No Talking About No-Hitting

When I walked into the living room, I heard the all-too-familiar sound—the clicking and flipping between sporting events, in this case, the Cal vs. Tennessee football game and the Red Sox. “How are the Sox doing?” I asked my clicker-clutching husband. He hesitated for a moment, mulling over his response. “Let’s just say there’s something very interesting going on.”

I looked up to see a skinny kid on the mound in the middle of a wind-up. The crowd cheered after the strike was called, our own Ex-Red Sox Kevin Millar caught looking. One batter later the commentators reviewed the status of the game, carefully choosing their words as the camera scanned the scoreboard of zeros across seven innings, pausing on the zero under the letter “H.” With the inning over, the scrawny-looking kid made his way back to the bench. The cameras followed the lonely soul, closing in on his focused, tense face before scanning the empty bench around him. Not a teammate in sight, not a word spoken.

It’s funny, this jinx thing. Grown men and women buy into it, this belief in the omnipotence of our actions and words. We believe that by saying “he has a no-hitter going,” we will somehow negatively alter the outcome of the game. So instead we say something like “no player has reached base as the result of the bat connecting with the ball” or “let’s just say there’s something interesting going on.” We believe if we knock on a wooden coffee table, sit in the same spot on the couch, and cross our fingers and toes, the outcome will be as we want it to be.

Though I’ve not watched many games this season, I’ve followed the Red Sox through scanning the sports pages and box scores. I knew it wasn’t going to last when we were 10 games up on the Yankees in early August, and I prepared myself for the usual late summer collapse. When the lead shrunk to 4 and then bounced back to 8, I thought maybe something different was going to happen this year, that the Sox might—dare I say it?—finally win the division. But then the Yankees sweep in the Bronx reduced the lead to 5 and I got all negative again. A win at this juncture was, in my admittedly unprofessional opinion, crucial. This particular game, the game where words were carefully chosen, was a done-deal with the Sox up by 10 runs. Still, I was riveted. I matched the funny name (Clay Buchholz) to the new kid’s face and anxiously waited to see how it turned out.

It was at this point the unthinkable happened. “What are you doing?” I yelled when my husband inexplicably clicked back to the college football game after Buchholz took to the mound in the bottom of the eighth. My husband then relayed, in no uncertain terms, the critical nature of his action. “Trust me. It’s better if we don’t watch,” he said, before going on to explain how watching the game, like calling out the unspeakable, would be a jinx. Undeterred, I put my foot down. “That’s ridiculous. We’re not turning off the game,” I said. After a heated and somewhat testy discussion, we finally agreed that there would be no more clicking.

And so we watched history unfurl as the first-ever Red Sox rookie threw a no-hitter. Though we may sometimes think otherwise, we learned that fans can’t actually control the outcome of the game simply by watching it. We were, though, careful with our words, never once uttering “no hitter” until the final pitch when the last Oriole was caught looking. And then—and only then—did I uncross my fingers.

This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2007

Backyard Nature

I watched the hummingbirds fly furiously toward a dish of sugar water, flitting and diving at a speed almost too fast to witness. They hung back, suspended in mid-air, contemplating how to beat the others to the dish. They battled and sped into one another with such ferocity I was sure one of them would be knocked to the ground, like a boxer caught off-guard by a perfectly placed left hook.

I observed the hummingbird show from the comfort of my lounge chair on the portal (back porch), and then turned to look out at the tufts of dry-grass on little mounds and the cacti and the splashes of purple flowers and the mountains against the backdrop of the vast blue sky.

My husband and I observed this scene courtesy of friends who recently moved to Santa Fe. I have seen many beautiful places in my travels over the years, but I’ve never, at least as far as I can remember, been in a home where I was so immediately and completely connected with nature, where gazing out the kitchen window could easily take up the entire day.

