parents who were ready to pay for the entire year in advance were ripping up their checks. It was incredible to see people prepared to eschew an entire year of school lunches after just one day.
You would think that our new lunch menu consisted solely of Brussels sprouts and tofu. Not true. Nachos, chili, hamburgers and meatball subs are still part of the menu. However in each instance the food is prepared with lean meat. Nachos and tacos are served with fresh shredded cheese instead of canned cheese product (If you look at the list of ingredients on the old cheese used for nachos, cheese is the fourth ingredient listed. Not first. Yuck) Not every kid will want to try a grilled chicken Caesar wrap, but some might and actually find that they like it. And though hot dogs are not part of the menu at this time, perhaps a healthier version will reappear in the future.

Believe me, I’m not a health food guru. I keep a supply of fresh fruit and healthy snacks in the house, but I have bags of chips and cookies in the pantry as well. I want my kids to make good food choices, but I don’t always make good choices myself. It’s a tricky balancing act for parents and children alike.

Kids are hard to feed, starting from the moment they begin solid foods. Remember that toddler sitting in his high chair, shaking his head from side to side to avoid a spoonful of applesauce, yogurt, or something equally healthy? We didn’t give up on the first try. We stuck to our guns and continued to encourage healthy foods instead of throwing up our hands and feeding them just Pepperidge Farm goldfish instead.

The second day of school, the menu item was “healthy pizza”. My son bought it and enjoyed it. A friend mentioned that the kids in her neighborhood got off the bus talking about how much they loved the pizza. Perhaps if we give it a little time, we’ll find that our children actually like the new choices. They might surprise us. And if they absolutely refuse, there’s always the brown bag option.

So let’s give the new menu a chance. Let’s see how our kids respond to it for more than just one day. Let’s find out if we can live, temporarily, without hot dogs for lunch.

Because when it comes down to it, do we really want our town divided because of a few weenies?

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Today is the last day of summer vacation (for my town, anyway). It seems like just yesterday I was lamenting the end of the school year and worrying about how I was going to fill the hours and hours stretching ahead of me. And yet, in a flash, the summer is gone. While parents are humming the holiday tune “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”, children are humming “It’s The End of the World as We Know It.”

Now is the time when we ask ourselves, “Did we do enough over vacation?” Did we go to the beach, sleep late, watch movies, camp and ride our bikes enough? Did we take enough day trips and weekend trips? Did we see enough family members (Or in some cases, too many?) Did we grill enough burgers, drink enough margaritas and swim in our pool (or our neighbor’s pool, or our friend’s pool) enough?

The answer is yes, yes and yes. We had hot days (too many), cool nights (too few), the occasional passing thunderstorm (not nearly enough of those) and every type of weather in between.

I have mixed feelings about the end of summer. Once school begins, I have more time to myself. However, the time when the kids are home will be filled with cracking the whip over homework, chauffeuring them to after school activities and mediating fights.

There are many things that I will miss about summer: letting my kids stay up late and sleeping in the next morning; surprising them with day trips to unexpected places; no homework; spending time with friends; stopping for ice cream on our way home from the beach; crowding around together on a rainy day and watching a “Pawn Stars” marathon on television.

But there are an equal number of things I will not miss about summer: the phrase “what are we doing today?”; fighting over whose turn it is to play the Wii, use the computer or choose the television program; listening to a constant refrain of “He touched/punched/kicked/breathed-on me”; trying to pry my kids away from the aforementioned Wii, computer and television; hot days that make you want to camp out in the freezer section of the Hilltop Butcher Shop; and motorcycles that zoom past my open bedroom window at all hours of the day and night.

Looking back I feel it has been a satisfying summer for our family. We celebrated two milestone birthdays with family and friends. We went to the beach a number of times and spent many afternoons lazing at a friend’s pool. We reconnected with old friends from work, college and elementary school. We read several good books and watched way too many hours of television. We saw good movies and bad movies. We took our annual trip to Canobie Lake Park and toured Castle Island for the first time. We cheered at the Brockton Rox and stood in awe at the Westfield Air Show. We lost one appendix but gained a set of braces.

Best of all, we spent approximately 1,700 hours together and still love and respect each other. So fire up the grill, pour one last margarita and think back to all the things you did this summer. Was it enough? Did you fill it with as many adventures and memories as you had hoped?

I’m willing to bet that you did.

Up In The Air

Have you ever seen a jet powered school bus?

No, that’s not a rhetorical question. And no, I’m not about to launch into some futuristic, “back to school” rant (not yet).

The funny thing is I have seen a jet powered school bus. I saw one just the other day, along with 200,000 other folks. It was one of many highlights at the Westfield Air Show.

Recently, our Cub Scout leader made arrangements for our den to attend the air show with an overnight campout squeezed in between. My kids were crazy about seeing fighter planes, bombers and every other type of aircraft (including the aforementioned jet powered school bus). Me? Not so much. I’d never been to an air show before and camping is just not my thing.

