Truth, as the saying goes, is stranger than fiction. But sometimes fiction can be truer than truth. In his masterpiece The Things They Carried, writer and Vietnam veteran Tim O’Brien creates a perfect horrific vision. His imaginary retelling of war is as real as it gets. A true war story, he says, is never moral. If you feel uplifted, you’ve been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude, no virtue. Sometimes, he says, a true war story is simply beyond telling.
There has been much debate about the truth behind the war in Iraq. One thing we know to be true—the reason justifying our being there turned out to be false. Some have responded by creating new justifications. In the meantime, every day, more civilians and soldiers are dying.
I was watching the news the day the number of dead American soldiers in Iraq reached 2,000. At the end, the newscaster announced that pictures of fallen soldiers would silently scroll across the screen. Shamefully, I started to change the channel. I had turned on the news to be informed, to fill my head with information and facts. I wasn’t prepared to feel. I wasn’t, as O’Brien would say, prepared to make my stomach believe.
Something, though, compelled me to watch. I looked into the eyes of the 19 year-old from Morrisville, Pennsylvania and the 23 year-old from Rosedale, Maryland and the 34 year-old from Arlington, Texas and the 22-year old from Knoxville, Tennessee. Some were dressed in uniform, some were not. Mostly they were smiling, all of them now gone. Numbers can lie, or at least they can hide things. Those photographs were the real news, the quiet faces of truth.
It goes without saying that on Veteran’s Day—on all days for that matter—we should honor those who fought for our country, remembering soldiers from every war, past and present. It is beyond “should.” It is our moral duty. We salute and we march and we pay tribute and we listen to the trumpet sounds and we hold our hand on our heart while we pledge allegiance and watch the flag ripple in the wind. We acknowledge bravery and respect sacrifice. You can be against a war and still support the soldier who fights in it.
And so on this Veteran’s Day I will read truthful fiction by someone who has lived through the very worst of human experience. I will enter the haunting stories he tells from the trenches of his gut. If nothing else, we must be reminded of the horrific in a way that takes us beyond generalizations, in a way that, like it or not, makes us feel. Though I will never come close to understanding the true horror of this thing called war, I hope I will never stop trying to understand.
As O’Brien writes, “In the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.”
And that is the truth, plain and simple.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Ansel Adams: Beauty in Black and White
All through my life, I have taken photographs. In college, I was the one who could be counted on to record special moments—dancing in our dorm to “Saturday Night Fever,” playing football on Crane beach, jumping from a snow bank after the blizzard of ’78.
As a new mother, I took many photos of my infant daughter (more than I’d like to admit.) A good part of one album is filled with pretty much the same images of her smiling, laughing, eating—even sleeping. And though my picture-taking rituals became a little less ridiculous, I continued recording all those ‘firsts’ of my son, as well as the seconds and thirds. To this day, I take pictures of both special events and everyday slices of life. For me, it is a way to preserve the past, to capture moments in a way that lets me enter them again.
My interest and appreciation of photography and art lead me to the current Ansel Adams exhibition at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. While I have tried over the years to preserve memories, Adams was focused on creating them. And create them he did, one brilliant masterpiece after another.
Many of Adams’ photographs capture contrasts in ordinary scenes. In “Church and Fence,” shadows fall on straight slim pickets while wave-like impressions dance on the soil. The photograph is an intriguing mix of textures—smooth sky, rippled ground, wispy grass—in competing, but complementary angles. The effect is simple, stunning.
I am drawn to Adams’ photographs because, I too, appreciate the beauty of the ordinary—a solitary church on a hilltop, wind-swept dunes, bare and snow-covered trees. As focused as he was on simplicity, Adams also appreciated the majestic variations seen in nature—clear water juxtaposed with jagged mountains, rocky cliffs, blurry pines.
One of my favorite photographs is “Monolith—The Face of Half Dome” in Yosemite National Park. Shadows and light streak down the steep, ominous cliff as snow rests at the bottom. Adams described the photograph as a visualization that “captured the emotional impact of the scene rather than the way it actually looked.” Perhaps that is why his photographs are so powerful. Like all great works of art, we can’t help but be touched by them.
Though Adams often captured contrasts, he sometimes showed how we are connected to our surroundings. In one such photograph, an old man sits in a wooden chair, cane resting at his knee. The man is framed by a weathered wooden fence whose paint chips show the passage of time.
Some of Adams’ most spectacular pieces are the large Japanese screens covered in ferns, grass, pools and storms. And there are so many more breathtaking images—a delicate rose on driftwood, brightly lit aspens, a quiet moonrise, a single white cross leaning into a darkened sky.
Through his photographs, Ansel Adams revealed the splendor of the ordinary, the simple beauty of the majestic. This is one exhibition that is not to be missed. It is truly something to see.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
As a new mother, I took many photos of my infant daughter (more than I’d like to admit.) A good part of one album is filled with pretty much the same images of her smiling, laughing, eating—even sleeping. And though my picture-taking rituals became a little less ridiculous, I continued recording all those ‘firsts’ of my son, as well as the seconds and thirds. To this day, I take pictures of both special events and everyday slices of life. For me, it is a way to preserve the past, to capture moments in a way that lets me enter them again.
My interest and appreciation of photography and art lead me to the current Ansel Adams exhibition at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. While I have tried over the years to preserve memories, Adams was focused on creating them. And create them he did, one brilliant masterpiece after another.
Many of Adams’ photographs capture contrasts in ordinary scenes. In “Church and Fence,” shadows fall on straight slim pickets while wave-like impressions dance on the soil. The photograph is an intriguing mix of textures—smooth sky, rippled ground, wispy grass—in competing, but complementary angles. The effect is simple, stunning.
I am drawn to Adams’ photographs because, I too, appreciate the beauty of the ordinary—a solitary church on a hilltop, wind-swept dunes, bare and snow-covered trees. As focused as he was on simplicity, Adams also appreciated the majestic variations seen in nature—clear water juxtaposed with jagged mountains, rocky cliffs, blurry pines.
One of my favorite photographs is “Monolith—The Face of Half Dome” in Yosemite National Park. Shadows and light streak down the steep, ominous cliff as snow rests at the bottom. Adams described the photograph as a visualization that “captured the emotional impact of the scene rather than the way it actually looked.” Perhaps that is why his photographs are so powerful. Like all great works of art, we can’t help but be touched by them.
Though Adams often captured contrasts, he sometimes showed how we are connected to our surroundings. In one such photograph, an old man sits in a wooden chair, cane resting at his knee. The man is framed by a weathered wooden fence whose paint chips show the passage of time.
Some of Adams’ most spectacular pieces are the large Japanese screens covered in ferns, grass, pools and storms. And there are so many more breathtaking images—a delicate rose on driftwood, brightly lit aspens, a quiet moonrise, a single white cross leaning into a darkened sky.
Through his photographs, Ansel Adams revealed the splendor of the ordinary, the simple beauty of the majestic. This is one exhibition that is not to be missed. It is truly something to see.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
Outsourcing the Stuff of Life
I’m jogging down the street, hunched over, one hand resting on my daughter’s bicycle seat, the other outstretched, ready. I watch her wobble left and then right. She tumbles over to the side, pink Schwinn flopping on top of her little legs. She brushes gravel from her knees, looks up and pleads, “Can I try again, Mom?” I rub my aching back as I look into her proud, eager eyes. “Sure, why not?” Other than the color of the bike, it was pretty much the same with my son.
It’s hard to believe that scene was over a decade ago. While I certainly wanted my children to learn to ride a bike, it never felt like a goal that had to be achieved by some predetermined deadline. When they were ready, they’d learn. In the meantime, I’d offer support (and try not to complain too much about my backache.) It was just another one of those things that I did to help my kids on the road to independence, like encouraging them to sleep through the night, walk on their own, and get out of diapers. These are the moments that make us—the trial and error, the getting up after falling down. And these are the moments that make our relationships—offering words of encouragement, and yes, coping with frustration and pain.
I thought about my own experience helping my kids with bike riding as I read about a new and disturbing trend—paying someone to do things we used to do ourselves. It seems that there are people out there selling themselves as bicycle coaches who, for $60 an hour, will teach your child to ride a bike. The so-called expert will even teach your kid to roller blade, and will play catch with your child in your backyard to improve her baseball throwing skills.
If that isn’t shocking enough, there’s the personal shopper service. For an hourly fee, an expert will take your teenager clothes shopping. While having someone rummage through the racks at H&M with your teenage daughter may indeed eliminate fights, there is a price to be paid that goes beyond the consultant’s charge. Though we may not openly seek them, disagreements and struggles are what help build a relationship.
For the younger set, there are services such as “thumb-buster,” where experts work to eliminate thumb-sucking with techniques like tongue retraining. (I am not making this up.) And then there are the consultants who come into the home to potty train your child, using elaborate reward systems. I certainly sought help to get through some of my kids’ developmental milestones. I frequently called my mom and sisters, and flipped through my assortment of books by Dr. Spock, Penelope Leach, and Dr. Ferber (of ‘Ferberizing” your baby to sleep fame.) Other than the words of wisdom from my mother, the best advice I ever got was from Spock—“trust yourself; you know more than you think.”
The ‘going with gut’ philosophy that worked when my children were younger is equally important today. With a daughter now in the throws of the college application process, I have become painfully aware of a whole other set of experts just salivating at the chance to assist with things that used to be handled by students (with support from their parents)—researching colleges, completing applications and writing essays. The college admissions consultants offer packages ranging from $250 for an initial consult, to $1,500 and up for a comprehensive review and editing service. True, the college search and application process has become an onerous one. But still…
I’m not quite sure what the answer is. I only know that I will do my best to avoid being sucked up in it all—into the cut-throat drive to perfection, circumventing the equally important, albeit sometimes challenging process. Though tempted by the ‘flawless lure,’ I will try to stick to my guns. After all, perfection isn’t the goal, not for me, anyway. It’s the muddling through that really matters.
I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Skinned knees and all.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
It’s hard to believe that scene was over a decade ago. While I certainly wanted my children to learn to ride a bike, it never felt like a goal that had to be achieved by some predetermined deadline. When they were ready, they’d learn. In the meantime, I’d offer support (and try not to complain too much about my backache.) It was just another one of those things that I did to help my kids on the road to independence, like encouraging them to sleep through the night, walk on their own, and get out of diapers. These are the moments that make us—the trial and error, the getting up after falling down. And these are the moments that make our relationships—offering words of encouragement, and yes, coping with frustration and pain.
I thought about my own experience helping my kids with bike riding as I read about a new and disturbing trend—paying someone to do things we used to do ourselves. It seems that there are people out there selling themselves as bicycle coaches who, for $60 an hour, will teach your child to ride a bike. The so-called expert will even teach your kid to roller blade, and will play catch with your child in your backyard to improve her baseball throwing skills.
If that isn’t shocking enough, there’s the personal shopper service. For an hourly fee, an expert will take your teenager clothes shopping. While having someone rummage through the racks at H&M with your teenage daughter may indeed eliminate fights, there is a price to be paid that goes beyond the consultant’s charge. Though we may not openly seek them, disagreements and struggles are what help build a relationship.
For the younger set, there are services such as “thumb-buster,” where experts work to eliminate thumb-sucking with techniques like tongue retraining. (I am not making this up.) And then there are the consultants who come into the home to potty train your child, using elaborate reward systems. I certainly sought help to get through some of my kids’ developmental milestones. I frequently called my mom and sisters, and flipped through my assortment of books by Dr. Spock, Penelope Leach, and Dr. Ferber (of ‘Ferberizing” your baby to sleep fame.) Other than the words of wisdom from my mother, the best advice I ever got was from Spock—“trust yourself; you know more than you think.”
The ‘going with gut’ philosophy that worked when my children were younger is equally important today. With a daughter now in the throws of the college application process, I have become painfully aware of a whole other set of experts just salivating at the chance to assist with things that used to be handled by students (with support from their parents)—researching colleges, completing applications and writing essays. The college admissions consultants offer packages ranging from $250 for an initial consult, to $1,500 and up for a comprehensive review and editing service. True, the college search and application process has become an onerous one. But still…
I’m not quite sure what the answer is. I only know that I will do my best to avoid being sucked up in it all—into the cut-throat drive to perfection, circumventing the equally important, albeit sometimes challenging process. Though tempted by the ‘flawless lure,’ I will try to stick to my guns. After all, perfection isn’t the goal, not for me, anyway. It’s the muddling through that really matters.
I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Skinned knees and all.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Driving By Fields on My Way Home
I always slow down on the stretch of road that leads to my Sharon home. Right off the highway after passing Shaw's Plaza, I enter a place from the past. In the fall, a brilliant cranberry bog glistens behind trees along the road. Fields, long and wide, sprawl on both sides.
Depending on the season, I might see sunflowers or cornstalks, tomatoes or pumpkins. And though I can't see them from the road, the early summer fields are filled with rows of plump strawberries and blueberries. If I listen carefully, I can hear the message in the wind as it blows across the fields - "slow down, take a breath, smell the flowers, see the trees."
There wasn't such vast farmland near my childhood home in Bethesda, Maryland, but the little bit there was I will never forget. It was a small patch of pasture next to the road, home to the Black Angus cows. Though it's been almost 40 years since they've stood in the field, munching on their grass-suppers, swatting flies with their tails, I still think of them whenever I visit home.
They were there, even when cars went whizzing by. They were there, even when the new development went up across the street. They were there when it seemed impossible that they could still be standing there like that. And then one day I looked out my family's station wagon window to the grassy fenced-in field surrounded by progress, and they were gone.
The area near my family's home was always congested. Old Georgetown Road - the road next to the cows - was a main thoroughfare for residents in the northern suburbs of D.C., minutes from the Beltway and Interstate 270. Rockville Pike, several miles up the road from the cows, was littered with development - Arby's, McDonald's and Burger King, K-Mart, Penney's and Loehmann's. There were movie theatres and car dealers, an indoor roller rink and outdoor mini-golf. I think that's why I remember the cows. They were an anomaly, a beautiful remnant of country life suspended in the midst of vast suburban sprawl.