Our friends warned us that the dry air masks the heat’s intensity (temperatures can reach 90 degrees or more) and that at 7,000 feet elevation, we might be challenged running and hiking in thin air. They noted that August is monsoon season, and the downpours and lightening storms arrive with a vengeance and with little or no warning. I heeded their advice and packed my sunscreen and tank tops and rain jacket and walking and running shoes and pocket umbrella, and tossed my digital camera, journal and copy of “All the King’s Men” into my carry-on bag. I was prepared to explore, record and relax during our Southwestern adventure.

Our friends’ home was a mud-brown adobe style, blending into the New Mexican landscape. We were told there are rules about these things, that one couldn’t, for example, paint an adobe-style home neon green. They also have rules about fences (not allowed) and streetlights and bright porch lights (also not allowed), so there is no interference with the popular evening pastime of star gazing.

The first night of our stay we got a first-hand understanding of the value of the no-bright-light rule. As the sun set and the sky grew darker, stars began to appear, beginning with a few flickers before covering the sky in a blanket of brilliance. The next night we were treated to an equally spectacular, though far different demonstration. We saw and heard the first inklings in the distance—a flash, a crackle, a rumble—and watched on the portal until our friends got nervous.

They told tales of people who’d been hit by lightening miles from a storm. We decided to head inside and watch from the comfort and safety of our chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling (closed) window. The flashes of jagged light came fast and furious, followed by earsplitting booms. Later I was strangely comforted by the crackling and the sound of the rain and hail coming down on the roof as I nodded off to sleep.

As much as I enjoy discovering new places, I also look forward to coming home. Though the Southwest is beautiful, New England is beautiful in its own way. We may not have mountains and cacti in our backyard, but we have other things. Our bed of perennials—Dahlia and Tickseed and Lavender—are in full, glorious bloom. And though they’re not as speedy as the Santa Fe hummingbirds, I seem to remember our own little bird not so long ago, flitting onto our porch, building its nest right outside my kitchen window.

This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2007

Train Troubles

This summer my daughter joined the ranks of commuters, taking the train from Sharon to her summer job in Back Bay. Recently when I had a meeting in town, I joined her on the 8:16 train. I watched commuters chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys. It was all rather ordinary until the next stop when I noticed something peculiar. The newly arriving passengers scanned the scene, searching for seats. Though there were plenty of spots, most of the open ones were in hard-to-get-to places in the middle or by the window.

Passengers had to interrupt the aisle-seat people who were chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys to ask “Is that seat taken?” The aisle-seaters seemed annoyed at having to get up to let the person get by, rolling their eyes, sighing loudly. As the train became more crowded, the aisle-seat-people problem escalated. With commuters crammed in the path, it became more and more difficult to let the new person into the middle or window seat. I couldn’t help but wonder about the aisle-squatters. You’d think they were on a cross-country flight the way they clung to those seats, rather than on a short ride into Boston.

Later that day I shared my observations with my daughter. “Is it always like that?” I asked. She assured me that yes, it was, and went on to report a particularly nasty incident she experienced on a crowded outbound train. Rather than simply moving over, the woman in the aisle seat pushed her way into the path. My daughter was caught up in the whole mess, trying her best to move out of the way so Miss Aisle-Seat could get by and the commuter could squeeze into the middle seat. The woman yelled at my daughter to move, blurting “Go, oh!” in an exaggerated tone, voice rising and then dipping in a wave of sarcasm. But that was exactly the problem. People were packed in like sardines, arms pressed to sides. There was no where to go.

Though it certainly doesn’t justify such thoughtless behavior, I understand why commuter rail riders are frustrated. In the last few weeks alone, my daughter’s train has experienced many minor delays and several major ones. The worst was on a particularly sweltering day, when after finally arriving forty minutes late, a power failure left cars both unlit and without air-conditioning. The train had to make several stops as people were treated for heat stroke. Just last week there was another incident when the 8:16 train just didn’t show up—no notice, no warning—and the next train was late as well.