I recall a co-worker once telling me about her childhood air show experience. At one point during the performance, a pilot lost control of his plane, causing it to crash in a ball of flames. Her father announced, “Okay, show’s over”, and hustled the family back to the car. Since hearing that story I’ve been apprehensive about air shows.

The plan (oh, we love plans, don’t we?) was that my husband was going to take the kids to the show, camping out afterwards. I, on the other hand, would stay home and revel in peace and quiet. But you know what they say about the best laid plans? My husband’s appendix had plans of its own, (more about that in another column). Suffice it to say, he was in no shape to take my kids anywhere, and so my son turned his sad, puppy eyes to me and said, “Can’t you take us mommy?” Grudgingly, I agreed to take them to the show, on the condition that I would be spending the evening, not in a tent, but in my own comfortable bed.

I regretted this decision when my alarm went off at 4:45 a.m. the morning of the air show. Given that Westfield is a good two hours away, we needed to make an early start if we were going to get there on time. We met up with our scout leader and another family at one of the rest areas on the pike and followed each other the rest of the way.

About three miles east of Westfield, the traffic suddenly stopped. This did not bode well. After crawling for a mile, a state trooper began to wave us out of the right lane and ordered us to move around the stopped cars. This we did, only to find that we would need to merge back into the stopped traffic at the State Police barracks, which was the temporary exit for the air show (it leads to the back of the airfield and an alternate parking lot). Several cars in the right lane made their displeasure known both visually and verbally as my cohorts and I had to merge back into their lane. Despite my protest that it was the police who ordered us to do so, my children got to hear a few choice swear words (prompting me to wonder if there’s a merit badge they can earn for that).

Finally we parked and then lugged our blankets, bags, chairs and coolers through the gates. This being a National Guard base, our bags where checked by uniformed guards. (One called out “Anyone without any bags or pockets knives can come through this way.” Pocket knives?)

We claimed our spot as planes began zooming all around us. My boys were in heaven, alternating between pointing out planes they recognized and holding their ears as the roar of jet engines shook the earth. In addition to the planes in the sky, huge assortments of military aircraft were stationed on the ground, allowing spectators to touch and even climb aboard. My boys were thrilled to walk through a Sea Stallion helicopter (“Mom, this is what they used in the movie ‘Transformers!’”) and peek inside the cockpit of a fighter jet. As we walked the midway, surrounded by corn dogs, funnel cake and t-shirt vendors, I couldn’t help but think, “It’s like the Marshfield Fair…only with fighter jets.”

The afternoon was a blur of F-16s, C-130’s and A-10 Thunderbolts (there was supposed to be a stealth bomber, but for some reason we never saw it.) As the show drew to a close, I had to admit that I had a lot of fun. Though I may not know the difference between a Sea Dragon and a Sea Stallion, I do know that there is only one thing more entertaining than a jet powered school bus:

A jet powered outhouse.

The grass is always greener...

Recently, I published a column listing some of my pet peeves and random thoughts. Since that time, I’ve seen two people turn left on red, one friend driving with her dog on her lap, and received a photo from another friend vacationing in New Hampshire, showing off her new “This Car Climbed Mt. Washington” bumper sticker. Thank you all.

One response I received from that column offered up another random thought. A friend wrote, “What about those people who feel the need to keep their lawns watered despite the major water ban in town? It is like they have no idea how they can possible control the automatic sprinklers that were installed in their yard! This is probably one of my biggest pet peeves....those people who feel the rules do not apply to them.”

Great suggestion, but I hesitated to address it since several people in our town have private wells, thus allowing them to water to their heart’s content. Why make a big stink about scofflaws if the majority of folks are actually obeying the ban? I guess I’m one of those people willing to believe the best in other people, willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Except…I’m actually not one of those people (as much as I would like to be). Like my friend who made the suggestion, I do think that there are people in our town who don’t have private wells, but have decided to ignore the ban and continue to water their lawns. And now there’s proof.

My husband called my attention to an article in the Patriot Ledger last Friday about the water restrictions in our town, and several neighboring towns. There was even a handy table which listed the average daily use of water in each town, both before and after the ban. Some towns had reduced their water consumption by 22%, 33% and 36%. Now take a guess which town tied for last place, reducing their consumption by only 14%?

Yup. My town.

I’d like to be that person who gives others the benefit of the doubt and suggest that perhaps these people are taking several showers a day, or have a toilet that just keeps running and running no matter how much you jiggle the handle, or went on vacation and left the faucet in the sink drip-drip-dripping, but the green lawns sprinkled throughout my town tell me otherwise. I’d like to think that maybe these folks just don’t have the wherewithal to deactivate their sprinklers (or as my friend said, maybe they don’t know how!) But that would mean me being a non-judgmental type of person and folks, we just don’t live in that world.