Once the cows were gone, the changes escalated. Townhouses were the first things to go in, and they went in just about everywhere. Years later, a road was bulldozed right through the cows' field connecting Old Georgetown Road to Rockville Pike, making a short-cut to White Flint, an elite mall with pricey boutiques and shops. More recently, other, even larger developments have gone in.
The latest was a group of million-dollar four-level mansions set yards apart with little land, no grass and few, if any, trees. It is funny how these developments, with their cleared forests and lack of green, always seem to have names connected with nature. The one across from the old cows' field is called The Oaks.
I've thought more and more about my childhood neighborhood as I've seen the recent changes in Sharon, the town that has been my home for over 17 years. There was the massive clearing of forest to make way for the Hunter's Ridge development on North Main Street, and now a proposed development on Norwood Street - Route 27.
Like the development near my childhood home, Pine Woods, with its planned clearing of trees in 26 acres, is also inaptly named for nature. I'm relieved that with the recent Town Meeting vote, initial steps have been taken to preserve our beautiful lakeshore property around Lake Massapoag, and I hope for the best when it comes up for a vote in the future. It would be sad to see fallen trees and built-up housing units and homes along one of my favorite running routes in Sharon.
The thing is, once something beautiful is gone, there's no turning back. When the trees are cut down, they are gone. When an open field is filled with townhouses and homes, it is gone. Forever. And life will never be the same. Like the cows in the pasture near my childhood home, the only thing left is a memory.
Whenever I visit Borderland Park, go hiking and snowshoeing in Moose Hill, or catch a glimpse of the cows in the pasture next to Crescent Ridge Dairy, I think how lucky I am to have all of this - the lake, the trails, the trees, the fields - in my hometown. It is a welcome refuge from the fast-paced, frenetic world that surrounds us. There is nothing more beautiful, or more peaceful, than driving by fields on my way home, sun setting in the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2006)
Depending on the season, I might see sunflowers or cornstalks, tomatoes or pumpkins. And though I can't see them from the road, the early summer fields are filled with rows of plump strawberries and blueberries. If I listen carefully, I can hear the message in the wind as it blows across the fields - "slow down, take a breath, smell the flowers, see the trees."
There wasn't such vast farmland near my childhood home in Bethesda, Maryland, but the little bit there was I will never forget. It was a small patch of pasture next to the road, home to the Black Angus cows. Though it's been almost 40 years since they've stood in the field, munching on their grass-suppers, swatting flies with their tails, I still think of them whenever I visit home.
They were there, even when cars went whizzing by. They were there, even when the new development went up across the street. They were there when it seemed impossible that they could still be standing there like that. And then one day I looked out my family's station wagon window to the grassy fenced-in field surrounded by progress, and they were gone.
The area near my family's home was always congested. Old Georgetown Road - the road next to the cows - was a main thoroughfare for residents in the northern suburbs of D.C., minutes from the Beltway and Interstate 270. Rockville Pike, several miles up the road from the cows, was littered with development - Arby's, McDonald's and Burger King, K-Mart, Penney's and Loehmann's. There were movie theatres and car dealers, an indoor roller rink and outdoor mini-golf. I think that's why I remember the cows. They were an anomaly, a beautiful remnant of country life suspended in the midst of vast suburban sprawl.
Once the cows were gone, the changes escalated. Townhouses were the first things to go in, and they went in just about everywhere. Years later, a road was bulldozed right through the cows' field connecting Old Georgetown Road to Rockville Pike, making a short-cut to White Flint, an elite mall with pricey boutiques and shops. More recently, other, even larger developments have gone in.
The latest was a group of million-dollar four-level mansions set yards apart with little land, no grass and few, if any, trees. It is funny how these developments, with their cleared forests and lack of green, always seem to have names connected with nature. The one across from the old cows' field is called The Oaks.
I've thought more and more about my childhood neighborhood as I've seen the recent changes in Sharon, the town that has been my home for over 17 years. There was the massive clearing of forest to make way for the Hunter's Ridge development on North Main Street, and now a proposed development on Norwood Street - Route 27.
Like the development near my childhood home, Pine Woods, with its planned clearing of trees in 26 acres, is also inaptly named for nature. I'm relieved that with the recent Town Meeting vote, initial steps have been taken to preserve our beautiful lakeshore property around Lake Massapoag, and I hope for the best when it comes up for a vote in the future. It would be sad to see fallen trees and built-up housing units and homes along one of my favorite running routes in Sharon.
The thing is, once something beautiful is gone, there's no turning back. When the trees are cut down, they are gone. When an open field is filled with townhouses and homes, it is gone. Forever. And life will never be the same. Like the cows in the pasture near my childhood home, the only thing left is a memory.
Whenever I visit Borderland Park, go hiking and snowshoeing in Moose Hill, or catch a glimpse of the cows in the pasture next to Crescent Ridge Dairy, I think how lucky I am to have all of this - the lake, the trails, the trees, the fields - in my hometown. It is a welcome refuge from the fast-paced, frenetic world that surrounds us. There is nothing more beautiful, or more peaceful, than driving by fields on my way home, sun setting in the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2006)
Finding Hope in Troubling Times
In the weeks after the terrorist attacks five years ago, desperate for a way to cope with my anxiety and sadness, I started a journal. I wrote page after page of raw unpolished prose, recording my thoughts, feelings and fears. In the beginning I wrote of the constant heaviness, the oppressive force that pulled me down, down.
I couldn't stop thinking of all those lives so viciously wiped out, just ordinary people going to work, making a phone call, getting a cup of coffee, or a family going on a vacation, perhaps returning home. I couldn't stop thinking of all those who died trying to save others.
Later, I wrote of my weakness and shame. How could I - someone with no loved-one killed or injured - be so completely torn apart? Deep down, I knew that though I'd been spared in some ways, this was something that affected all of us. I think that now as I see what is happening in the world - the war in Iraq and the Middle East, the tragedy in Darfur, and other areas marked by death and despair, including places closer to home.Though these tragedies may not directly affect me, they too, touch all of us.
What struck me as I read through my journal entries, and what I remembered at the time, was the universality of my experience. When talking to family and friends and hearing reports from people I didn't know, I noticed we shared the same thoughts and worries, sometimes even using the same words to describe our feelings, talking of our disbelief about this new, changed world. What helped me then, as it does now, is to remember we are not alone. Other people are out there trying to cope, both with everyday problems and with tragic world events that are beyond our understanding.
About a month after the terrorist attacks I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my car, unable to move. I turned and saw an old man in the car next to mine. I wondered if his life experience had better prepared him to handle the enormity of what had happened. He must have been a young man during World War II, I thought. Perhaps he was a soldier. I wondered how living through that war affected him. Did he feel helpless? Was he afraid? Just knowing people got through that terrible time helped lessen my anxiety. For a brief moment I was strangely connected to the old man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope.
It helps to remember we are not alone, but we also need to believe that things will get better. In those dark days five years ago we were desperate for positive stories about the good side of humanity, about ordinary people doing brave things, about rescues against all odds, about strangers helping strangers. There was no shortage of such stories.
These days we are overwhelmed with disturbing reports. Though we may have to search for positive stories, we must find them. When we read about a Palestinian boy scout camp giving pins for promoting hate, we need to hear about Seeds of Peace, where Arab and Israeli teens come together to promote understanding. When we learn of anti-Semitic or anti-Arab attacks, we need to hear how local interfaith groups are bringing people together to foster acceptance and celebrate differences.
When we see the ongoing suffering of those hit by Hurricane Katrina, we need to hear about the extraordinary resilience of those who have recovered. We need to be inspired by people who refuse to accept the status quo, who are steadfast and optimistic even in the face of dire conditions. For it is in the worst of times that we most need to have hope.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
I couldn't stop thinking of all those lives so viciously wiped out, just ordinary people going to work, making a phone call, getting a cup of coffee, or a family going on a vacation, perhaps returning home. I couldn't stop thinking of all those who died trying to save others.
Later, I wrote of my weakness and shame. How could I - someone with no loved-one killed or injured - be so completely torn apart? Deep down, I knew that though I'd been spared in some ways, this was something that affected all of us. I think that now as I see what is happening in the world - the war in Iraq and the Middle East, the tragedy in Darfur, and other areas marked by death and despair, including places closer to home.Though these tragedies may not directly affect me, they too, touch all of us.
What struck me as I read through my journal entries, and what I remembered at the time, was the universality of my experience. When talking to family and friends and hearing reports from people I didn't know, I noticed we shared the same thoughts and worries, sometimes even using the same words to describe our feelings, talking of our disbelief about this new, changed world. What helped me then, as it does now, is to remember we are not alone. Other people are out there trying to cope, both with everyday problems and with tragic world events that are beyond our understanding.
About a month after the terrorist attacks I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my car, unable to move. I turned and saw an old man in the car next to mine. I wondered if his life experience had better prepared him to handle the enormity of what had happened. He must have been a young man during World War II, I thought. Perhaps he was a soldier. I wondered how living through that war affected him. Did he feel helpless? Was he afraid? Just knowing people got through that terrible time helped lessen my anxiety. For a brief moment I was strangely connected to the old man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope.
It helps to remember we are not alone, but we also need to believe that things will get better. In those dark days five years ago we were desperate for positive stories about the good side of humanity, about ordinary people doing brave things, about rescues against all odds, about strangers helping strangers. There was no shortage of such stories.
These days we are overwhelmed with disturbing reports. Though we may have to search for positive stories, we must find them. When we read about a Palestinian boy scout camp giving pins for promoting hate, we need to hear about Seeds of Peace, where Arab and Israeli teens come together to promote understanding. When we learn of anti-Semitic or anti-Arab attacks, we need to hear how local interfaith groups are bringing people together to foster acceptance and celebrate differences.
When we see the ongoing suffering of those hit by Hurricane Katrina, we need to hear about the extraordinary resilience of those who have recovered. We need to be inspired by people who refuse to accept the status quo, who are steadfast and optimistic even in the face of dire conditions. For it is in the worst of times that we most need to have hope.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
Retrieving Remmants of the Past
There have been many heartbreaking stories in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina - tales of utter devastation, unbearable loss.
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Caring, Elder-Centered Communities
An inevitable part of life is loss. No one knows this more than elders who, due to declining health and incapacity, are forced to give up their homes. Remaining in one's home should always be the goal. Many programs, like those offered through the local HESSCO Elder Services, help elders remain in their homes by offering assistance with daily living, home-delivered meals, adult day care, and respite for stressed family caregivers. But when elders need 24-hour nursing care, or when Alzheimer's disease has taken its toll, all the homecare support in the world may not be enough.
We often hear the horror stories about nursing homes, reports of substandard care and neglect. We rarely, though, hear about those that are doing things right, where elders are given a chance, not just to exist, but to thrive. Physician-farmer William Thomas has created a nursing home model that does just that. Thomas' approach, recently profiled in US New & World Report, is unique but simple, innovative, but born of pure common sense.
Thomas brought his perspective as a farmer - of nurturing, planting and growing - to the world of nursing homes. In the early 90s, he instituted dramatic changes in the upstate New York nursing home he directed. This is no ordinary nursing home. It has dogs and cats and birds and plants. Instead of rigid rules - waking residents at the same time for breakfast, providing care according to the convenience of shift workers - the home has a resident-focused approach. People eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, talk when they're feeling sociable, remain silent when they want to think and reflect.
The positive results of this approach were seen in statistics: a 50 percent decrease in infection, 71 percent dip in daily drug costs for each resident, and a 26 percent drop in nurse's aide turnover. The Eden Alternative, as it is called, is a philosophy that views nursing homes as "habitats for people rather than facilities for the frail."
Thomas has converted more than 500 nursing homes in the U.S. and abroad into models that replace scheduled institutional care with more humane elder-centered care.
Another of Thomas' innovations, the Green House Project, has led to the construction of over 100 nursing homes with small clusters of houses. The smaller units are designed for 8 to 10 residents, and include private bathrooms and kitchens.
They are described as "intentional communities where elders can receive assistance and clinical care without the assistance and care becoming the focus of their existence." Unlike standard institutions, these places are much more like home.
Concepts like "smaller size, client-centered and intentional programming" are nothing new. School systems have known for years that smaller is better. Middle schools are often organized into teams, creating an environment that fosters personal connections between students and teachers. Large high schools work to create more intimate schools-within-schools. And everyone knows that small class sizes are preferable to larger ones.
Good quality child care is child-centered, intentional. It builds everything - the physical environment, activities, the way staff interact with children - around the developmental needs and interests of children. Quality programs for older school-age children plan with kids, not for them. They address the unique needs of adolescents by providing opportunities for physical activity, social interaction, leadership and meaningful activities connected to the real world.
Likewise, nursing homes should be designed to meet elders' social and emotional needs as well as their physical ones. Innovative models like the Eden Alternative help combat loneliness, helplessness and boredom by giving residents opportunities to have contact with real life: children, plants, animals. They offer variety and opportunities for people to be spontaneous. And, perhaps most importantly, they give elders a chance to engage in activities that are meaningful.
These models show that sometimes the best solutions are straightforward ones that don't require manuals or complicated formulas - just common sense, and the determination to turn a simple but great idea into reality.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
We often hear the horror stories about nursing homes, reports of substandard care and neglect. We rarely, though, hear about those that are doing things right, where elders are given a chance, not just to exist, but to thrive. Physician-farmer William Thomas has created a nursing home model that does just that. Thomas' approach, recently profiled in US New & World Report, is unique but simple, innovative, but born of pure common sense.