The good news for my daughter is that this is a temporary annoyance. In a few more weeks, her train troubles will be behind her. She’ll be back at college, commuting to her classes on foot. As for the commuter rail, I’m sure all will continue as it always has, with people waiting anxiously for the train to arrive, clinging to their coveted aisle seats and checking their watches to see how late they’re going to be for work as the train chugs along.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)

Summer Camp Notes

This summer, as in years past, we’ve stayed in touch with our son through e-mails and Bunk Notes, an online system that delivers notes to campers. Since my son is a Counselor Intern and this is his last year at camp, he’s been pretty good about writing back. He tends to report activities through numbers—Euro (European handball) goals scored, points and assists in basketball, soccer goals, the grand slam he hit over the center fielder’s head.

I was doing fine until his latest e-mail which left me completely confused. Referring to a Sixers draft pick my son noted, “He’s raw but has a chance to be real good, one of those 6’7”- 6’8” athletic swingmen.” Though I got the gist, I’d never heard of the player nor did I know what a swingman was. He continued, “I think the Celtics stole Big Baby. If he can keep himself from becoming another Tractor Trailer he could be really good.”

I was clueless, but curious. Who was this Big Baby character and why did my son think the Celtics stole him? The next day while scanning the sports page, I saw a photo of the Celtics second-round draft pick Glen Davis, the mysterious “Big Baby.” He is 6’9” and weighs between 289 – 295 lbs. Okay, so I got the “Big” part of the nickname, but I still don’t get the “Baby” part.

My husband explained he’d been sharing sports news in the Bunk Notes he’d written to our son. In addition to requesting my son’s feedback on the NBA draft, he wrote about how it was “a joke” that Pat Burrell, barely hitting .200, is the highest paid player on the Phillies ($15 million) while Ryan Howard is only making $350,000. He went on to report Ken Griffey is getting really hot (21 homers) and is hitting close to .300 before adding, “He has 584 homeruns so I don’t think he has any chance of catching Barry which is too bad because he never juiced.”

After reading my husband’s Bunk Notes, I went back and read one of mine. I’d told my son that the new lawnmower was much better than the old broken one and that I’d weeded the garden and gone for a run in Moose Hill. I went on to report I’d watched “Finding Nemo,” saying it was “so cute.” I detailed the dish I’d had while out to dinner with friends—salmon and shrimp with veggies and chunky mashed potatoes—because it was something I thought my son would have liked. I suppose when compared to my husband’s astute commentary on the NBA draft, player compensation discrepancies and the injustice of steroid use, my Bunk Note was pretty pathetic.

My e-mails were even worse. I sent one with “warning: annoying note alert” in the subject heading to give my son a heads-up about its contents. “Please remember to check your tick bite,” I wrote. (My daughter was on antibiotics after a tick bite, so I was understandably concerned). And then, “How’s your high school summer reading coming along?” I realize bringing up school work was pretty weak, but waiting to read all four required books until the last week of summer was a recipe for disaster. So far, my son has tolerated my notes just fine. “I’m a little behind on my summer reading but I’ll catch up next week,” he wrote. He reassured me that the tick-bitten area was fine, and, sensing my concern, kindly suggested I call him if I’m really worried. (I didn’t.)

Though my Bunk Notes are not exactly exciting, on some level I’m sure my son still appreciates them. There is, though, one thing I’ve mastered. No matter how dull my notes are, I always end them well. “Miss you and love you lots. Love, Mom.”

(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)

Cross-Country Discoveries

In the summer of 1977, my childhood friend Ramona and I set out on a cross-country adventure. As a parent of a daughter who is now the age I was then, I can’t imagine my child going off like that. It was, though, a different time, and whether true or not, things seemed far less dangerous than today.

Perhaps because it was 30 years ago, numbers come to mind when I think back on that trip. We set out on the 4th of July, were gone for 7 weeks, and drove 11,500 miles. We stayed in campgrounds for $5 a night, and paid 50 cents for a gallon of gas. I lost 10 pounds from weeks of hiking and horseback riding, and celebrated my 19th birthday roasting marshmallows over a campfire. By the end, we’d visited 15 national parks, passing through 20 states along the way.