So what should we do about this? Do we drop a dime on our neighbors when we see their sprinklers go off? Who do we call? The police? The DPW? Dateline NBC? (If Keith Morrison can’t frighten them into shutting off their sprinklers, no one can.} Do we form a neighborhood lawn watch? I can just picture it, like a scene from “Frankenstein”, but instead of villagers with pitchforks and axes we have residents with watering cans and Poland Spring bottles tied to their bodies. Perhaps we need to go all PETA on these people, throwing gallons of red paint to mark their pristine green lawns, like a big scarlet letter.

Or…maybe we do nothing. Wait it out. Let the wheels of justice turn at their own pace. Sooner or later, these people will be forced to pay for their wrongdoing.

When the water bill arrives.

Rock Lobster

The other night my family indulged in a summer tradition: we had lobster for dinner.

True, lobster is a food that can be enjoyed any time of the year. But there’s something about these warm summer days that makes the idea of a lobster dinner seem that much more appetizing. Perhaps it’s the beach sand that’s infiltrated every corner of my house, despite my best efforts with the vacuum. Or maybe it’s the perfect pairing of boiled lobster with freshly picked corn that appeals. Whatever the reason, when the circular from my grocery store advertised lobsters for the bargain price of $4.99 a pound, I couldn’t resist.

I haven’t always been a lobster fan. For that matter, I haven’t always been a seafood fan. Growing up in New Jersey, my exposure to seafood was limited to breaded fish sticks. On the rare occasion my mother would serve these, I’d turn up my nose at those deep fried tubes that looked like chicken but smelled like the aquarium. After moving to New England to attend college, my roommate’s father treated us to dinner at Legal Seafoods. Predictably, I was the only person at the table to order steak.

I’ve been living in New England now for 30 years, and over time I’ve learned to enjoy a variety of seafood. Shrimp cocktail led to broiled scallops which gave way to swordfish, salmon and catfish. Clam chowder is another favorite, though I suspect it has more to do with the copious amounts of butter, heavy cream and potatoes involved and less about the clams. Though I pride myself on appreciating a variety of items from the sea, I still can’t get on board with oysters (too much like snot), calamari (french-fried rubber bands) or any really fishy tasting fish.

My husband was the one to introduce me to lobster. Something about these crustaceans always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s because they look like giant bugs and I hate anything that crawls (or creeps or flies…) Shortly after we began dating, my husband brought me home to meet his parents, who live in Central New York. His long-standing tradition was to bring lobsters home with him. Throughout the drive, I kept glancing at the back seat, wondering if these lobstrocities were working their way out of the travel pack, preparing to hijack the car. When we arrived at his parents’ house we were greeted with open arms and a pot of boiling water on the stove. My apprehension at meeting his parents quickly faded within minutes of meeting them, but my apprehension about eating lobster for the first time remained. What if I hated it? Could I ask for a hamburger instead?

Thankfully, the dinner was a success. Aided by a tutorial in claw cracking (as well as a veritable ocean of melted butter), I found the lobster to be mild and pleasant. Subsequently, my appreciation for this delicacy has grown over the years and there have been many lobster dinners since. I do, however, have my own set of rules when it comes to lobster. I never order it in a restaurant (too expensive). I never eat it as a lobster roll (lobster and mayonnaise? Blech!) Lobster can be enjoyed on the day it is cooked, but not as a leftover (see previous reference to lobster roll). It is acceptable as a filling for ravioli (but only with cream sauce, never tomato). It’s great in bisque, but when my husband ordered a lobster omelet at a favorite restaurant, I had to move to another table. And though some people enjoy it, I will never, ever eat that nasty green tomalley (I don’t do liver in any shape or form).

Unfortunately, my husband and I have done ourselves a disservice when it comes to enjoying lobster. We’ve introduced our kids to it. At first, they turned up their noses and refused to even try it. Oh well, more for the rest of us. But little by little they’ve come around, asking for a piece here and there. At dinner the other night they each ate their own, whole lobster. We have only ourselves to blame for exposing our children to champagne tastes (on our beer budget).

So if you have not yet enjoyed boiled lobster this summer, remember; there’s only a few weeks left.

You better get crackin’.

A Summer Tradition

Summer vacation is officially more than half over. As we shake our heads and marvel about how quickly the time passes, we must now buckle down and start crossing off all those items on our “to-do” list before the leaves turn gold, the air turns cold and the school bus doors unfold.

Time for a trip to Canobie Lake Park.

This has become a summer tradition for my family. Having grown up in New Jersey, I missed having my formative years revolve around “Story Land” and “Santa’s Village”. (We were too busy going down the shore, enjoying the rides at Seaside Heights long before Snookie and The Situation ever heard of the place).

Canobie Lake is the perfect day trip. It’s located just an hour from home and reasonably priced (with discount tickets from Costco, our family of four managed to get in for under $100). The park is large enough to never feel crowded, yet small enough to negotiate even with little kids. And it’s our family’s benchmark for measuring when my children are ready to visit Disney World.

As my kids are quick to remind me, we are the only family they know who has never been to Disney World. To which I reply,”When you can go on all the big rides at Canobie Lake Park, then we’ll consider taking you to Disney.” So far, no go.