Thomas brought his perspective as a farmer - of nurturing, planting and growing - to the world of nursing homes. In the early 90s, he instituted dramatic changes in the upstate New York nursing home he directed. This is no ordinary nursing home. It has dogs and cats and birds and plants. Instead of rigid rules - waking residents at the same time for breakfast, providing care according to the convenience of shift workers - the home has a resident-focused approach. People eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, talk when they're feeling sociable, remain silent when they want to think and reflect.
The positive results of this approach were seen in statistics: a 50 percent decrease in infection, 71 percent dip in daily drug costs for each resident, and a 26 percent drop in nurse's aide turnover. The Eden Alternative, as it is called, is a philosophy that views nursing homes as "habitats for people rather than facilities for the frail."
Thomas has converted more than 500 nursing homes in the U.S. and abroad into models that replace scheduled institutional care with more humane elder-centered care.
Another of Thomas' innovations, the Green House Project, has led to the construction of over 100 nursing homes with small clusters of houses. The smaller units are designed for 8 to 10 residents, and include private bathrooms and kitchens.
They are described as "intentional communities where elders can receive assistance and clinical care without the assistance and care becoming the focus of their existence." Unlike standard institutions, these places are much more like home.
Concepts like "smaller size, client-centered and intentional programming" are nothing new. School systems have known for years that smaller is better. Middle schools are often organized into teams, creating an environment that fosters personal connections between students and teachers. Large high schools work to create more intimate schools-within-schools. And everyone knows that small class sizes are preferable to larger ones.
Good quality child care is child-centered, intentional. It builds everything - the physical environment, activities, the way staff interact with children - around the developmental needs and interests of children. Quality programs for older school-age children plan with kids, not for them. They address the unique needs of adolescents by providing opportunities for physical activity, social interaction, leadership and meaningful activities connected to the real world.
Likewise, nursing homes should be designed to meet elders' social and emotional needs as well as their physical ones. Innovative models like the Eden Alternative help combat loneliness, helplessness and boredom by giving residents opportunities to have contact with real life: children, plants, animals. They offer variety and opportunities for people to be spontaneous. And, perhaps most importantly, they give elders a chance to engage in activities that are meaningful.
These models show that sometimes the best solutions are straightforward ones that don't require manuals or complicated formulas - just common sense, and the determination to turn a simple but great idea into reality.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
Shiver-Me-Timbers and Summer Movies
Summers are made for simple things—basic food, easy-does-it exercise, mindless movies. With the horrendous heat, I’ve been sticking to quick, cold dinners, like gazpacho soup and pasta salads, and I’m running early in the morning before the really hot stuff kicks in. The summer is a great time to go to the movies, but this year I’ve not seen many, at least none of the ‘true summer sort.’ My husband and I did see Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth,” but with all the talk of floods, droughts, epidemics, killer heat waves, and overall problem of planet survival, it hardly qualifies as a summer feel-good flick (though I do highly recommend it.)
Unlike me, my daughter has been an active participant in the genuine summer movie circuit. Earlier this summer she saw “X-Men: The Last Stand” and “A Prairie Home Companion.” She liked both. A few weeks later, she joined a group of her friends to watch the original “Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl” on DVD before heading off to the midnight premier of “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.” Though the sequel has received mixed reviews, my daughter thought it was great. Next on her list was “The Devil Wears Prada,” (excellent), “Superman,” (an okay movie made even better by the 3-D version), and then “The Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest”—a second time!
Though I’ve not seen the sequel, I liked the first “Pirates of the Caribbean” film. I agree with swashbuckling movie connoisseurs that Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow is the best pirate to sail the seas in decades. His look is pirate-perfect, with his black-rimmed eyes, beaded, braided hair—and beard!—and gold-capped teeth. His wildly bizarre characterization is definitely one of those you-have-to-see-it-to-understand-and-appreciate-it type performances. Yes, Depp makes an utterly charming, though somewhat unconventional pirate.
As an old movie buff, though, I can’t help but drift to the films of the past for my summer swashbuckling fix. Among my favorite pirate movies is the 1935 film “Captain Blood” starring the roguish, dashing Errol Flynn. Sold into slavery, Peter Blood falls in love with the beautiful heroine played by Olivia deHavilland, Flynn’s leading lady in many other films. Flynn’s on-the-beach duel with French pirate Levasseur (Basil Rathbone) is up there with one of the best swordfights ever filmed.
As much as I enjoyed “Captain Blood,” there is one old pirate film I think is even better—“The Sea Hawk.” Before my daughter began her summer-pirate movie marathon, she suggested we watch it again together. A few minutes into the film, with Captain Geoffrey Thorpe (Errol Flynn) leading a raid on the Spanish ship and with Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s magnificent score playing in the background, my daughter reminded me what makes this film so great. It has no dramatic special effects or spectacular stunts. It has no computer-generated character make-up or complicated plot. It does, though, do something that is not always done well in modern films. It tells a great story—simply, perfectly.
The “Sea Hawk” has everything anyone could ever want in a summer pirate movie—action, adventure, romance, political intrigue, not to mention thrilling battles at sea. On the heroic side, there’s Errol Flynn, of course, as the dashing Captain Thorpe, leader of the Sea Hawks, a band of fearless ‘privateers’ who raid Spanish ships, stealing treasure for the good of England. Flora Robson turns in one of the most engaging and believable portrayals of Queen Elizabeth in all of movies. “The Sea Hawk” also has its share of terrific bad guys—old reliable Claude Rains, and Henry Daniell as Lord Wolfingham, with whom Flynn engages in a spectacular (and famous) shadows-on-the-wall sword fight at the end of the film.
As far as summer film recommendations, I’d have to say don’t miss the Al Gore movie. It may be hard to watch, but it is a definite must-see. And though he’s no Jim Carrey, Gore manages to crack a joke or two as he delivers both bad news and his inspirational “we all need to care about this” message. To keep your personal ‘earth in the balance,’ you may want to follow up with a feel-good pirate flick. Whether you favor Captain “savvy” Sparrow or the more traditional Captains Blood or Thorpe, a pirate movie is a great way to spend a lazy summer afternoon.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
Unlike me, my daughter has been an active participant in the genuine summer movie circuit. Earlier this summer she saw “X-Men: The Last Stand” and “A Prairie Home Companion.” She liked both. A few weeks later, she joined a group of her friends to watch the original “Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl” on DVD before heading off to the midnight premier of “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.” Though the sequel has received mixed reviews, my daughter thought it was great. Next on her list was “The Devil Wears Prada,” (excellent), “Superman,” (an okay movie made even better by the 3-D version), and then “The Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest”—a second time!
Though I’ve not seen the sequel, I liked the first “Pirates of the Caribbean” film. I agree with swashbuckling movie connoisseurs that Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow is the best pirate to sail the seas in decades. His look is pirate-perfect, with his black-rimmed eyes, beaded, braided hair—and beard!—and gold-capped teeth. His wildly bizarre characterization is definitely one of those you-have-to-see-it-to-understand-and-appreciate-it type performances. Yes, Depp makes an utterly charming, though somewhat unconventional pirate.
As an old movie buff, though, I can’t help but drift to the films of the past for my summer swashbuckling fix. Among my favorite pirate movies is the 1935 film “Captain Blood” starring the roguish, dashing Errol Flynn. Sold into slavery, Peter Blood falls in love with the beautiful heroine played by Olivia deHavilland, Flynn’s leading lady in many other films. Flynn’s on-the-beach duel with French pirate Levasseur (Basil Rathbone) is up there with one of the best swordfights ever filmed.
As much as I enjoyed “Captain Blood,” there is one old pirate film I think is even better—“The Sea Hawk.” Before my daughter began her summer-pirate movie marathon, she suggested we watch it again together. A few minutes into the film, with Captain Geoffrey Thorpe (Errol Flynn) leading a raid on the Spanish ship and with Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s magnificent score playing in the background, my daughter reminded me what makes this film so great. It has no dramatic special effects or spectacular stunts. It has no computer-generated character make-up or complicated plot. It does, though, do something that is not always done well in modern films. It tells a great story—simply, perfectly.
The “Sea Hawk” has everything anyone could ever want in a summer pirate movie—action, adventure, romance, political intrigue, not to mention thrilling battles at sea. On the heroic side, there’s Errol Flynn, of course, as the dashing Captain Thorpe, leader of the Sea Hawks, a band of fearless ‘privateers’ who raid Spanish ships, stealing treasure for the good of England. Flora Robson turns in one of the most engaging and believable portrayals of Queen Elizabeth in all of movies. “The Sea Hawk” also has its share of terrific bad guys—old reliable Claude Rains, and Henry Daniell as Lord Wolfingham, with whom Flynn engages in a spectacular (and famous) shadows-on-the-wall sword fight at the end of the film.
As far as summer film recommendations, I’d have to say don’t miss the Al Gore movie. It may be hard to watch, but it is a definite must-see. And though he’s no Jim Carrey, Gore manages to crack a joke or two as he delivers both bad news and his inspirational “we all need to care about this” message. To keep your personal ‘earth in the balance,’ you may want to follow up with a feel-good pirate flick. Whether you favor Captain “savvy” Sparrow or the more traditional Captains Blood or Thorpe, a pirate movie is a great way to spend a lazy summer afternoon.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
Traveling Home With the Boys in White
I was heading to the gate when I first saw them, a group of seven young men dressed in white, calling to each other, walking in circles, trying to decide which way they should go. They are so young I thought to myself, and then continued on my way. When I reached the gate, I was relieved to see my flight to Providence was on time, unlike my trip out to Chicago when I faced a five hour delay. I settled in my seat, pulled out my newspaper and waited to board.
I looked up when I heard their voices and then spotted one of the crew, a tall lanky young man with closely cropped hair leading the others to an area where they could sit together. He was followed by a slight young man with a boyish grin, barely filling out his uniform, oversized pleated collar draped down the back. The sailors had found their way, and they were on my flight. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help looking at their faces. Though different, one thing defined them. They were all so young.
On the plane, one of the recruits sat in the aisle seat next to me. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said in a slight southern drawl. I nodded and smiled and said good morning back. The group of seven were scattered, some sitting with a comrade, and others, like the sailor next to me, seated with civilians.
As we fastened our seat belts and readied for departure, one of the sailors asked, “Rhode Island isn’t really an island, right?” I think he was joking. The young man next to me said they’d just finished Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval Station, and were now heading to their base in Rhode Island. He’d never been there before. He talked of being relieved to be done with training. “It will be nice not being yelled at all the time,” he said, before going on about how cool it was to see the inside of a gas chamber and to shoot a gun. I looked down and saw a PlayStation Magazine resting on his lap.
I thought about what these young men were doing—risking their lives, protecting us. And then it hit me. I wondered what dangers they would face, how they would fare. I thought and thought and thought about this as I sat so close to them and looked at their excited, anxious faces. They were so young; they were really just boys.
During the flight the sailor next to me leaned over and gazed out the window. “Look out there,” he called to his buddies in front of him. “Check out at all the clouds.” And later, “Wow, that’s a really big river down there,” he said. “It just goes on and on.” I got the feeling he’d not been in an airplane many times before. He asked if I knew how far Groton Connecticut was from Rhode Island. His brother lived there, and he hoped it wasn’t too far away. I told him I wasn’t certain—I thought it was on the coast and might not be more than an hour away. I assumed the naval base was in Newport, but none of them spoke of going anywhere but to Rhode Island.
I asked how long he would be at sea. He told me he wasn’t sure, that it depended on his duty. One assignment would put him on a nuclear submarine for a three month stretch without a break, while the other would take him away for nine months, stopping at ports every now and then. He said he would miss his family, and that they lived in Dallas.
As we prepared for the final decent, the sailors began chatting again. They talked about mundane things, like how they can now fall asleep sitting up and how they might be getting new blue dress uniforms soon. I looked again at their sailor suits—they were almost blindingly white—and at their shiny black shoes poking out below their big bell bottoms. When we landed, they began gathering their things, each clutching an identical manila folder with their names printed on the outside. I wondered what was in those folders.
As I said goodbye and was called Ma’am again in the most respectful of tones, I thought about all the soldiers who have been killed in Iraq. I hoped that these boys would not be going anywhere near there. I thought this again as I watched them stand and politely insist that others go ahead of them. And again as I watched them walk down the aisle and make their way up the gate plank, bright white fading into the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
I looked up when I heard their voices and then spotted one of the crew, a tall lanky young man with closely cropped hair leading the others to an area where they could sit together. He was followed by a slight young man with a boyish grin, barely filling out his uniform, oversized pleated collar draped down the back. The sailors had found their way, and they were on my flight. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help looking at their faces. Though different, one thing defined them. They were all so young.
On the plane, one of the recruits sat in the aisle seat next to me. “Good morning, Ma’am,” he said in a slight southern drawl. I nodded and smiled and said good morning back. The group of seven were scattered, some sitting with a comrade, and others, like the sailor next to me, seated with civilians.
As we fastened our seat belts and readied for departure, one of the sailors asked, “Rhode Island isn’t really an island, right?” I think he was joking. The young man next to me said they’d just finished Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval Station, and were now heading to their base in Rhode Island. He’d never been there before. He talked of being relieved to be done with training. “It will be nice not being yelled at all the time,” he said, before going on about how cool it was to see the inside of a gas chamber and to shoot a gun. I looked down and saw a PlayStation Magazine resting on his lap.
I thought about what these young men were doing—risking their lives, protecting us. And then it hit me. I wondered what dangers they would face, how they would fare. I thought and thought and thought about this as I sat so close to them and looked at their excited, anxious faces. They were so young; they were really just boys.
During the flight the sailor next to me leaned over and gazed out the window. “Look out there,” he called to his buddies in front of him. “Check out at all the clouds.” And later, “Wow, that’s a really big river down there,” he said. “It just goes on and on.” I got the feeling he’d not been in an airplane many times before. He asked if I knew how far Groton Connecticut was from Rhode Island. His brother lived there, and he hoped it wasn’t too far away. I told him I wasn’t certain—I thought it was on the coast and might not be more than an hour away. I assumed the naval base was in Newport, but none of them spoke of going anywhere but to Rhode Island.