We meticulously planned our trip, researching destinations, trip-ticking our route through AAA, packing critical camping gear—tent, Coleman stove, flashlights, sleeping bags, back packs, hiking boots. We raided our family’s pantries for staples like Oodles of Noodles soup, sardines, Spam, crackers, tuna, dried cereal and trail mix.

In spite of all the planning, there were problems. Hours from our Bethesda, Maryland home, our Toyota Corolla overheated. By the time we reached the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, the campground was full and we were directed to the overflow area behind a rundown gas station. Though exhausted, I was up for hours peeking out the tent opening, clutching my flashlight like a club, reacting to every cough, beep and crunch as I imagined an ax-wielding overflow-camper-killer prowling outside our tent. Ramona, on the other hand, nodded right off to sleep.

After the car problems, we began all long excursions late in the day. To keep awake, the person in the passenger seat would lightly close her eyes, making quiet conversation with the driver while listening to tunes like “Nights in White Satin,” “Sweet Hitchhiker,” and “Light My Fire” from the 8-track tape player we’d set up in the glove box. On one such night while lying outside to rest, I opened my eyes to an incredible mass of stars blanketing the sky. It was like nothing I’d ever seen, and in fact, have never seen anything like it since.

We drove through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle to Carlsbad Caverns, Mesa Verde, Arches National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. After weeks of camping, we spent two nights in the Las Vegas Caesars Palace, lounging in our pink and purple-decorated hotel room. We had another break from camping in San Francisco when we stayed with my parents at the Fairmont Hotel. After weeks of tent-pitching, it was surreal riding in an elevator while a white-gloved operator graciously guided us to our floor. We then returned to camping and National Park-hopping—Yosemite, Sequoia, Crater Lake, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and the last leg of our trip to Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, and the plains across Iowa heading home.

I learned many things that summer. I learned I could live on noodle soup and Spam, at least for a while. I learned I could pitch a tent, change a tire, go on a ten mile hike, and fall asleep with a rock poking into my back. I learned it is great to camp out, but smart to sleep in a car during a thunderstorm or when wolves and bears are close by. I learned that instant coffee tastes amazing after a night sleeping out under the stars.

I learned it is good to have a road map, but important to embrace the possibilities discovered in a detour. I learned that no problem is insurmountable. And I learned that while it is exciting to explore new places, it feels really good to come home.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

My Grandfather's Garden

The back door creaks. Grampy grabs the wooden rail and makes his way down the steps to his garden. He is dressed in his usual attire—plaid shirt, belted trousers, wing-tips. He pulls the brim of his straw hat down over squinting eyes. It is morning, and there is work to be done.

He gazes at his garden, at the cherry and magnolia trees to the left, the lavender lilac bushes to the right. He inhales the mix of scents—hollyhock, daylilies, roses, coral bells. His garden is far from orderly. It is wild, overgrown. He likes it that way. He likes how lettuce and tomatoes and pole beans are mixed with peonies and snap dragons. He likes bending under branches and vines, pushing back ferns as he walks the path lined with lilac and red and amber and rose. He likes how things are hidden, how he might have an unexpected encounter with a beetle or a bird, or watch an earthworm digging and wriggling under a stick on the ground.

There is a shuffling sound. A pebble skips across the path. Grampy looks down and sees a familiar furry face. The bob-tailed squirrel sits patiently, back straight, paws drawn together as if in prayer. It waits for the usual handout—scraps of crust, nuts, sunflower seeds. Grampy gently shoos it away, waving a hand, an arm, a leg. The squirrel finally takes the hint, scampering away into the bed of impatiens.