My favorite ride in the park is the Canobie Corkscrew roller coaster. Each year we go directly from the park entrance to this ride so I can get my fix of being flung upside down for thirty seconds. On our last trip to the park, my oldest son successfully took the plunge with me (twice). This year, I was hoping for my younger son to join me. Would he make it? Or would he turn tail and run back down the ramp at the last minute? After watching his mom and older brother survive a run, he bravely, quietly accompanied me up the ramp. He solemnly climbed into his seat and pulled the restraint down over his head. I could tell the anticipation of the initial climb was making him anxious, so I reached over and held his hand. As we plummeted down the steep drop, the terror on his face turned to wonder as the coaster gracefully snaked its way through the corkscrew, turning his world upside down and back again. By the ride’s end, he was beaming. As we exited the coaster, I told him how proud I was of his accomplishment. He smiled and said, “It was scary, but fun.” “Want to do it again?” I asked, to which he replied, “No thanks.”

After several hours of rides, my kids decided it was time to visit “Castaway Island”, Canobie’s water park. Our very first visit to the park was on a cool day with a steady drizzle of rain, making the freezing cold water that spurts out of Castaway’s climbing structure even more miserable. But this year, we chose a warm, sunny day. As my husband and I relaxed on lounge chairs, our kids climbed up and down the enormous jungle gym of Castaway Island, spraying other kids with water hoses, dodging the giant bucket of water that dumps every thirty seconds, and sliding down the assortment of slides.

I’ve often thought that a visitor from another planet would be able to see just about every type of human specimen by visiting a water park. I’m pretty modest when it comes to my swimsuit; I wear one with enough coverage and spandex to keep everything essential covered and in place. Not everyone at Castaway Island subscribes to this same school of thought. The prevailing mentality was “If you’ve got it, flaunt it” (sadly, most of them didn’t have it, or they had too much of it). My friend always says if you want to feel like a supermodel, go to a water park. As an added bonus, we saw an incredible array of tattoos and body piercings (okay, I understand the pierced lip and the ear discs, but what’s with the black spikes that came out of that guy’s nose?)

Being frugal, I packed my family a lunch, which we enjoyed outside the park, but that didn’t stop my kids from commenting on every salty, fried concoction that went by. I treated each of them to a caramel coated apple (hey, it may be covered in sugar and sprinkles, but at least there’s fruit underneath). Before we left the park, I had to indulge in my own personal favorite: Funnel Cake. This treat is often hard to find, replaced by its New England cousin, Fried Dough. “What’s the difference?” my husband asked. Fried dough is a wad of bread dough deep fried and covered with butter and powdered sugar, while funnel cake is batter drizzled through a funnel into the fry-o-later, plopped on a plate, and also covered with powdered sugar. They sound the same, but in my opinion, when it comes to fried treats, funnel cake is clearly the victor.

As the sun set, we packed up our swimsuits, brushed off the powdered sugar and headed home. Recapping the events of the day, my youngest son overcame his fear of the corkscrew coaster while my older son tried out new rides like the Turkish Twist (centrifugal force at its best) and the Wave Blaster (guaranteed to jolt the lunch right out of you). However, both children refused to accompany us on the old wooden roller coaster, The Yankee Cannonball.
I guess Disney can wait.

Around the World in 80 Books

Summer is the perfect time for travel. Each summer I enjoy spending weeks on end traveling to locations both exotic and familiar. So far this summer, I’ve traveled to Sweden, Louisiana, the San Fernando Valley, Cambodia and Africa.
Ah, if only my bank account allowed me to really travel to these places. Instead, I content myself with traveling only as far as my couch, the YMCA pool or a nearby beach. Once comfortable, I pull out whatever book I’m currently reading and let my mind travel to the places inside.

I’m a voracious reader by nature, but without the distractions of homework, after-school activities and soccer I am able to spend that much more time lazing around with a good book. I may not be able to physically jet off to parts unknown, but with the help of my local library, I can experience the next best thing.
When school let out, I transported myself to Sweden to enjoy the first two books of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy: “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and “The Girl who Played with Fire.” I became well acquainted with two fascinating characters, journalist Mikael Blomkvist and computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, while learning about many places throughout Sweden, the country of my ancestors. There was even a mention in the first book about the tiny island of Arholma, where my grandfather was born.

Leaving Sweden I traveled to rural Wisconsin at the turn of the century to experience the story of a mail order bride and her wealthy husband in Robert Goolrick’s “A Reliable Wife”. Nothing is as it seems in this twisty, juicy read. From there I jetted to the heat of Africa where I found myself enthralled by the epic novel, “Someone Knows My Name” by Lawrence Hill. The novel follows Aminata Diallo, a young girl kidnapped in Africa, sold into slavery and transported to South Carolina, Manhattan, Nova Scotia and, finally, back to Africa. Blending real events and historical figures, the story gives a harrowing account of Aminata’s struggle to survive, eventually aiding the British in the Revolutionary War and supporting the Abolitionist Movement in London.