I asked how long he would be at sea. He told me he wasn’t sure, that it depended on his duty. One assignment would put him on a nuclear submarine for a three month stretch without a break, while the other would take him away for nine months, stopping at ports every now and then. He said he would miss his family, and that they lived in Dallas.
As we prepared for the final decent, the sailors began chatting again. They talked about mundane things, like how they can now fall asleep sitting up and how they might be getting new blue dress uniforms soon. I looked again at their sailor suits—they were almost blindingly white—and at their shiny black shoes poking out below their big bell bottoms. When we landed, they began gathering their things, each clutching an identical manila folder with their names printed on the outside. I wondered what was in those folders.
As I said goodbye and was called Ma’am again in the most respectful of tones, I thought about all the soldiers who have been killed in Iraq. I hoped that these boys would not be going anywhere near there. I thought this again as I watched them stand and politely insist that others go ahead of them. And again as I watched them walk down the aisle and make their way up the gate plank, bright white fading into the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Suffering Through Spring in January
To all the skiers and snowboarders out there who’ve been unable to hit the slopes and the skaters who’ve been forced into indoor rinks, to all those who miss snowshoeing and ice-fishing and building snowmen in your front yards — to all of you I offer my sincere, heartfelt apology. You see, I am partially, if not fully, responsible for your pain.
You may hear other reasons behind the recent weather trend, tales of global warming brought on by pollution and the rise in greenhouse gases. You may hear meteorologists attribute the unseasonable record-breaking temperatures in the Northeast to a jet stream of the sort that generally occurs in warmer months, how instead of getting the usual cold air from the north, we are getting warm air flowing in from the south and west. All of these things no doubt provide a partial explanation — but there is something far more insidious contributing to the warming of our weather.
After years of struggling through mounds of snow, of back breaking shoveling of driveways and working to clear a path to our front door, we finally broke down and bought a snow blower. As with our lawnmower years ago, we went in on the purchase with our next-door neighbors. We didn’t settle for the small model, but instead opted for the pricey turbo-charged one that could take on a storm the size of the Blizzard of ‘78. We were ready for anything. And, therefore — naturally — ever since, nothing has happened.
Since that ominous purchase, there has been a significant reduction in the temperature and snowfall levels in the Northeast. I’ve used the snow blower exactly twice — the first time in the early December 2005 snowstorm, and the second time after a mere dusting that, truthfully, could have been more easily handled with my plastic snow shovel.
Other actions on my part have contributed to the warming trend, like my recent purchase of two North Face Polartec vests and a pair of particularly cozy fur-lined slippers. More significantly was the purchase of snowshoes a few seasons back, something I’ve been able to use only a handful of times since.
Though they were a Christmas gift from my husband, he bought them in direct response to my persistent pre-holiday hinting. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go snowshoeing in Moose Hill, trudging along the snow-covered trails, breathing in the frosty air amongst ice-covered trees? Oh yeah, we don’t own any snowshoes. Never mind.”
Now one may wonder what a snow blower, North Face vests, furry slippers and snowshoes have to do with the warming trend. The superstitious wood knocking, salt-tossing, sidewalk-crack-avoiding people of the world know the answer to this all too well. When you prepare for or announce one thing, the exact opposite generally occurs. Those who follow sports are familiar with this effect, the so-called Sports Illustrated jinx, how players having exceptionally successful seasons will suddenly tank or sustain side-lining injuries soon after the issue hits the stands.
Some examples of this trend include Mo Vaughn’s collapse (going 0 for 14 in the Indian’s three-game sweep of the Sox) following his October 1995 appearance on the cover, Kurt Warner’s pinkie injury resulting in his missing the next five games after his October 2000 cover, and the announcement of Nomar Garciaparra’s split tendon in his wrist following his appearance on the March 2001 cover.
The lesser-known but equally powerful Madden game jinx has resulted in season-ending injuries of star players like Michael Vick, Donovan McNabb and Shaun Alexander following their appearances on the XBox game cover.
Just as Sports Illustrated and Madden must assume responsibility for the catastrophes that follow players’ cover appearances, I too, must accept that my actions have contributed to the lack of cold weather and snow. The least I can do is try to turn things around. Talking and writing about how warm it has been is a good start. And there are other steps I plan to take.
I’ll stock up on sunscreen and buy a new pair of flip-flops. I’ll put away my down comforter and send my winter coat off to the dry cleaners. I’ll open the windows wide and start my spring cleaning. I’ll prepare the snow blower for its annual hibernation, emptying it of gasoline, draping it under its cover, tucking it in the corner of our shed.
I’ll keep talking to everyone I know about how crazy it is that we’re having spring in the middle of winter, how the birds are chirping, the crocuses are coming up and the cherry blossoms are blooming. Yep, that should just about do it.
You may hear other reasons behind the recent weather trend, tales of global warming brought on by pollution and the rise in greenhouse gases. You may hear meteorologists attribute the unseasonable record-breaking temperatures in the Northeast to a jet stream of the sort that generally occurs in warmer months, how instead of getting the usual cold air from the north, we are getting warm air flowing in from the south and west. All of these things no doubt provide a partial explanation — but there is something far more insidious contributing to the warming of our weather.
After years of struggling through mounds of snow, of back breaking shoveling of driveways and working to clear a path to our front door, we finally broke down and bought a snow blower. As with our lawnmower years ago, we went in on the purchase with our next-door neighbors. We didn’t settle for the small model, but instead opted for the pricey turbo-charged one that could take on a storm the size of the Blizzard of ‘78. We were ready for anything. And, therefore — naturally — ever since, nothing has happened.
Since that ominous purchase, there has been a significant reduction in the temperature and snowfall levels in the Northeast. I’ve used the snow blower exactly twice — the first time in the early December 2005 snowstorm, and the second time after a mere dusting that, truthfully, could have been more easily handled with my plastic snow shovel.
Other actions on my part have contributed to the warming trend, like my recent purchase of two North Face Polartec vests and a pair of particularly cozy fur-lined slippers. More significantly was the purchase of snowshoes a few seasons back, something I’ve been able to use only a handful of times since.
Though they were a Christmas gift from my husband, he bought them in direct response to my persistent pre-holiday hinting. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go snowshoeing in Moose Hill, trudging along the snow-covered trails, breathing in the frosty air amongst ice-covered trees? Oh yeah, we don’t own any snowshoes. Never mind.”
Now one may wonder what a snow blower, North Face vests, furry slippers and snowshoes have to do with the warming trend. The superstitious wood knocking, salt-tossing, sidewalk-crack-avoiding people of the world know the answer to this all too well. When you prepare for or announce one thing, the exact opposite generally occurs. Those who follow sports are familiar with this effect, the so-called Sports Illustrated jinx, how players having exceptionally successful seasons will suddenly tank or sustain side-lining injuries soon after the issue hits the stands.
Some examples of this trend include Mo Vaughn’s collapse (going 0 for 14 in the Indian’s three-game sweep of the Sox) following his October 1995 appearance on the cover, Kurt Warner’s pinkie injury resulting in his missing the next five games after his October 2000 cover, and the announcement of Nomar Garciaparra’s split tendon in his wrist following his appearance on the March 2001 cover.
The lesser-known but equally powerful Madden game jinx has resulted in season-ending injuries of star players like Michael Vick, Donovan McNabb and Shaun Alexander following their appearances on the XBox game cover.
Just as Sports Illustrated and Madden must assume responsibility for the catastrophes that follow players’ cover appearances, I too, must accept that my actions have contributed to the lack of cold weather and snow. The least I can do is try to turn things around. Talking and writing about how warm it has been is a good start. And there are other steps I plan to take.
I’ll stock up on sunscreen and buy a new pair of flip-flops. I’ll put away my down comforter and send my winter coat off to the dry cleaners. I’ll open the windows wide and start my spring cleaning. I’ll prepare the snow blower for its annual hibernation, emptying it of gasoline, draping it under its cover, tucking it in the corner of our shed.
I’ll keep talking to everyone I know about how crazy it is that we’re having spring in the middle of winter, how the birds are chirping, the crocuses are coming up and the cherry blossoms are blooming. Yep, that should just about do it.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Signs of Being Behind-the-Times
On a recent clothes shopping trip with my daughter, I suggested a type of shirt that would go with her newly purchased pants. “Something simple, like a nice little shell,” I said. “A what?” she replied. “You know, a shell, a sleeveless shirt,” I said, running a finger across my shoulder to show where the edge of the shirt stops. “Oh, you mean a tank top,” my daughter answered, laughing. A similar incident occurred a few weeks ago when I said I would pick up some creme rinse at the drug store. “Some what?” she said. “Creme rinse, you know, the stuff you put on after you shampoo,” I said. “Oh, you mean conditioner,” she said. More laughing.
I’m slowly getting used to the outward signs of aging—the slightly expanding waistline, the crow’s feet and sags, the graying hair. And though it’s distressing, I’m not surprised by ‘mind-pause’ things like forgetting where I put my car keys, going off on a tangent when telling a story and the sporadic inability to retrieve names for common objects.
But this business of feeling old simply by what I call things is a whole new realm of aging. It’s not like I always call conditioner creme rinse—I haven’t bought Tame since I was a kid—but sometimes the words just slip out. Though I refer to pants that hit mid-calf as capris, I have to admit I secretly think of them as peddle-pushers. In addition to finding that names for things have changed, meanings for names of things have changed. To me, thongs will always be casual sandals (i.e. flip-flops), not some ridiculously skimpy, horribly uncomfortable-looking undergarment.
Clothing is another sure-fire way to show age. I know this because up until a year ago, I owned a pair of those high-waisted, straight-legged, front-pleated, baggy old age-broadcasters known as “mom jeans,” until my daughter kindly pulled me aside for some much-needed fashion advice. Thankfully, she also talked me into replacing my comfortable but unsightly square-toed, thick-soled shoes with something a bit more modern.
These days, age is also revealed in the products people use. Using a regular (non-digital) camera, paper appointment book or Sony Walkman will instantly add 20 years to someone’s age. Even buying CDs is becoming dated. A recent New York Times article, “The Graying of the Record Store” was all about this kind of thing, how independent record shops, especially in big cities, are closing because kids are downloading music and no longer buying CDs. Even something as innocuous as wearing a watch is becoming old-fashioned. With digital clocks built into cell phones, many young people—phones affixed to ears—no longer feel a need to wear one.
On top of what I wear and use, every now and then, I’ll say something that I know instantly dates me. Though I’ve never been known to utter anything as Draconian as “you silly goose” or “if I had my druthers,” I have been known to talk about having a “conniption fit” and needing to “keep my eyes peeled.” And I know I’m guilty of telling my kids more than once that “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “it’s better to be safe than sorry.” These old sayings just pop out of my mouth—unrestrained, automatic. I suppose it’s just another all-too-obvious sign that I wasn’t born yesterday.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
I’m slowly getting used to the outward signs of aging—the slightly expanding waistline, the crow’s feet and sags, the graying hair. And though it’s distressing, I’m not surprised by ‘mind-pause’ things like forgetting where I put my car keys, going off on a tangent when telling a story and the sporadic inability to retrieve names for common objects.
But this business of feeling old simply by what I call things is a whole new realm of aging. It’s not like I always call conditioner creme rinse—I haven’t bought Tame since I was a kid—but sometimes the words just slip out. Though I refer to pants that hit mid-calf as capris, I have to admit I secretly think of them as peddle-pushers. In addition to finding that names for things have changed, meanings for names of things have changed. To me, thongs will always be casual sandals (i.e. flip-flops), not some ridiculously skimpy, horribly uncomfortable-looking undergarment.
Clothing is another sure-fire way to show age. I know this because up until a year ago, I owned a pair of those high-waisted, straight-legged, front-pleated, baggy old age-broadcasters known as “mom jeans,” until my daughter kindly pulled me aside for some much-needed fashion advice. Thankfully, she also talked me into replacing my comfortable but unsightly square-toed, thick-soled shoes with something a bit more modern.
These days, age is also revealed in the products people use. Using a regular (non-digital) camera, paper appointment book or Sony Walkman will instantly add 20 years to someone’s age. Even buying CDs is becoming dated. A recent New York Times article, “The Graying of the Record Store” was all about this kind of thing, how independent record shops, especially in big cities, are closing because kids are downloading music and no longer buying CDs. Even something as innocuous as wearing a watch is becoming old-fashioned. With digital clocks built into cell phones, many young people—phones affixed to ears—no longer feel a need to wear one.
On top of what I wear and use, every now and then, I’ll say something that I know instantly dates me. Though I’ve never been known to utter anything as Draconian as “you silly goose” or “if I had my druthers,” I have been known to talk about having a “conniption fit” and needing to “keep my eyes peeled.” And I know I’m guilty of telling my kids more than once that “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “it’s better to be safe than sorry.” These old sayings just pop out of my mouth—unrestrained, automatic. I suppose it’s just another all-too-obvious sign that I wasn’t born yesterday.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Viva La Frogs
There is a major milestone coming up in our home this month, one I was certain I’d never witness. Our frogs, the first of which we got as a birthday present for my son, will turn ten years old. That’s human years. If frogs are anything like dogs, that’s seventy frog years. For such old creatures, these little guys (or gals) can sure still move around.
We thought it would be fun as well as educational to get our son a ‘grow-a-frog’ for his fifth birthday. It works like this. You mail back the coupon and this place in Florida sends you a tadpole that you watch turn miraculously into a frog. From the start, though, this project was beset with problems. It was too cold in February when we mailed our coupon for the company to send a tadpole—it would have never made it, they said. So instead, they sent a sturdier ‘froglet’ with a coupon to mail in for a tadpole once the weather turned warmer.
