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.
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.
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.
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.
The RMV has a bad rap.
Seriously. Mention the words “registry of motor vehicles” and you’ll see people respond in a variety of ways (none of them good). You’ll never hear someone say, “I’m so thrilled, it’s time to renew my license. I can’t wait to go to the RMV!”
My odyssey involving the registry began about 6 weeks ago when I lost my license. Before you jump to conclusions and think I drove north bound on Rt. 3 south or led police in a high speed pursuit down Main Street, I use the term “lost” in the sense that I misplaced it. It either fell out of my wallet, dropped out of my purse, or migrated to that spot in my house where single earrings, car keys and my iPod headphones like to hide.
I assumed I would find my license somewhere, so I didn’t rush to replace it. I wasn’t sure what the penalty was for driving without it (I mean, technically, I was licensed to drive…it just wasn’t physically with me.) After a couple of weeks, the issue came to a head when my registration came due. Typically, I like to renew my registration online. But in order to do that, you need to have…your driver’s license number. Since my license no longer had my social security number on it, I resigned myself to a trip to the RMV.
Bright and early on a Thursday morning, I drove up to the registry in Braintree, since several friends had told me that though it was a small location, the lines moved really fast. I arrived at 9:20, wishing I had left a bit earlier to get there right when the office opened. To my surprise, there were a handful of folks hovering outside the front door. Apparently, that particular location didn’t open until 10 a.m. on Thursdays (how was I to know? I could have called.) Rather than wait outside for 40 minutes, I drove down the street for a coffee. When I returned at 9:55, there was a line of about 75 people stretching from the front door into the parking lot. Hmmm. Maybe the coffee wasn’t worth it after all.
Luckily, the line moved fairly fast, and after grabbing a number I sat down on the bench with my 75 new friends and waited my turn. Being a Thursday, I needed to deliver Meals on Wheels at 11:30, but I was sure I would get out in plenty of time.
When my number was called, I approached the window and handed my paperwork to the clerk. My license was in the system, but the nice lady let me take a new picture since I was 22 pounds lighter than when I last renewed. After rejecting the initial mug shot for a smiley one, I handed my credit card to the clerk and got my temporary replacement. However, when it came time to renew my registration, I was unable to pay for it with a credit card (cash or check only). Due to my Meals on Wheels commitment (and my refusal to wait in line again after going to the bank) I decided that I would renew my registration online where I could pay by… credit card. (Who loves irony? Quick show of hands!)
By this time I was late heading home for Meals on Wheels, so I dashed out of the RMV and headed to Rt. 3 Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for charitable work caused me to yield improperly at the Braintree rotary, and wouldn’t you know It, a state trooper was right in the rotary when I did it. Several minutes later I was really late for Meals on Wheels and $100 poorer. Luckily I had my temporary license with me. Imagine if I didn’t? But then again, if I hadn’t gone to the RMV in the first place, I wouldn’t have been pulled over.
Fast forward two and a half weeks when it came time to pay my citation. It needed to be paid within 20 days or risk a fine on top of the fine. Looking at the fine print, I noticed that the citation could be paid online. Within minutes, I had logged onto the RMV website and paid my fine. Hooray. At least one thing was easy about this whole mess.
Twenty minutes later, I received an email telling me that my online RMV transaction had failed. The reason given was that the citation number was not in the RMV system. Either it was incorrect (it wasn’t) or it had not been entered into the system yet. Wait….what? The email urged me contact the RMV’s call center immediately.
I called the RMV and spent the next 40 minutes listening to bad hold music. Finally, an employee came on the line and told me that the reason my citation didn’t exist in the system was because the officer had not yet entered it. Here it was, two days before I was due to accrue penalties and the officer hadn’t bothered to enter it? The employee asked me for all the pertinent information (at this point I was paying $100 not just for my failure to yield but for the luxury of doing the trooper’s work for him). Finally, my citation was paid.
Oh by the way, guess what came in the mail? Yes, my new license arrived in the midst of all this RMV ugliness, but right around the same time, my old license came back to me. It arrived in a hand-addressed envelope from a local gas station. It must have fallen out the one time I decided to pump my own gas. If only they had sent it to me sooner, I could have avoided the whole ordeal.
And miss all that fun? Never.
In 1977, over 130 million Americans spent eight nights glued to their televisions watching the mini-series “Roots”. The true story of a young African man, kidnapped and sold into slavery in the United States, Roots held most of America in a grip of fascination.
At 14, I believe I was the only American alive who didn’t tune in. I was probably too busy reading Stephen King novels, or watching “Battle of the Network Stars”. The reason I skipped this entertainment phenomenon was because I had absolutely zero interest in roots. Mine, or anyone else’s for that matter.
This changed recently when my son announced that he needed to do a genealogy project for school. The project involved creating a family tree that included great grandparents, finding out where his ancestors came from, and bringing in some family artifacts.
I’ve known bits and pieces of my family’s history, but had never put it all together into a cohesive story. To gather information for his project, I enlisted the help of my father for the Anderson side of the family, and my mother and sister for the Rockwell side (my mother’s maiden name).
My mother’s family tree has always held the more impressive history. Deacon William Rockwell sailed from England on March 30, 1630, on the “Mary and John”. His great grandson, Jabez Rockwell, was reputedly in the boat with George Washington while crossing the Delaware River on the Christmas Day attack on Hessian troops. (As a child I visited the Valley Forge museum, where my mom pointed out Jabez’s powder horn on display.)