Needing to lighten up, I then traveled to The San Fernando Valley to hang out with “The Girls from the Revolutionary Cantina” by Mike Padilla. Though I’m not Latina, I recognized plenty of myself and my friends in the novel’s characters as they struggle with female friendships, romantic entanglements and trouble in the workplace. This lighthearted story was the perfect bridge between the heavy “Someone Knows my Name” and the next book on my list.

Just this morning, I finished “First They Killed My Father” by Loung Ung. Forced to flee her home in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in 1975, the author describes in horrific detail the five years her family spent traveling from village to village, hoping to escape imprisonment and death at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Completely engrossed in the story, I often forgot that the writer was only five years old at the time of the events.

Last, but not least, I’m joining my family on yet another adventure this summer. The required reading for my son entering fourth grade is “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson. I wonder what the school was thinking, assigning such a weighty book for a 9-year old. After watching my son struggle for a few days, my husband and I decided that each night we would read a chapter or two out loud to our children. My favorite comment so far is when my son said, “Hey, this character is named after a restaurant… Long John Silver.” We’re hoping to finish our pirate adventure before school begins.

With a mere five weeks left until school starts, I’m looking forward to taking a few more trips through the pages of a beloved book. If you can’t swing the money or the time off for a real vacation, why not join me?

Feelin' Hot! Hot! Hot!

It’s too darn hot.

Okay, I know it’s summer. I know it’s supposed to be hot. I know that, technically, the “dog days” of summer start in early July and run through September. But I am not mentally or physically prepared to deal with so many super-hot days in a row in mid-July.

Did you ever see the Twilight Zone episode called “The Midnight Sun”? In this episode, the earth has changed its elliptical orbit and is inching closer to the sun. Throughout the episode, the few remaining residents of New York City suffer as the temperature climbs higher, thermometers explode and paintings melt.
These past few weeks feel like that episode.

My thermometer is not in danger of exploding, but watching it hit temperatures in the high 80’s and low 90’s every single day is getting old. Though we don’t have central air conditioning, we do have window units that cut the humidity and keep us cool enough to sleep at night. It’s not fun weighing my family’s comfort against the impending electric bill. We have air conditioning in the car too, though I hate to use it for short trips around town. There are my FWPs (friends with pools, remember them?) and my FWBS (friends with beach stickers) and that helps too. But for one day, I’d like to not have to strategize about how to stay cool in extreme heat. I’d like to weed my perennial bed, sleep with the windows open and mow the lawn without dropping dead from heatstroke.

I’m conflicted on hot, sunny days. A part of me feels that my kids and I should be outside enjoying the sunshine. After all, before we know it, there will be frigid temperatures and bitterly cold winds (though not soon enough, in my opinion). But when its 90 degrees with high humidity, all I want to do is hunker down inside my house, the mall or a movie theater and wait for the heat to break.

Last week we had a cool, rainy day. It was still quite humid, but the temperature never rose above 80. It was wonderful to wake to cloudy skies. For once there was no pressure to “…get outside and enjoy the sunny weather…” I’d forgotten what it was like to have grey clouds overhead, with no hint of blue sky. The rain did not come in a torrent, as is so often the case during summer thunderstorms. Rather, it misted and dribbled and dripped, teasing our water-starved lawns and flowers. ‘Hooray’, I thought, ‘lousy weather at last.’

And then it was gone, only to be replaced with another hot, sunny, sticky day. Sigh.
You might wonder how the Twilight Zone episode ended. As it turns out, the main character was suffering from a fever, which caused her to dream that the earth was moving closer to the sun. In true Twilight Zone fashion, the earth was in fact moving farther away from the sun. As the main character sweated through her delusion, the frigid cold snow swirled outside the window.
Sounds lovely to me.

Random Thoughts

The television show Saturday Night Live used to have a segment entitled “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey”. I used to love that segment because the thoughts were anything but deep; they were downright bizarre. Every now and then, a random thought will pop into my head and I’ll think, “I should write about that in my column.” Enough of these thoughts have crowded around the junk drawer of my brain, and I think it’s time to let them out.

So here they are: Random thoughts…by Laura Anderson.

What possesses people to drive with their dog on their lap? When I see this my first thought is, “What happens to the dog in the event of an accident? You wouldn’t drive with your child on your lap?” (Unless you’re Britney Spears). Are these dog lovers so attached they can’t bear to relegate their pets to the back seat? Is the dog programming the GPS or changing the radio station? Or are these drivers hoping that, in the event of a stroke or heart attack, their dog will instinctively take the wheel?

When did the red light become a stop sign and the stop sign become a yield sign? On several occasions I’ve had the driver in front of me suddenly turn left or charge through the intersection while the light is nowhere close to changing to green. I took Drivers Ed more than 30 years ago, but I’m fairly sure you’re still supposed to wait for the light to turn green. And more often than I care to count, drivers no longer stop at stop signs but roll through with hardly a tap on their brakes. Are they in a rush or are they just distracted by the dog on their lap?