Though cute, the froglet, which my son promptly, if not originally, named Freddie, was not exactly what we had in mind. The whole point of this frog thing was so he (and we) could watch the tadpole go though its amazing transformation. So when spring came, we sent in our coupon. When the package arrived, we were thrilled. After all this time, we finally had our tadpole. It lasted about a week. I think I may have spotted the makings of a small webbed foot before it keeled over, but that may have been wishful thinking.
I called the company to explain what happened, and they kindly agreed to send another tadpole. When the package arrived, we were surprised to find, not a tadpole, but another froglet, which my daughter promptly, if not originally, named Fredericka. When I called the company again, they were very apologetic. I explained our urgent need for a tadpole. A few weeks later another package arrived. Yep, you guessed it, another froglet. This time my son named it, for no apparent reason, Michael. I made just one more call to the frog company, stressing politely but firmly that they never send us anything ever again.
So that is how we ended up with no tadpoles and three water frogs. I’d never read much about the longevity of these creatures, but figured we’d have them at most for a year or two. Each year, I’m amazed they’re still with us. They’ve somehow managed to thrive in their small quarters, growing to nearly twenty times their original size. They lead quiet, simple lives. They swim, jump, and splash. They come up for air every now and then, making little bubbles at the top of the tank. And they eat this really smelly amphibian food, using their webbed hands to guide the pellet sticks into their mouths. Sometimes they grab onto each other’s slippery bodies, wrapping their arms around their middles like they’re hugging each other (or so I like to think.) They have the most delightful little faces with their beady eyes and wide thin smiles.
My son still feeds them (almost) every day. I change the water weekly, more so in the summer. Our neighbors help us out when we go away, sprinkling food in the top of the tank, keeping them alive. As far as pets go, they are pretty low maintenance. Though they don’t interact with people like many pets do, they are ours and I, for one, am quite fond of them. And here they are, ten years later, swimming around in their tank-home, jumping, eating, and making their little frog smiles. Who would have ever thought? Happy Birthday guys. Here’s hoping for many more.
(This column was originally published on townonline January, 2006)
We thought it would be fun as well as educational to get our son a ‘grow-a-frog’ for his fifth birthday. It works like this. You mail back the coupon and this place in Florida sends you a tadpole that you watch turn miraculously into a frog. From the start, though, this project was beset with problems. It was too cold in February when we mailed our coupon for the company to send a tadpole—it would have never made it, they said. So instead, they sent a sturdier ‘froglet’ with a coupon to mail in for a tadpole once the weather turned warmer.
Though cute, the froglet, which my son promptly, if not originally, named Freddie, was not exactly what we had in mind. The whole point of this frog thing was so he (and we) could watch the tadpole go though its amazing transformation. So when spring came, we sent in our coupon. When the package arrived, we were thrilled. After all this time, we finally had our tadpole. It lasted about a week. I think I may have spotted the makings of a small webbed foot before it keeled over, but that may have been wishful thinking.
I called the company to explain what happened, and they kindly agreed to send another tadpole. When the package arrived, we were surprised to find, not a tadpole, but another froglet, which my daughter promptly, if not originally, named Fredericka. When I called the company again, they were very apologetic. I explained our urgent need for a tadpole. A few weeks later another package arrived. Yep, you guessed it, another froglet. This time my son named it, for no apparent reason, Michael. I made just one more call to the frog company, stressing politely but firmly that they never send us anything ever again.
So that is how we ended up with no tadpoles and three water frogs. I’d never read much about the longevity of these creatures, but figured we’d have them at most for a year or two. Each year, I’m amazed they’re still with us. They’ve somehow managed to thrive in their small quarters, growing to nearly twenty times their original size. They lead quiet, simple lives. They swim, jump, and splash. They come up for air every now and then, making little bubbles at the top of the tank. And they eat this really smelly amphibian food, using their webbed hands to guide the pellet sticks into their mouths. Sometimes they grab onto each other’s slippery bodies, wrapping their arms around their middles like they’re hugging each other (or so I like to think.) They have the most delightful little faces with their beady eyes and wide thin smiles.
My son still feeds them (almost) every day. I change the water weekly, more so in the summer. Our neighbors help us out when we go away, sprinkling food in the top of the tank, keeping them alive. As far as pets go, they are pretty low maintenance. Though they don’t interact with people like many pets do, they are ours and I, for one, am quite fond of them. And here they are, ten years later, swimming around in their tank-home, jumping, eating, and making their little frog smiles. Who would have ever thought? Happy Birthday guys. Here’s hoping for many more.
(This column was originally published on townonline January, 2006)
My Mother's Day Life Lessons
This Mother's Day, I enter a new stage. I am now the parent of an adult child. Though my daughter is grown, she is still my child. And though I am now old enough to have a grown daughter, I am still my mother's child.
It doesn't seem possible that we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital 18 years ago. In those early days, I never thought much about what it meant to be a mother. Like most new moms, I floated in and out of a foggy, sleep-deprived, though blissful state. I don't remember being particularly worried about the awesome responsibility of caring for a child. Perhaps if I'd stopped to think about it I would have been more anxious. Mostly I just remember being entranced by this perfect little being.
By the time my children became toddlers, I thought more about my role as a parent. I supported their natural curiosity about the world while trying to keep them safe. Safety rules were critical, my responses automatic. Other decisions - like denying the extra cookie or telling a defiant child it was bed time - were not things that required deep thought.
As my children grew older, I had to think more, making important decisions about what to allow, and what to refuse. My kids began asking questions I was unprepared to answer. The canned, clever responses of the past like "we'll see" or "ask me later" no longer worked. And it was never easy giving an answer I knew would be followed by tension, anger and tears, even if it was the right one. I always told my kids the surest way to get "no" for a response was to plead "everyone else is doing it."
There have been many lessons over my almost two decades as a parent. One thing I've learned is that I can't fix everything for my kids, and more importantly, I shouldn't try to. Sometimes the best thing is to just be there, to listen.
I've made many mistakes over the years, sometimes by saying the wrong thing, other times by not saying enough. I've learned if I'm not comfortable with something, I need to speak up. After all, that's what I've always told my kids to do.
There were many times, especially in the adolescent and teenage years, when my ambiguous discomfort was the sole reason for refusing a request. I'm sure there were times I was unreasonable, maybe even unfair. But I also knew I could not ignore uneasy feelings. I'd always wonder what would have been different if I'd said something. Though I may have hesitated before giving an answer I knew would make my kids mad, I never feared making waves. In the end, I always went with my gut. I suppose I still do.
As a mother, I've tried to give my kids freedom to try new things and make mistakes while also helping them stay safe. For me, this balancing act is the hardest part of being a parent. The other day my daughter and I talked about it. "You and dad have done a good job as parents," she said. She went on to say it was good how we built up to things, refusing some requests, allowing other things, each time with more freedom, more responsibility. I guess we've managed the right mix of "yes and no." Not perfect, but good enough.
Being a parent is a life-long thing. Though older, my children still need me, just as surely as I still need them. And I still need my mother for so many things - advice on handling a problem, having someone to share what's on my mind. And my mom, she is always there, ready to listen with genuine interest to both the thrilling and ordinary stories of my life. When I think about it, I guess that's what mothers are for.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2006)
It doesn't seem possible that we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital 18 years ago. In those early days, I never thought much about what it meant to be a mother. Like most new moms, I floated in and out of a foggy, sleep-deprived, though blissful state. I don't remember being particularly worried about the awesome responsibility of caring for a child. Perhaps if I'd stopped to think about it I would have been more anxious. Mostly I just remember being entranced by this perfect little being.
By the time my children became toddlers, I thought more about my role as a parent. I supported their natural curiosity about the world while trying to keep them safe. Safety rules were critical, my responses automatic. Other decisions - like denying the extra cookie or telling a defiant child it was bed time - were not things that required deep thought.
As my children grew older, I had to think more, making important decisions about what to allow, and what to refuse. My kids began asking questions I was unprepared to answer. The canned, clever responses of the past like "we'll see" or "ask me later" no longer worked. And it was never easy giving an answer I knew would be followed by tension, anger and tears, even if it was the right one. I always told my kids the surest way to get "no" for a response was to plead "everyone else is doing it."
There have been many lessons over my almost two decades as a parent. One thing I've learned is that I can't fix everything for my kids, and more importantly, I shouldn't try to. Sometimes the best thing is to just be there, to listen.
I've made many mistakes over the years, sometimes by saying the wrong thing, other times by not saying enough. I've learned if I'm not comfortable with something, I need to speak up. After all, that's what I've always told my kids to do.
There were many times, especially in the adolescent and teenage years, when my ambiguous discomfort was the sole reason for refusing a request. I'm sure there were times I was unreasonable, maybe even unfair. But I also knew I could not ignore uneasy feelings. I'd always wonder what would have been different if I'd said something. Though I may have hesitated before giving an answer I knew would make my kids mad, I never feared making waves. In the end, I always went with my gut. I suppose I still do.
As a mother, I've tried to give my kids freedom to try new things and make mistakes while also helping them stay safe. For me, this balancing act is the hardest part of being a parent. The other day my daughter and I talked about it. "You and dad have done a good job as parents," she said. She went on to say it was good how we built up to things, refusing some requests, allowing other things, each time with more freedom, more responsibility. I guess we've managed the right mix of "yes and no." Not perfect, but good enough.
Being a parent is a life-long thing. Though older, my children still need me, just as surely as I still need them. And I still need my mother for so many things - advice on handling a problem, having someone to share what's on my mind. And my mom, she is always there, ready to listen with genuine interest to both the thrilling and ordinary stories of my life. When I think about it, I guess that's what mothers are for.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2006)
Losing a Filene's Friend
I haven’t shopped at Filene’s in Downtown Crossing in many years. Still, I took the news of its planned closing very hard. Filene’s is as closely connected with Boston as anything I can think of. It is the Red Sox of department stores. While I can’t claim Boston as my birthplace, having lived here almost thirty years (and hence, the bulk of my life), I’m entrenched enough to feel the loss profoundly. It’s as if a dear friend—the one with whom I share my deepest, darkest secrets—has announced she’s moving away.
Ever since I learned about the closing of Filene’s, I’ve been trying to understand why I am so sad. I realized I’ve never fully accepted that Jordan Marsh turned into Macy’s. I mean, Macy’s is about as ‘New York’ as the Yankees. Though that change was almost ten years ago, when I picture Downtown Crossing, I still see Filene’s and Jordon Marsh, kindly neighbors, eyeing each other from across the way, keeping each other company like life-long friends.
There have been many corporate takeovers and changes in Boston over the years, and though I’ve been affected by all of them in different ways, none has hit me as hard as this one. I felt sad when BayBank become Bank of Boston, in part I think, because BayBank was where I first used an automatic teller card. I wasn’t bothered when it eventually become Fleet, and I cared less when Fleet became Bank of America (by then I’d switched to Sharon Credit Union). I guess I just wasn’t emotionally tied to my bank.
I wasn’t troubled when Sullivan stadium became Foxboro stadium, or when CMGI Field turned into Gillette. Having only been there once, I guess I wasn’t emotionally tied to the stadium either. The news of Gillette being bought out by Proctor & Gamble was distressing for reasons other than personal. It was hard to take yet another story of corporate greed at the expense of hard-working people. As upsetting as the Gillette news was, for me, it fell into the category of public outrage, rather than private upset.
And there have been other local losses and changes: Polaroid, John Hancock, Lechmere, Great Woods. Though I get a pang of nostalgia when I utter these institutional names, the loss does not feel crushing. Not like Filene’s.
I think the reason the Filene’s news has hit me so hard, is because it is much more than a department store. It is linked with bits of my life. Filene’s will be forever meshed with my move to Boston in 1976, with the excitement of living in a new city, and starting college. When my roommates and I went to Downtown Crossing, it was an all-day affair. We’d hop aboard the T at Boston College, screeching along Commonwealth Avenue until we entered the eerie under-road darkness. We’d climb the grimy Boylston Street station stairs, and stroll through the Public Gardens, taking in the glorious colors and scents.
We’d walk through the Boston Common, cross over Tremont Street and stroll into the shopping district. We’d peek in the windows and check out the bookshops and record stores, before heading into the heart of Downtown Crossing. We’d never make the trip without stopping at Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Being money-strapped college students, Filene’s basement was always the first place we’d go—rummaging through the racks and piles for bargain blouses, slipping on those perfectly priced shoes.
Though we often returned with our arms filled with shopping bags, we didn’t really go to Downtown Crossing to shop. We went for the excitement. We went to explore the vibrant city and to stroll on the no-cars-allowed-cobblestones. We went to feel the pulse of the lively crowds, laughing and talking, just like us. We went to experience a little slice of life.
These are the things I will remember. Filene’s, I will miss you.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2005)
Ever since I learned about the closing of Filene’s, I’ve been trying to understand why I am so sad. I realized I’ve never fully accepted that Jordan Marsh turned into Macy’s. I mean, Macy’s is about as ‘New York’ as the Yankees. Though that change was almost ten years ago, when I picture Downtown Crossing, I still see Filene’s and Jordon Marsh, kindly neighbors, eyeing each other from across the way, keeping each other company like life-long friends.
There have been many corporate takeovers and changes in Boston over the years, and though I’ve been affected by all of them in different ways, none has hit me as hard as this one. I felt sad when BayBank become Bank of Boston, in part I think, because BayBank was where I first used an automatic teller card. I wasn’t bothered when it eventually become Fleet, and I cared less when Fleet became Bank of America (by then I’d switched to Sharon Credit Union). I guess I just wasn’t emotionally tied to my bank.
I wasn’t troubled when Sullivan stadium became Foxboro stadium, or when CMGI Field turned into Gillette. Having only been there once, I guess I wasn’t emotionally tied to the stadium either. The news of Gillette being bought out by Proctor & Gamble was distressing for reasons other than personal. It was hard to take yet another story of corporate greed at the expense of hard-working people. As upsetting as the Gillette news was, for me, it fell into the category of public outrage, rather than private upset.