Grampy begins his work—weeding, pruning, planting, watering. He bends down low, pulling a stray brown leaf from a thicket. Nearby the yellow jackets drink the lily-nectar and Monarchs flit from rose petal to rose petal. The blue jay swoops down from the green of the trees, and the warm wind gusts, rustling the leaves. It is hotter now, the sun peeking through cracks in the trees. Grampy rolls up his sleeves and touches the warm drip at the end of his nose. Pulling out his handkerchief, he pats and wipes his face.

The backdoor creaks, a voice gently calls. My grandmother, Gammy, holds a glass of iced tea, mint leaves from the garden floating on top. She is small, frail. Her legs are like sticks, her tummy round, protruding. As always, her gray hair is swept neatly in a knot on the top of her head. She wears her cream-colored suit and her flat white shoes with the little openings at the toes. She is beautiful. “Thank you, Mother,” Grampy says, taking the tea from her hands. He takes a few sips, wipes his forehead, sips some more. “The squirrel was back again today. I think you may be spoiling it.” Gammy covers her smile with a cupped hand. Grampy smiles back, then hands her the empty glass. “I’ll be right in,” he says.

Grampy carries the tin watering can over to the spigot near the winding wisteria, filling it full. His legs are wobbling now, his lower back achy, strained. He lifts the can and turns again to his garden. Though weeded, it is still wild—a tangled mingling of textures and colors and scents. Satisfied with the morning’s work, he heads into the house to water the African violets lined up on the window sills. When that job is done, he will rest.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)

Not All Dads are Handymen

Father’s Day gift ads are different from the Mother’s Day ads seen several weeks ago. There are no ads for flowers or candy or perfume. Instead, there are promotions for hardware—penknives, golf accessories, fishing paraphernalia. And handyman stuff, lots and lots of handyman stuff.

Many people equate dads with fix-it-up things. Not me. Growing up, I was much more likely to see my mom fixing a door handle, unclogging the bathroom drain or trimming the tree limbs in the front of our house. It was my mom who showed me how to paint a room and change the tire on our family station wagon. My dad, on the other hand, knew how to get things done by knowing who to call—the plumber, the tree guy, AAA.

My husband is slightly above what my dad was in the fix-it-up department. He is, though, infinitely more dangerous, since unlike my dad, he has a desire to tackle home projects. We’d barely moved into our home before my husband went on a hardware shopping spree returning with a drill, a circular saw, a ratchet set, and, of most concern in the hands of an amateur handyman, a chain saw. I was relieved when, after trying the saw a few times, my husband somehow managed to break it, effectively eliminating the chance of any catastrophic incident.

My brother-in-law, who knows how to use a chain saw, is the bona fide fix-it-up guy in our family. His home improvement projects include building a cedar closet, renovating a screened-in porch, and digging a six foot deep pond, complete with stone and cement bottom and waterfall. His signature project is a two-story club house with barn-style roof he built for his son. It is wired for electricity and has a window air conditioner. It even has a wrap-around porch and its own handcrafted mailbox. Basically, the playhouse is nicer than our house.

It’s not that there’s anything terribly wrong with our house, just the usual little imperfections one would expect after years of wear and tear—peeling paint, falling-apart screens, a slightly rotting porch. We were handling all this just fine until recently, when a new family moved into the home behind ours. The guy in that house has put us to complete shame. In a matter of months he’s cleared the trees, grown a perfectly green lawn, built a wooden sand box for his daughter, and erected a shed. His latest edition is a magnificent slate patio lined with flowers and potted plants. As if this weren’t enough, he put down a mulch border and added a comfy-looking hammock. This is all happening, mind you, as we are fixing our broken porch screens with duct tape.

On Father’s Day, as in the past, I’ll choose just the right card for my husband. I’ll head to the deli for his favorite breakfast—bagels, cream cheese and lox. I’ll urge him to play in his regular Sunday morning basketball game and watch a guilt-free day of ESPN. Later, the kids and I will make a nice dinner. This year, though, I think I’ll do something else. Yes, a gift card to Home Depot might help ease the pained look on my husband’s face when he gazes out over our neighbor’s yard.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)