This afternoon, I parked behind a large minivan with a bumper sticker that read, “This Car Climbed Mount Washington!” Should I be impressed? After all, it’s a car. I assume that Mt. Washington has a paved road for just this purpose (or did the car outfit itself at REI and climb up instead?) If the bumper sticker said, “This Car Climbed Mt. Everest”, then that would impress me. Ironically, the car’s driver was exceptionally well padded, which made me think that perhaps he would have benefitted from climbing the mountain himself instead of letting the car do all the work (at least he gave the car full credit).

What’s nearly as frustrating as entering a public bathroom stall with no toilet paper? Entering one with no hook for your purse. Sorry gentlemen, this random thought only concerns the ladies. More often than not, the smooth, shiny door has two holes where the hook used to be. Did someone’s heavy bag pull the hook from the door? Did a frugal woman unbolt it and bring it home for her own bathroom? Without a hook, where are we expected to place our handbags while attending to business? The floor? Our laps? The holes are already drilled. Replace the hook.

And while we’re on the subject of women’s accessories, I recently found an eBay store called Single Shoe Outlet. This store sells single high end shoes. I wondered, other than someone with a prosthetic, who is buying single designer shoes? Luckily their website provided the answer: People with severely mismatched feet (oh my). People who have lost one shoe of a pair (Cinderella?) People who have damaged one shoe of a pair (pit bull attack?) People who are part of the trend of wearing different shoes on different feet (seriously?) And my personal favorite: “Folks who cannot afford these expensive shoes can have one in their closets.” Imagine how proud these folks are when their friend asks for a tour of their closet and they toss off this phrase in a devil-may-care way: “That Christian Louboutin pump? Yes it’s lovely, isn’t it? I must have kicked the other one under the bed last night when I came home from sipping champagne at the Four Seasons.”

Thank you for indulging me in sharing my random thoughts. I expect that as a result all dogs will now travel in the back seat, all stop signs and red lights will be obeyed, hooks will be immediately replaced in all restrooms and cars will stop bragging about climbing Mt. Washington.

Now if only I could find that other Louboutin pump…

Friends With Pools

As the temperature creeps towards 90 degrees on the first of many hot days, I turn my thoughts inward and count my blessings:
I’m blessed to have an air conditioner in my bedroom. I’m blessed to have air conditioning in my car. I’m blessed that I’m in generally good health that’s not threatened by extreme heat and humidity. But most of all, I’m especially blessed to have FWPs.

That’s Friends with Pools.

In the high heat of summer there is nothing better than a friend with a pool. And I’ve been blessed with several.

Yes, there are other ways to beat the heat. You can hide in the movies. You can cruise through the mall. You can head to the shore in hopes of a cool, ocean breeze. But as far as I’m concerned, these options all pale in comparison to being invited to a friend’s pool.

I’m not knocking the beach, but overall I am definitely more of a pool person. The beach usually involves travel. Currently, it’s only 20 minutes to the beach, but growing up in New Jersey, it took me at least an hour to go “…down the shore.” (In New Jersey you don’t go to the beach…you go down the shore). A day at the beach involves sand chairs, umbrellas, coolers, towels, bug spray, sun screen and boogie boards. Parking is expensive (unless you have a sticker) if you’re lucky to find a space at all. You have to time your visit carefully (high tide for surfing or low tide for the little ones) and heaven forbid you get all the way to the water’s edge only to discover that the beach has been closed due to a “red tide” or, in the case of beaches closer to Boston, something much, much worse. And if the beach is open, the tide is right, the green heads aren’t biting and there’s no great white shark swimming off shore, you have to stay for the whole day to make the whole exhausting production worthwhile. And then there’s that pesky part of the trip that stays with you forever: Sand. When I get home from the beach, there’s at least six pounds of sand in my car, my bag, my hair and eventually every corner of my house.

The pool, on the other hand, requires little more than a beach towel, some sunscreen and a token offering to the pool gods that invited you (bags of chips, Starburst or Oreo cookies will do). Even if your host’s pool is not heated, it’s guaranteed to be warmer than the frigid New England ocean. There are no rocks to hurt your feet and no crabs to bite your toes. At the pool, it takes only a glance to verify your child’s whereabouts. There’s no undertow or riptide that might carry them off to parts unknown. FWPs usually have lounge chairs conveniently located poolside, and a patio set with umbrella if you choose shade over sun. The pool has amenities like telephones, refrigerators and best of all, clean bathrooms mere steps from the water’s edge (at the pool there’s no question where your kids will pee. At the beach? Well, that’s anyone’s guess). When your kids get unruly, you can threaten to take them home and actually mean it, because home is only a mile down the road and you don’t have to spend an hour packing up all the paraphernalia you brought.
Yes, it’s wonderful to have friends with pools, but it’s important not to abuse the privilege. They’ll throw out that blanket phrase, “Come swim anytime,” but a wise friend waits for an invitation. Remember, they are the ones who spent untold amounts on concrete, liners, landscaping and fences. They are the ones who had their lives turned upside down for months while backhoes and dump trucks invaded their yards. Think about everything you do to prepare your house for a friend’s visit, and then imagine doing that every single day. That’s what it’s like when you own a pool.