According to family legend (and published accounts), Jabez Rockwell and some friends walked from northeastern Pennsylvania to New York City in 1826 to see their former comrade-in-arms, The Marquis de Lafayette, who was having dinner with statesman Henry Clay. Upon reaching Lafayette’s hotel, the doorman initially refused entrance to Jabez and his friends, at which point my ancestor complained quite loudly. The doorman finally relented and sent a message to the Marquis who immediately invited Jabez and company to join the party. So the next time you hear me raise a stink about something, remember this: It’s genetic.
And then there’s the Anderson side of my family. My grandfather, Albert B. Anderson Sr., arrived from Sweden at Ellis Island on Nov. 1, 1916 at the age of 19. My grandmother, Asta Jensen, arrived several years later from Denmark. Asta’s history reads a bit like a soap opera. Her mother Martha Jensen, married a man named Alfred Jensen (A relative? Possibly). Alfred was a grave digger by profession. However, in those days in Denmark you rented your grave for a specific number of years. When your time was up, your remains were moved to the foot of the grave to make way for the next “tenant”. Alfred had the unenviable job of moving the remains. But Alfred was actually Asta’s stepfather. Her biological father was a juggler of some distinction, known to us only by the stage name “Edy”. He and Martha never married. It’s strange to learn that, way back in the early 1900’s my own great-grandmother had a …well, a baby daddy.
My father volunteered other Anderson family lore. His Swedish cousin married a woman who bore him a son, then discovered that his wife was a reformed (or possibly not) prostitute, and divorced her after two years of marriage (The son is now a policeman). My grandfather Albert, a New York City tailor who catered to Wall Street bankers, had a client named Henry Rudkin, whose wife, Margaret, began a little baking business during the Depression which would eventually be known as Pepperidge Farm. My dad’s upstairs neighbors brewed bathtub gin and would frequently be raided by revenue agents. I advised my son to be selective in which Anderson family nuggets made it into his presentation.
War heroes, grave diggers, prostitutes and jugglers. The lesson I learned from my son’s genealogy project is that you never know what you might find in your family history until you look.
But be warned. If you shake your family tree too hard, you’re bound to have a few nuts fall out.
It is a widely held belief that all good things must come to an end. I understand and accept that. But it still does not lessen the pain I will be feeling this time next week when something in which I have invested six years of my life will finally end.
In short, I’ll be lost without “Lost”.
Six years ago, I tuned into the pilot episode of a program about a group of survivors whose plane crashes on a tropical island. The survivors include, among others, a doctor, a fugitive, a rock star, a con man and a lottery winner. The premise sounded ordinary. However, by the end of the pilot, the introduction of a polar bear, an unseen “monster” and a distress signal broadcasting for more than sixteen years firmly set the tone for a television show that was anything but ordinary. The last words spoken in this episode hinted at the roller coaster ride ahead: “Guys…where are we?”
Six years later, those of us who tune in faithfully have been treated to a flood of plot points including a smoke monster, a man living underground in a hatch, a button that needs to be pushed every 108 minutes in order to save the world, and characters whose lives have intersected off-island (in ways unbeknownst to them but revealed to the viewers). We’ve seen flashbacks, flash-forwards and flash-sideways. We’ve witnessed miraculous healings, time travel and alternate universes. The common complaint I hear from people who don’t watch “Lost” is that they tried to watch but they got…well…lost. (I feel the same way about “24”). Take heart. I have watched every episode multiple times, have read hundreds of postings online, traded theories with fellow “Losties” and I still have no clue what it’s all about. Clearly “Lost” isn’t just the title of the program. It’s a state of mind.
The title “Lost” doesn’t just refer to the fact that the characters are stuck on some mystical, uncharted island (kind of like a Zen version of “Gilligan’s Island, a show I loved as a kid. Uh-oh. I’m sensing a pattern here.) In their own unique way, the show’s characters are all “lost”, whether they are seeking love, faith, acceptance, redemption or peace. Lately, the show has leaned heavily on spiritual parallels, with viewers pondering concepts such as good versus evil, free will versus destiny, and where we fit in the tapestry of the universe.
It’s always funny when someone who doesn’t watch “Lost” asks me what’s going on. A typical response might go something like this: ” Well, the smoke monster inhabited John Locke’s body and is now trying to leave the island in the submarine. Jacob is dead but he still appears to Hurley, who can see dead people, and Desmond returned to the island but was thrown down the well by Sayid. Oh, and in the alternate timeline…” At this point I start to feel like a jackass and shut my mouth. There’s no way to succinctly sum up what’s happening on “Lost” without sounding like a complete lunatic.
I appreciate that the “Lost” producers decided to end the series while still going strong. Nothing is more pathetic than a television show that exceeds its freshness date. (Can you say “Will and Grace?”) Perhaps you’ve heard the phrase “jumping the shark” (referencing a show that has lost all credibility, as when Fonzie decided to water ski over a shark tank on the program “Happy Days”), “Lost” was one of the few shows that was unable to “jump the shark” since the premise was completely outrageous to begin with. I’m sure there are millions of fans that would love to continue watching “Lost” for years to come, but after watching a similar fan favorite, “The X-Files”, spiral down to mediocrity, I’m okay with “Lost” going out while they’re still on top.
On Sunday night, at 11:31 p.m., television sets all over the country will be turned off and fellow “Lost” fans will shake their heads, perhaps dab a tear, and begin the process of living without “Lost”.
To which I say: It is better to have loved “Lost” and lost, than to never have loved “Lost” at all.