And there have been other local losses and changes: Polaroid, John Hancock, Lechmere, Great Woods. Though I get a pang of nostalgia when I utter these institutional names, the loss does not feel crushing. Not like Filene’s.
I think the reason the Filene’s news has hit me so hard, is because it is much more than a department store. It is linked with bits of my life. Filene’s will be forever meshed with my move to Boston in 1976, with the excitement of living in a new city, and starting college. When my roommates and I went to Downtown Crossing, it was an all-day affair. We’d hop aboard the T at Boston College, screeching along Commonwealth Avenue until we entered the eerie under-road darkness. We’d climb the grimy Boylston Street station stairs, and stroll through the Public Gardens, taking in the glorious colors and scents.
We’d walk through the Boston Common, cross over Tremont Street and stroll into the shopping district. We’d peek in the windows and check out the bookshops and record stores, before heading into the heart of Downtown Crossing. We’d never make the trip without stopping at Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Being money-strapped college students, Filene’s basement was always the first place we’d go—rummaging through the racks and piles for bargain blouses, slipping on those perfectly priced shoes.
Though we often returned with our arms filled with shopping bags, we didn’t really go to Downtown Crossing to shop. We went for the excitement. We went to explore the vibrant city and to stroll on the no-cars-allowed-cobblestones. We went to feel the pulse of the lively crowds, laughing and talking, just like us. We went to experience a little slice of life.
These are the things I will remember. Filene’s, I will miss you.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2005)
Taking Time to Feel the Fall
The days, I’ve noticed, have slightly changed. In early mornings when I take a breath, a cool stream fills my chest. A faint fog blows before me. I jump and shake and move my limbs, rubbing my hands, warming my finger tips.
All around it looks like summer—the grass is green, the trees are full, the sun is bright. But some things are different. The crickets have quieted, and the bird-chirps are lower, longer, the sounds seeping into the chilled air. Though still green, there is a trace of turning of the leaves—fading tips, spots of russet.
In the nearby fields the towering sunflowers have started to die. They are hunched and bent, tired from standing so tall for so long. The cornstalks stand firm, but they too will soon begin to bend. The neighborhood gardens are blooming with fuchsia and lavender and yellow and blue, impatiens still spreading, covering the beds. There is, though, a hint of decline—crumpled petals, dropped leaves, specks of brown.
I want to see and feel every bit of fall before the days become shorter, before the darkness makes me feel heavy and slow and more tired than I know I should be. Soon the leaves will turn brilliant gold and orange and red, and then they will dry up and fall. The flowers in the beds—even the hearty mums—will wither and crumble and mix with the ground. The cool air will turn bitterly cold, and people will be buttoning coats, turning up collars, hurrying along.
So I will stop to look at the stooping sunflowers, at the turning leaves, at the slightly withering petals. I will listen to the birds and strain to hear the last remnants of the crickets. I will feel the cool air on my bare skin. I will breathe as long and hard and slow as I can, taking it all in. Before it is gone.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
All around it looks like summer—the grass is green, the trees are full, the sun is bright. But some things are different. The crickets have quieted, and the bird-chirps are lower, longer, the sounds seeping into the chilled air. Though still green, there is a trace of turning of the leaves—fading tips, spots of russet.
In the nearby fields the towering sunflowers have started to die. They are hunched and bent, tired from standing so tall for so long. The cornstalks stand firm, but they too will soon begin to bend. The neighborhood gardens are blooming with fuchsia and lavender and yellow and blue, impatiens still spreading, covering the beds. There is, though, a hint of decline—crumpled petals, dropped leaves, specks of brown.
I want to see and feel every bit of fall before the days become shorter, before the darkness makes me feel heavy and slow and more tired than I know I should be. Soon the leaves will turn brilliant gold and orange and red, and then they will dry up and fall. The flowers in the beds—even the hearty mums—will wither and crumble and mix with the ground. The cool air will turn bitterly cold, and people will be buttoning coats, turning up collars, hurrying along.
So I will stop to look at the stooping sunflowers, at the turning leaves, at the slightly withering petals. I will listen to the birds and strain to hear the last remnants of the crickets. I will feel the cool air on my bare skin. I will breathe as long and hard and slow as I can, taking it all in. Before it is gone.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Missing Out on a Furry Best Friend
There is a passionate, devoted, wonderfully crazy world out there that, sadly, I am not a part of—the world of dogs. Dogs and things connected to them are everywhere these days. There are dog parks and specialty stores. There are dog magazines and newsletters. There’s doggie day care and dog beauty shops—even traveling ones like Zoomin-Groomin—a local franchise right here in Sharon. There are doggie treat stations at pet stores set up like a salad bar with bins and scoops for liver hearts and carob chip cookies. There are websites and personal ads devoted to matching people through their common interest in dogs like in the movie, “Must Love Dogs.” There are even bumper stickers that read “the more people I meet, the more I like my dog.” (There’s definitely something to that saying.)
I always thought that when I had a family, we’d get a dog. Both my husband and I grew up with dogs. He had a Golden Retriever-Golden Lab mix naturally named Goldie. I had two dogs, our first a Hungarian Sheepdog, Trinka, and then an Old English Sheepdog, Myshkin, named by my mother after the kindly prince in Dostoevsky’s novel “The Idiot.” While my memories of Trinka are anything but fond (she bit and barked and viciously shredded our curtains), Myshkin—though somewhat slobbery—was a very loving pet.
Years ago my husband and I talked about getting a dog. We hesitated, though, since both our children had allergies. We were looking to decrease allergens, not add to them. As years passed, and our kids’ symptoms improved, we began exploring possibilities, considering dogs that weren’t as likely to create problems.
I got the book, “The Right Dog for You” with information about different breeds—kid friendliness, train-ability, how they got along with other dogs. We’d pretty much settled on a small to medium-sized dog, narrowing it to a Beagle or Border Terrier. A friend of mine whose children had allergies swore her Wheaten Terrier was not a problem, so we began looking into those. We researched, waited, delayed some more. Then the doubts started to surface again. “We go away on weekends a lot,” my husband said. True. “And we have no family nearby to take care of the dog when we’re away. We’d be tied down.” True again.
So we got other ‘pets’ instead—a hamster, water frogs. While our frogs splashed away in their modest aquarium, our hamster lived in a miniature city. Her cage-home had more rooms than ours, with passages connecting in a tangled web of tunnels to various compartments and exercise wheels. She even had this plastic ball where we’d put her in and watch her roll across the kitchen floor. The thing is, hamsters are asleep just when you most want to play with them, and you can’t hug a frog—too small, too slippery. Yes, these animals were sorry substitutes for a dog.
I’m quite amused at the whole dog-thing. People can be quite funny about them. My mother is a classic case in point. She is utterly obsessed with her Pug Kobe, (in no way named for the considerably taller and more temperamental NBA star of the same name.) My mother showers Kobe with gifts—an assortment of sweaters, squeaky and stuffed animal toys, raw hide chew things, doggie treats. Make no bones about it, this is one sweet, spoiled dog.
And there’s more. Kobe sits like a statue as my mother photographs her wearing her many scarves—one covered in black Labradors (from our visit to the Black Dog), one with little lobsters on it (from our visit to Kittery, Maine), even a leopard print cape with fur lined along the top. One Christmas, my mother even had Kobe’s picture taken sitting on Santa’s lap. “The proceeds went to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” my mother said, justifying it. Somehow I think this photo-op would not have been missed, ‘good cause’ or not.
Besides buying things for her dog, my mother has accumulated other ‘Pug things’—Pug figurines and pillows, Pug rugs and T-shirts, Pug throws and metal sculptures. On a recent shopping trip, she found a silver bracelet, little hearts and Pugs dangling from it. Naturally it was a “must-have” item. My mother carries Kobe photos—at last count eight—with her in her wallet. She is always on the lookout for a chance to show them off to someone who can relate to her obsession, like the store owner where she purchased the Pug bracelet. My sisters and I teased her once, asking to see the wallet-sized photos of her children she carries with her. (There were none.) The truth is, I have no problem with being second fiddle to her dog. For my mom, who lives alone, Kobe is a devoted companion. She is her best friend.
Somehow I think that’s when it will happen for us, when we will finally break down and get a dog. When the kids are gone and the house is looking a little too clean, sounding a little too quiet, feeling a little too empty. When I look at the space next to me on the couch and think, “gee, it would be nice to have a dog nestling, snoring, slobbering, waiting for a belly-rub, looking up at me with those ‘I adore you’ eyes.” Yes, I can picture it, my furry friend just sitting there, being a great little pal.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)
I always thought that when I had a family, we’d get a dog. Both my husband and I grew up with dogs. He had a Golden Retriever-Golden Lab mix naturally named Goldie. I had two dogs, our first a Hungarian Sheepdog, Trinka, and then an Old English Sheepdog, Myshkin, named by my mother after the kindly prince in Dostoevsky’s novel “The Idiot.” While my memories of Trinka are anything but fond (she bit and barked and viciously shredded our curtains), Myshkin—though somewhat slobbery—was a very loving pet.
Years ago my husband and I talked about getting a dog. We hesitated, though, since both our children had allergies. We were looking to decrease allergens, not add to them. As years passed, and our kids’ symptoms improved, we began exploring possibilities, considering dogs that weren’t as likely to create problems.
I got the book, “The Right Dog for You” with information about different breeds—kid friendliness, train-ability, how they got along with other dogs. We’d pretty much settled on a small to medium-sized dog, narrowing it to a Beagle or Border Terrier. A friend of mine whose children had allergies swore her Wheaten Terrier was not a problem, so we began looking into those. We researched, waited, delayed some more. Then the doubts started to surface again. “We go away on weekends a lot,” my husband said. True. “And we have no family nearby to take care of the dog when we’re away. We’d be tied down.” True again.
So we got other ‘pets’ instead—a hamster, water frogs. While our frogs splashed away in their modest aquarium, our hamster lived in a miniature city. Her cage-home had more rooms than ours, with passages connecting in a tangled web of tunnels to various compartments and exercise wheels. She even had this plastic ball where we’d put her in and watch her roll across the kitchen floor. The thing is, hamsters are asleep just when you most want to play with them, and you can’t hug a frog—too small, too slippery. Yes, these animals were sorry substitutes for a dog.
I’m quite amused at the whole dog-thing. People can be quite funny about them. My mother is a classic case in point. She is utterly obsessed with her Pug Kobe, (in no way named for the considerably taller and more temperamental NBA star of the same name.) My mother showers Kobe with gifts—an assortment of sweaters, squeaky and stuffed animal toys, raw hide chew things, doggie treats. Make no bones about it, this is one sweet, spoiled dog.
And there’s more. Kobe sits like a statue as my mother photographs her wearing her many scarves—one covered in black Labradors (from our visit to the Black Dog), one with little lobsters on it (from our visit to Kittery, Maine), even a leopard print cape with fur lined along the top. One Christmas, my mother even had Kobe’s picture taken sitting on Santa’s lap. “The proceeds went to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” my mother said, justifying it. Somehow I think this photo-op would not have been missed, ‘good cause’ or not.
Besides buying things for her dog, my mother has accumulated other ‘Pug things’—Pug figurines and pillows, Pug rugs and T-shirts, Pug throws and metal sculptures. On a recent shopping trip, she found a silver bracelet, little hearts and Pugs dangling from it. Naturally it was a “must-have” item. My mother carries Kobe photos—at last count eight—with her in her wallet. She is always on the lookout for a chance to show them off to someone who can relate to her obsession, like the store owner where she purchased the Pug bracelet. My sisters and I teased her once, asking to see the wallet-sized photos of her children she carries with her. (There were none.) The truth is, I have no problem with being second fiddle to her dog. For my mom, who lives alone, Kobe is a devoted companion. She is her best friend.
Somehow I think that’s when it will happen for us, when we will finally break down and get a dog. When the kids are gone and the house is looking a little too clean, sounding a little too quiet, feeling a little too empty. When I look at the space next to me on the couch and think, “gee, it would be nice to have a dog nestling, snoring, slobbering, waiting for a belly-rub, looking up at me with those ‘I adore you’ eyes.” Yes, I can picture it, my furry friend just sitting there, being a great little pal.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)
Monday, January 8, 2007
The Sox in the Drawer
It's fitting, the rain we had for days and days upon end. The steady, dreary drips are a perfect match for my mood. I feel lost, empty and just plain strange sitting on the sidelines in the middle of October.
The blow is only slightly eased with reminders of how high a hurdle it was for our Red Sox this year. Trying to win a championship without Pedro and a healthy Schilling is like trying to pick up a coin without your thumb and index finger. Challenging indeed - even with our should-be-MVP Ortiz.
In spite of the pitching problems, the Sox were sitting pretty up until the last week of the season. But when they lost first place to the Yankees and played a meaningless final game, the thrill was all but gone. There would be no dramatic one game play-off to determine the division winner.
Though the Sox and Yankees would share the same record, New York's edge in head-to-head division match-ups assured the Yankees of yet another division title. The Red Sox fell fast and furious, swept clean in the wildcard contest by the other colored Sox. And then something even stranger happened. The Yankees fell. With no team to root passionately for, or against, I have pretty much lost interest in baseball. Like picking through half-eaten chocolates at the bottom of the box, there's nothing left worth bothering about.
So what's a dejected Red Sox fan to do at a time like this? I've tried to deal with the disappointment by going back in time, pulling out memorabilia from that magical season just one year ago. I reveled in the headlines; "Hello, World Series," "On Top of the World," "Finally," and the simple but powerfully effective, "We Won."
I flipped through the pages of "Sports Illustrated" (both regular and commemorative issues), at the cover photo of Damon, Ortiz, Pedro and Schilling holding the flag-filled Championship trophy below the "New Era" headline.