So be respectful of your FWPs. Wait for an invitation and leave before your kids become a nuisance. Bring snacks, extra towels and the occasional bottle of Patron. Remove snapping turtles from their pool when they call you in a panic. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a cool place to hang during the hot days of summer.

Intellectual Discussion

It has come to my attention that there are certain arguments which can never be settled. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Evolution or creation? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
And of course, the argument that ensues in the back seat of my mini-van every time we travel through town:

Pet Smart? Or Pet’s Mart?

They are building one of those pet supply superstores here in town. Every time we drive past the construction site, my kids spy the store’s logo on the banner hanging from the fence.

“Is it Pet Smart…or Pet’s Mart?” one asks.

“It’s Pet Smart,” the other answers. “See how the word Pet is in red and the word Smart is in blue?”

“Yes, “the first argues, “but see how the bouncing ball in the logo looks like an apostrophe? I think that means that it’s Pet’s Mart. You know, like a mart for pets.”

“But,” comes the rebuttal, “because the word smart is all in blue, it means that it’s a store for smart pets. Get it? Pet Smart.”

Now, I’m all for heated debate, but you would think after driving past the construction site daily, and having this same discussion over and over, one child would concede to the other. But no, they each have their mother’s stubborn streak.
While holding an instant message conversation with my out-of-town sister, my kids started in on the debate at the adjacent breakfast table. I typed, “My kids are having an intellectual discussion about whether it’s Pet Smart or Pet’s Mart”.
My sister immediately typed back this response: “It’s Pet Smart. Their website is petsmart.com.”

To which I replied, “Yes, but if you look at the bouncing ball logo, it looks like an apostrophe, which would make it Pet’s Mart.”

Good God, it’s hereditary.

The advertising executives that created the Pet Smart/Pet’s Mart logo must be geniuses, devising a name designed to spark repeated heated debate in cars all across the country. And yet, no one has answered the most important question of all: With Petco a mere one mile from the construction site, does our town really need a Pet’s Mart, a PetSmart or whatever the heck you want to call it?

I’m still waiting for my answer to that one.

Happy Father's Day

About a month ago, I wrote a column about motherhood. With Father’s Day just a few days away, it’s time to give the dads their due.

The saying “Anyone can become a father but it takes someone special to be a Dad” is corny, but dig down beneath the corn and you’ll find a kernel of truth. By nature, a father is someone genetically linked to you. A dad is someone who may or may not share your DNA, but shares your upbringing, your discipline, your triumphs and your setbacks.

My husband has two fathers, but only one is his Dad. His biological father, though physically present for his first nine years of life, was absent in my husband’s upbringing. My husband considers his stepfather, Bob, his dad. Bob helped my husband with his homework. He was there for his high school graduation and when he went off to college. Bob taught my husband about antique cars, Edison players, every type of beer from around the world and that there is nothing that cannot be fixed by some sort of “kluge”.

Some dads show their affection with hugs and kisses and effusive praise. Some show their love in other ways. My dad wasn’t one to show his emotions physically, but in everything he did there was love for us. My father was an elementary school principal for over thirty years. I know that wasn’t his dream job, but he had a family to support, so each day he would drive 45 minutes to a job where he would have to discipline unruly children only to return home to...well…discipline unruly children (my sisters and me).

I remember my father giving us rides on his back in the swimming pool. Each year we took a two-week vacation to the New Jersey Shore, even though my dad spent most of the time in the beach house. He didn’t particularly care for the beach, but he took us there because we loved it. On those afternoons when my dad did come down to the water, we’d beg him to cover our legs with sand, sculpting our lower bodies into racing cars. My dad didn’t love sports but he did love the movies. He would scare the daylights out of my sister and me, taking us to see films like “The Exorcist”, “Carrie”, “Burnt Offerings” and “Demon Seed” (after watching the movie first himself to be sure there was nothing we couldn’t handle). Though we didn’t have a lot of money, if one of us had an opportunity to do something, whether it was a trip to a Broadway show or a ski weekend, my father would find a way to send us. Shortly after receiving my college diploma, I received a letter from my dad, recounting how proud he was to witness that milestone. It was the first time I could recall my father saying the words “I’m proud of you” and I cherish that letter to this day. I’m blessed to have my dad in my life.

My husband is one of the best fathers I know. He spends far too much time commuting to a thoroughly unpleasant job. But he does it so that our children can enjoy summer camp and Tai kwon do and all the other extras that crop up. True, he misses many of the activities that enjoy as a stay at home parent, but he makes up for it when he is home with us. One of the best parts of our day is when my husband sits down to read to our children before bed. Though they are long past the age where they can read easily on their own, there is something soothing about the routine of my husband’s animated voice bringing life to Bilbo Baggins, Harry Potter and The Cahill Kids. On weekends, when many dads are lurking the aisles of Home Depot looking for new toys, my husband stands at the sideline of the soccer fields, shouting encouragement to our boys.

My brother-in-law is a stay at home dad, and I do not envy him the job. As a stay at home mom, I enjoyed the support of other mothers, relationships made through Gymboree, playgroup, pre-school and play dates. It’s different for stay at home dads. Even those who pursue these activities with their kids find that the dynamic is completely different for a man. All you stay at home dads (especially you, Don), have my respect and admiration.

Television is full of stereotypical fathers, from upstanding Ward Cleaver of “Leave it to Beaver” to lovable goof Phil Dunphy on “Modern Family”. Jim Anderson of “Father Knows Best” earned the love and respect of his three kids, Princess, Kitten and Bud. At the other end of the spectrum “Breaking Bad” father, Walter White, upon discovering that he has terminal lung cancer, decides to secure his family’s financial future by resorting to criminal activity. The difference between these TV dads and the real ones is that very rarely are real-life dads able to solve all our problems in the span of thirty minutes. But that’s okay. Because being a father is a lifetime job.

To my husband, my dad and all those other dads out there: Happy Father’s Day.

Career Day

Recently I was invited to participate in “Career Day” at our middle school. I was told that I would meet with approximately 18 to 25 eighth graders for 45 minutes to discuss the merits of being a writer. These would be students who had an interest in meeting a writer.

45 minutes? What could I possibly talk about for 45 minutes? Although I spent years demonstrating kitchen tools for Pampered Chef (for much longer than 45 minutes at a time) my hands were always busy chopping onions or pressing garlic. Could I fill that much time with eighth graders? And more importantly…would they like me?
A friend of mine participated in Career Day last year and told me not to worry. She assured me that the kids would have so many questions there would probably not be enough time to answer them all. Still, I figured it was best to be prepared. Better to have more information than risk any dull, awkward pauses.

In preparation for my talk, I found a comprehensive list of writing professions from a writing website. The list described the different career paths a writer could follow, including columnist, journalist, songwriter and novelist among others. Prudently, I decided to omit the paragraph about writing Erotica (with my luck, that would be the thing that prompted the most questions, not to mention a few angry phone calls from parents). I compiled a list of websites for young writers, places where their work could be posted and critiqued by other teenagers, adding a few sites where they could start their own blogs. And finally, I bought 25 pocket-sized notebooks, an essential tool for any budding writer who wants to keep track of ideas.

Finally, Career Day arrived. I set up all my materials in the front of the classroom as the kids filed in. Once they were seated, I decided to break the ice. “I had a dream last night, “I began. “In my dream, I talked for about 5 minutes. The next 40 minutes went something like this…” At this point I pressed a button on my iPhone which played a sound effect of crickets chirping. I expected this would crack them up.

Instead all I heard was…crickets.

Hmm, tough crowd. Moving down my agenda, I talked about my background as a writer: creative writing classes in college, scriptwriting for film and video, my blogs and my weekly column. I asked them to share their favorite writers (most said “pass” but several listed J.K. Rowling, Stephanie Meyer and J.R.R. Tolkien.) I shared with them the five things I felt were important to becoming a writer (Read, Write, Edit, Share and Publish). I handed out my lists of writing professions and the resources I had compiled. I did everything but sing, dance and stand on my head, hoping to get a reaction from the students.

And still…crickets.

Finally, with 15 minutes left and still no questions for me (I was going to kill my friend!) I said, “Ok. Take out a pencil and a sheet of paper. You’re going to spend 10 minutes doing what I do every week. Pick a subject and write about it.” I could almost hear the internal groans. As the kids worked to fill their paper, I sought out their English teacher and expressed admiration for his ability to do this on a daily basis.

With just five minutes left in class, I asked if anyone would like to read their paper aloud. As you can imagine, those pesky crickets began chirping again. I told the kids to pass their papers to the front, and then read several of them aloud (keeping the writers anonymous). At the end of class, I told the students they could retrieve their papers or leave them for me. Not a single student took their paper back.

As I left the middle school, I commiserated with another parent about how tough it was to elicit a reaction from the kids. The other parent was a Special Ed teacher who showed her kids how to read and write Braille. She brought candy buttons in for the kids to write their own names. “What a great idea.” I exclaimed to which she replied, “Yeah… they ate them.”

That afternoon, I sat down and read every essay. Some were funny (the ups and downs of assembling a gas grill), some were poignant (admiration for a friend who suffered the loss of a parent). One student admitted to having a blog, a place where they could anonymously share thoughts and feelings. What amazed me was that despite evidence to the contrary, each of these kids had something to say. Though they were hesitant to even raise a hand in response to my questions, they were able to let their thoughts and feelings flow from the end of the pencil.

I’m glad I participated in Career Day. Although I heard crickets for 45 minutes, the voices on those pages will stay with me forever.