I chuckled at the "Joy of Sox" scrawled across the cover of "Time." I read all about the greatest comeback in baseball history, about the church bells ringing and car horns blowing, about the personal accounts of regular fans who popped corks from dusty champagne bottles and toasted the improbable victory in memory of long-lost fathers and grandfathers.
I smiled as I looked at my favorite congratulatory message, the one with the Red Sox celebrating below a scoreboard that read: "Boston 1; Odds 0."
I drifted one final time back to the moment when Foulke tossed the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz (remember him?), to the men-boys frolicking in ecstasy on the mound. And then I put the newspaper clippings and photographs safely away.
The funny thing is, though I feel let-down, I am not crushed. Though disappointed, I am far from devastated. I suppose when you've had the ultimate sundae, the one with three scoops of ice cream smothered in hot fudge, covered in sprinkles, and topped with whipped cream and a cherry, you can't help but be satisfied.
At least for a while.
So it's time to tuck the championship dream away in the drawer - away, but not too far back. With no curse left to bear, it's easier to let it go. And as every devoted Red Sox fan knows, there's always next year.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2005)
The blow is only slightly eased with reminders of how high a hurdle it was for our Red Sox this year. Trying to win a championship without Pedro and a healthy Schilling is like trying to pick up a coin without your thumb and index finger. Challenging indeed - even with our should-be-MVP Ortiz.
In spite of the pitching problems, the Sox were sitting pretty up until the last week of the season. But when they lost first place to the Yankees and played a meaningless final game, the thrill was all but gone. There would be no dramatic one game play-off to determine the division winner.
Though the Sox and Yankees would share the same record, New York's edge in head-to-head division match-ups assured the Yankees of yet another division title. The Red Sox fell fast and furious, swept clean in the wildcard contest by the other colored Sox. And then something even stranger happened. The Yankees fell. With no team to root passionately for, or against, I have pretty much lost interest in baseball. Like picking through half-eaten chocolates at the bottom of the box, there's nothing left worth bothering about.
So what's a dejected Red Sox fan to do at a time like this? I've tried to deal with the disappointment by going back in time, pulling out memorabilia from that magical season just one year ago. I reveled in the headlines; "Hello, World Series," "On Top of the World," "Finally," and the simple but powerfully effective, "We Won."
I flipped through the pages of "Sports Illustrated" (both regular and commemorative issues), at the cover photo of Damon, Ortiz, Pedro and Schilling holding the flag-filled Championship trophy below the "New Era" headline.
I chuckled at the "Joy of Sox" scrawled across the cover of "Time." I read all about the greatest comeback in baseball history, about the church bells ringing and car horns blowing, about the personal accounts of regular fans who popped corks from dusty champagne bottles and toasted the improbable victory in memory of long-lost fathers and grandfathers.
I smiled as I looked at my favorite congratulatory message, the one with the Red Sox celebrating below a scoreboard that read: "Boston 1; Odds 0."
I drifted one final time back to the moment when Foulke tossed the ball to Doug Mientkiewicz (remember him?), to the men-boys frolicking in ecstasy on the mound. And then I put the newspaper clippings and photographs safely away.
The funny thing is, though I feel let-down, I am not crushed. Though disappointed, I am far from devastated. I suppose when you've had the ultimate sundae, the one with three scoops of ice cream smothered in hot fudge, covered in sprinkles, and topped with whipped cream and a cherry, you can't help but be satisfied.
At least for a while.
So it's time to tuck the championship dream away in the drawer - away, but not too far back. With no curse left to bear, it's easier to let it go. And as every devoted Red Sox fan knows, there's always next year.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com October, 2005)
A Trip, A Fall and a Shot in the Arm
It couldn’t have been a nicer morning—clear, crisp, not a cloud in the sky. I was out for a solo-run through a little town in the Catskills on the last day of my vacation with my husband. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, I slammed onto the road, cutting knees and elbows, scraping the palms of my hands. It was not a pretty sight.
As I cursed myself for my careless stupidity, I tried to assess what had happened, desperately looking for evidence to justify such a fall. There must have been something—a pothole, a crack in the road, a random rock or tree branch? But no, nothing. I came to the only conclusion I could—that a mass of sinister air had morphed into the shape of a leg, sticking out and tripping me as I jogged by, just for the fun of it. What else could possibly explain such a thing?
Out of respect for the queasy souls of the world (like me) who can’t stomach graphic images, I will abstain from providing a detailed description of the damage. Suffice it to say my fall was followed by dizziness, nausea, a black out and a trip to the ER. I was as white as a ghost, further evidence, I told myself, of the sinister leg-shaped air apparition that had so cruelly tripped me up. After the oxygen tubes, IV’s and blood tests, I was given a Tetanus shot (a precautionary measure to deal with whatever foreign substances had embedded in my knees) and released to spend the last day of my vacation propped in bed.
It had been a while since I’d stumbled while running, in fact, in the days before this latest episode I’d just been thinking how long it had been since something like that had happened. Maybe that explains it. I’d fallen twice in two separate road races many years ago, and sprained my ankle on an acorn in another incident while just steps from my house. The weirdest fall I remember was about five years ago when I suddenly wiped out coming down Moose Hill Parkway. When I got up to survey the area I saw it—a brown-spotted banana peel strategically placed on the side of the road.
In the days after my latest mishap I hobbled along, taking it all in stride. In fact—and my husband and I got a laugh or two out of this—my biggest complaint and primary reason for taking Advil was the throbbing pain in my upper arm from that darn Tetanus shot.
Though achy and a bit stiff, a few days after the incident I was feeling well enough to go out to a movie. As I hobbled across the street to the Dedham Community Theatre, I turned to my husband, joking how I felt like Ratso Rizzo before doing my best Dustin Hoffman imitation, limping and wobbling along. My husband chimed right in—“we’re walking here, we’re walking here!” as I continued my exaggerated left leg-dragging jerky movement performance. It was then that I saw him, a guy coming the other way, leg wrapped in a knee brace, limping along. Mortified that he presumed I was mocking him (there was no evidence of my injury, my wounds covered by capris), I scurried along as fast as I could, struggling to stifle my laughter.
As with many things, there was a plus side to all of this. With a pass on doing anything remotely physical that last day of our trip, I got to finish the books I’d picked up at the little flea market on our way—“Zuckerman Unbound” (Philip Roth) and “The Stranger” (Camus). And, as I often do when I’ve read books by authors I like, I went to the library upon my return home to pick up others—“Zuckerman Bound,” which included the prequel and sequel to the Roth story I’d read, and Camus’s “The Fall.” It wasn’t until I began writing of my experience that I realized the aptness of that last title.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
As I cursed myself for my careless stupidity, I tried to assess what had happened, desperately looking for evidence to justify such a fall. There must have been something—a pothole, a crack in the road, a random rock or tree branch? But no, nothing. I came to the only conclusion I could—that a mass of sinister air had morphed into the shape of a leg, sticking out and tripping me as I jogged by, just for the fun of it. What else could possibly explain such a thing?
Out of respect for the queasy souls of the world (like me) who can’t stomach graphic images, I will abstain from providing a detailed description of the damage. Suffice it to say my fall was followed by dizziness, nausea, a black out and a trip to the ER. I was as white as a ghost, further evidence, I told myself, of the sinister leg-shaped air apparition that had so cruelly tripped me up. After the oxygen tubes, IV’s and blood tests, I was given a Tetanus shot (a precautionary measure to deal with whatever foreign substances had embedded in my knees) and released to spend the last day of my vacation propped in bed.
It had been a while since I’d stumbled while running, in fact, in the days before this latest episode I’d just been thinking how long it had been since something like that had happened. Maybe that explains it. I’d fallen twice in two separate road races many years ago, and sprained my ankle on an acorn in another incident while just steps from my house. The weirdest fall I remember was about five years ago when I suddenly wiped out coming down Moose Hill Parkway. When I got up to survey the area I saw it—a brown-spotted banana peel strategically placed on the side of the road.
In the days after my latest mishap I hobbled along, taking it all in stride. In fact—and my husband and I got a laugh or two out of this—my biggest complaint and primary reason for taking Advil was the throbbing pain in my upper arm from that darn Tetanus shot.
Though achy and a bit stiff, a few days after the incident I was feeling well enough to go out to a movie. As I hobbled across the street to the Dedham Community Theatre, I turned to my husband, joking how I felt like Ratso Rizzo before doing my best Dustin Hoffman imitation, limping and wobbling along. My husband chimed right in—“we’re walking here, we’re walking here!” as I continued my exaggerated left leg-dragging jerky movement performance. It was then that I saw him, a guy coming the other way, leg wrapped in a knee brace, limping along. Mortified that he presumed I was mocking him (there was no evidence of my injury, my wounds covered by capris), I scurried along as fast as I could, struggling to stifle my laughter.
As with many things, there was a plus side to all of this. With a pass on doing anything remotely physical that last day of our trip, I got to finish the books I’d picked up at the little flea market on our way—“Zuckerman Unbound” (Philip Roth) and “The Stranger” (Camus). And, as I often do when I’ve read books by authors I like, I went to the library upon my return home to pick up others—“Zuckerman Bound,” which included the prequel and sequel to the Roth story I’d read, and Camus’s “The Fall.” It wasn’t until I began writing of my experience that I realized the aptness of that last title.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Waiting for Gouda
The average person will spend 2 weeks over a lifetime waiting for the traffic light to change. That’s an entire vacation spent hanging out at an intersection, fingers drumming on the side of the steering wheel.
I suppose it shouldn’t be all that surprising. The other day I spent 25 minutes waiting at the deli counter. Now I don’t know about other people, but for me, that was a record. I knew I was in for a wait, when after spotting the larger than usual crowd and checking my number (52), I noticed the current number was 30. I figured, though, at most there were ten “real” customers ahead of me. Many people don’t stick around. They get impatient and walk away, wringing their hands in frustration, stuffing their little crumpled pink slips into their pockets or tossing them onto the floor.
The key to waiting without becoming fraught with frustration is to wait wisely, planning the weekend, reminiscing, jotting a mental ‘to do’ list. On this day, I smartly decided that rather than stand around helplessly waiting for my number, I’d pick up my other grocery items. It would keep me occupied, lessen my anxiety. Besides, it would be good exercise.
I headed over to the fish counter (no wait) and promptly received my order for 2 lbs of haddock. I rushed down to the dairy section and grabbed a gallon of milk, a carton of eggs and several yogurts. I managed to balance a loaf of wheat bread on top before racing back to the deli counter. I anxiously glanced at the current customer number: 34.
Figuring I had time to make another trip up and down the aisles, I set out in search of Gatorade, Special K, granola bars (on sale that week), raisins. I walked briskly back to the deli counter again searching for the number. It had inched up to 39. Next I headed to the pasta aisle. I grabbed several boxes of angel hair (2 for .99) and pulled a new kind of sauce from the shelf (risky, but at $1.69 a jar, I had to take a chance). I glanced at my watch and then hustled back to the deli counter for another number check—42.
At this point, I was beside myself. It had been at least 15 minutes, and I was still 10 customers away. It was hard to believe, but everyone ahead of me—all twenty-two of them—had waited. “Don’t these people have anything better to do than wait in this ridiculous line?” I said to myself, realizing the equally ridiculous nature of my question given my continued waiting status. I thought about giving up, but having already invested so much time, I decided to stick it out, pulling some nearby produce out of the bins so I wouldn’t be caught off guard. The last thing I wanted at this point was to miss hearing my number being called.
When I finally heard 52, I was overcome with relief, the exhilaration almost unbearable. Though my original deli list had been a modest one, I quickly rattled off several additional items—a half pound of American cheese (sliced thin), a pound of Willow Tree chicken salad, cole slaw, four-bean salad. “While you’re at it, throw in a quarter pound of provolone,” I heard myself say to the deli guy. There was no way I was going to walk away after almost a half hour’s wait with merely a pound of turkey breast.
This incident got me wondering how my time at the deli counter compared to the traffic light statistic. Even a more reasonable waiting time of 10 minutes twice a week translates into about 4 weeks of my life—that’s two vacations—waiting for turkey and cheese. The idea of all this waiting time, productive though it was, was overwhelmingly depressing. It made me desperate to get away from it all—on that much-needed two week vacation.
(This column was published in a slightly different form on townonline.com July, 2005)
I suppose it shouldn’t be all that surprising. The other day I spent 25 minutes waiting at the deli counter. Now I don’t know about other people, but for me, that was a record. I knew I was in for a wait, when after spotting the larger than usual crowd and checking my number (52), I noticed the current number was 30. I figured, though, at most there were ten “real” customers ahead of me. Many people don’t stick around. They get impatient and walk away, wringing their hands in frustration, stuffing their little crumpled pink slips into their pockets or tossing them onto the floor.
The key to waiting without becoming fraught with frustration is to wait wisely, planning the weekend, reminiscing, jotting a mental ‘to do’ list. On this day, I smartly decided that rather than stand around helplessly waiting for my number, I’d pick up my other grocery items. It would keep me occupied, lessen my anxiety. Besides, it would be good exercise.
I headed over to the fish counter (no wait) and promptly received my order for 2 lbs of haddock. I rushed down to the dairy section and grabbed a gallon of milk, a carton of eggs and several yogurts. I managed to balance a loaf of wheat bread on top before racing back to the deli counter. I anxiously glanced at the current customer number: 34.
Figuring I had time to make another trip up and down the aisles, I set out in search of Gatorade, Special K, granola bars (on sale that week), raisins. I walked briskly back to the deli counter again searching for the number. It had inched up to 39. Next I headed to the pasta aisle. I grabbed several boxes of angel hair (2 for .99) and pulled a new kind of sauce from the shelf (risky, but at $1.69 a jar, I had to take a chance). I glanced at my watch and then hustled back to the deli counter for another number check—42.
At this point, I was beside myself. It had been at least 15 minutes, and I was still 10 customers away. It was hard to believe, but everyone ahead of me—all twenty-two of them—had waited. “Don’t these people have anything better to do than wait in this ridiculous line?” I said to myself, realizing the equally ridiculous nature of my question given my continued waiting status. I thought about giving up, but having already invested so much time, I decided to stick it out, pulling some nearby produce out of the bins so I wouldn’t be caught off guard. The last thing I wanted at this point was to miss hearing my number being called.
When I finally heard 52, I was overcome with relief, the exhilaration almost unbearable. Though my original deli list had been a modest one, I quickly rattled off several additional items—a half pound of American cheese (sliced thin), a pound of Willow Tree chicken salad, cole slaw, four-bean salad. “While you’re at it, throw in a quarter pound of provolone,” I heard myself say to the deli guy. There was no way I was going to walk away after almost a half hour’s wait with merely a pound of turkey breast.
This incident got me wondering how my time at the deli counter compared to the traffic light statistic. Even a more reasonable waiting time of 10 minutes twice a week translates into about 4 weeks of my life—that’s two vacations—waiting for turkey and cheese. The idea of all this waiting time, productive though it was, was overwhelmingly depressing. It made me desperate to get away from it all—on that much-needed two week vacation.
(This column was published in a slightly different form on townonline.com July, 2005)
Saturday, January 6, 2007
Ready, Set, Snow
After living in New England for over twenty-five years, we’ve finally done something we should have done long ago. We bought a snow blower, or as they seem to be called these days, a “snow thrower.” We’d talked for years about buying one with our next-door neighbors, with whom we share a lawnmower. With two not-so-good backs between our neighbor’s home and ours, not to mention all of us getting a little older, we decided now was the time to finally bite the bullet.
Last year pretty much decided it for us. We were fine handling a few inches of snow, especially the light powdery kind that could be practically blown away with a slight puff of the mouth. But the wet, heavy stuff was a totally different story. And just when we cleared it away, another storm came, testing our patience (and backs.)
Though I’m glad we made this purchase, I have to admit to being a little intimidated. I’m most comfortable with uncomplicated tools—a regular rake, old-fashioned hedge clippers, plain pruning shears. As much as I hate shoveling with my standard gear, I like how it requires nothing more than grabbing my shovel (assuming I can find it behind the bikes and bags in the shed.)
Unlike my $10 plastic shovel, this snow thrower is one serious machine. Ours is a two-stage 9 horsepower model that handles up to 8 inches of snow, clearing a swath 30 inches wide. It weighs over 200 pounds. It comes with a 99 page manual, complete with diagrams and detailed instructions. There are seven paragraphs listed under preparation, and 26 points of instruction under operation, maintenance and storage.
It’s definitely going to take some work for me to get comfortable with things like “choke on and off,” “throttle,” and “auger clutch.” And I’ll need to review the concepts of “engage” and “discharge.” One thing I’m particularly grateful for—the “dead-man control” that stops everything when the handlebar grip is released. Some of the symbols are friendly, though. There’s a silhouette of a turtle (for slow), and a rabbit (for fast). It gives me hope that I may eventually master it.
We did a test run on the remnants of that early dusting. There we were, huddled around the menacing metal monster, flipping through the manual, making sure we knew when to push in the safety key and turn on the clutch. I matched up the little symbols with the big machine, trying to get to know it, to get comfortable, to make it my friend.
We hauled it out again just in time for that wild December 9th snowstorm. It was challenging indeed maneuvering in the midst of gusting winds as snow filled my eyes. And I was more than a little concerned about pushing 200 pounds of metal as I saw the sky light up, bright as neon, and heard the distant sound of threatening thunder claps. As much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew my Columbia rubber boots would probably not save me. I watched though, in awe, as a steady stream of white blew up high into the air leaving a glorious path of pavement in front of me. It was a thing of beauty.
So this winter, as in years past, we will eagerly watch the weather channel for the latest news. We will listen intently to reports of blizzards and Nor’easters heading our way. But we will have no fear. We are equipped, ready. Like our kids, we will be praying for snow. To Mother Nature we have just one thing to say. “Bring it on.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
Last year pretty much decided it for us. We were fine handling a few inches of snow, especially the light powdery kind that could be practically blown away with a slight puff of the mouth. But the wet, heavy stuff was a totally different story. And just when we cleared it away, another storm came, testing our patience (and backs.)
Though I’m glad we made this purchase, I have to admit to being a little intimidated. I’m most comfortable with uncomplicated tools—a regular rake, old-fashioned hedge clippers, plain pruning shears. As much as I hate shoveling with my standard gear, I like how it requires nothing more than grabbing my shovel (assuming I can find it behind the bikes and bags in the shed.)
Unlike my $10 plastic shovel, this snow thrower is one serious machine. Ours is a two-stage 9 horsepower model that handles up to 8 inches of snow, clearing a swath 30 inches wide. It weighs over 200 pounds. It comes with a 99 page manual, complete with diagrams and detailed instructions. There are seven paragraphs listed under preparation, and 26 points of instruction under operation, maintenance and storage.
It’s definitely going to take some work for me to get comfortable with things like “choke on and off,” “throttle,” and “auger clutch.” And I’ll need to review the concepts of “engage” and “discharge.” One thing I’m particularly grateful for—the “dead-man control” that stops everything when the handlebar grip is released. Some of the symbols are friendly, though. There’s a silhouette of a turtle (for slow), and a rabbit (for fast). It gives me hope that I may eventually master it.
We did a test run on the remnants of that early dusting. There we were, huddled around the menacing metal monster, flipping through the manual, making sure we knew when to push in the safety key and turn on the clutch. I matched up the little symbols with the big machine, trying to get to know it, to get comfortable, to make it my friend.
We hauled it out again just in time for that wild December 9th snowstorm. It was challenging indeed maneuvering in the midst of gusting winds as snow filled my eyes. And I was more than a little concerned about pushing 200 pounds of metal as I saw the sky light up, bright as neon, and heard the distant sound of threatening thunder claps. As much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew my Columbia rubber boots would probably not save me. I watched though, in awe, as a steady stream of white blew up high into the air leaving a glorious path of pavement in front of me. It was a thing of beauty.
So this winter, as in years past, we will eagerly watch the weather channel for the latest news. We will listen intently to reports of blizzards and Nor’easters heading our way. But we will have no fear. We are equipped, ready. Like our kids, we will be praying for snow. To Mother Nature we have just one thing to say. “Bring it on.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
Pardon Me While I Turn on Sports Talk
I did something the other week I thought I’d never do. Though far from outrageous, it was, for me, somewhat out of character. I watched “Pardon the Interruption” all by myself. Now for those non-obsessed sports fans who may not be familiar with it, “Pardon the Interruption,” or PTI as it is fondly called, is an ESPN sports talk show.
The show is a favorite of my son’s, one I’ve “watched” many times, glancing up every now and then from a book or newspaper. Though I’m no sports-talk connoisseur, I prefer it to “Around the Horn,” an irritatingly loud ESPN show that pits battling sports journalists against one another.
In my half-watching state, I’ve noticed some things about PTI that I have to admit I like. The rapport between Washington Post columnists-hosts Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon is fantastic. They are the national counterparts to our own Ken Berman and Jan Goldstein of Sharon cable SportsNuts fame. The format is lively, unique. The show is an interesting mix of run-downs, interviews, picks and pans. It keeps things going, with its varied format and clock ticking down the list of intriguing topics. They toss in an interview, take a brief break for ESPN sports news, and return for the finale, the “Big Finish,” a one minute sprint on ten topics, complete with lively music and a buzzer at the end. Even non-die-hard sports fans will agree this is a darn good show.
Though I’ve always enjoyed the bits I catch in between reading, the night I watched PTI solo was entirely accidental. I’d just returned from dropping my son and teammate off at basketball practice, had started dinner, and was looking to kill some time before heading back to pick them up. When I clicked on the television, ESPN came on. This is the case 99% of the time I turn on the TV. “Pardon the Interruption” was already in progress. I started to change the channel, but was overcome with an inexplicable desire to hear about sports stuff. I was completely pulled in by the hosts. These are two incredibly sharp, likeable guys who have interesting things to say. And though they often disagree, they do so in a way that is respectful, and most importantly, hugely entertaining.
On this particular night, the “rundown list” included topics such as Duke, Jets, Knicks, Goose, Penguins, McGwire and Vick. Though I wasn’t sure what Goose was all about, I thought it was funny how it came right before Penguins. I’ve been following the amazing year of Duke’s J.J. Redick, and I was curious what they had to say about McGwire. I’ve listened to my son ‘talk sports’ enough to know that Michael Vick’s younger brother has gotten into a heap of trouble, being kicked off Virginia Tech’s football team for viciously stepping on a player’s leg, and recently being caught brandishing a handgun. Curious, I watched and listed as Tony and Michael went down the list.
The first interview that night was with Carolina Panther Steve Smith, who responded to the trash-talk directed at him from a Bears player. Though Smith’s name was somewhat familiar to me, I couldn’t have placed his team, and I’d not heard about the trash-talk incident. There was, though, something amusing about it all, with the headline “Do Pros Care About Yapping?” listed at the bottom of the screen, and talk about being “dissed and disrespected.”
From what I could see, this Steve Smith guy handled himself like a pro, refusing to give in to requests to yap back at the Bears, even when the hosts promised to put Smith’s picture on the station wall in exchange for a nasty comeback. Smith then described his favorite end zone celebrations, including the snow-less snow angel, baby-wiping the football, and the Mr. September, so-called due to his provocative laying-down-on-his-side-in-the-end-zone pose. Yes this is mindless, meaningless, not-important-to-the-world stuff. But it sure is entertaining.
The hosts then moved into a role play, where each took turns holding a photograph-mask in front of his face, pretending to be, among other players, Sean Taylor (the Redskin who was ejected from a playoff game for spitting at an opponent) and Mark McGwire, responding to questions about whether his possible, but unproven, steroid use would keep him out of the Hall of Fame.
They cut away to ESPN for a quick sports update before returning for another interview, this time with Boomer Esiason—I’d surely heard of him—who relayed his playoff picks, as well as “key players” and “X-factors” (i.e. crowd noise, turnovers, rainy Seattle weather) that would likely contribute to game outcomes.
At this point, I was anxiously eyeing the clock. I knew it was time for me to return to my carpool duty, but I really didn’t want to miss the end of the show when the hosts take exactly one minute giving quick opinions on a long list of topics. It didn’t seem possible they’d make it through all of them, but as always they did. These guys are amazing. As soon as the buzzer sounded, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.
I got there in the nick of time, pulling up just as my son and his friend were walking out of the gym. Somehow, though, I think I’d be forgiven if I’d been a few minutes late. My son, of course, would certainly understand my desperate need to watch the “Big Finish” right to the very end.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
The show is a favorite of my son’s, one I’ve “watched” many times, glancing up every now and then from a book or newspaper. Though I’m no sports-talk connoisseur, I prefer it to “Around the Horn,” an irritatingly loud ESPN show that pits battling sports journalists against one another.
In my half-watching state, I’ve noticed some things about PTI that I have to admit I like. The rapport between Washington Post columnists-hosts Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon is fantastic. They are the national counterparts to our own Ken Berman and Jan Goldstein of Sharon cable SportsNuts fame. The format is lively, unique. The show is an interesting mix of run-downs, interviews, picks and pans. It keeps things going, with its varied format and clock ticking down the list of intriguing topics. They toss in an interview, take a brief break for ESPN sports news, and return for the finale, the “Big Finish,” a one minute sprint on ten topics, complete with lively music and a buzzer at the end. Even non-die-hard sports fans will agree this is a darn good show.
Though I’ve always enjoyed the bits I catch in between reading, the night I watched PTI solo was entirely accidental. I’d just returned from dropping my son and teammate off at basketball practice, had started dinner, and was looking to kill some time before heading back to pick them up. When I clicked on the television, ESPN came on. This is the case 99% of the time I turn on the TV. “Pardon the Interruption” was already in progress. I started to change the channel, but was overcome with an inexplicable desire to hear about sports stuff. I was completely pulled in by the hosts. These are two incredibly sharp, likeable guys who have interesting things to say. And though they often disagree, they do so in a way that is respectful, and most importantly, hugely entertaining.
On this particular night, the “rundown list” included topics such as Duke, Jets, Knicks, Goose, Penguins, McGwire and Vick. Though I wasn’t sure what Goose was all about, I thought it was funny how it came right before Penguins. I’ve been following the amazing year of Duke’s J.J. Redick, and I was curious what they had to say about McGwire. I’ve listened to my son ‘talk sports’ enough to know that Michael Vick’s younger brother has gotten into a heap of trouble, being kicked off Virginia Tech’s football team for viciously stepping on a player’s leg, and recently being caught brandishing a handgun. Curious, I watched and listed as Tony and Michael went down the list.
The first interview that night was with Carolina Panther Steve Smith, who responded to the trash-talk directed at him from a Bears player. Though Smith’s name was somewhat familiar to me, I couldn’t have placed his team, and I’d not heard about the trash-talk incident. There was, though, something amusing about it all, with the headline “Do Pros Care About Yapping?” listed at the bottom of the screen, and talk about being “dissed and disrespected.”
From what I could see, this Steve Smith guy handled himself like a pro, refusing to give in to requests to yap back at the Bears, even when the hosts promised to put Smith’s picture on the station wall in exchange for a nasty comeback. Smith then described his favorite end zone celebrations, including the snow-less snow angel, baby-wiping the football, and the Mr. September, so-called due to his provocative laying-down-on-his-side-in-the-end-zone pose. Yes this is mindless, meaningless, not-important-to-the-world stuff. But it sure is entertaining.
The hosts then moved into a role play, where each took turns holding a photograph-mask in front of his face, pretending to be, among other players, Sean Taylor (the Redskin who was ejected from a playoff game for spitting at an opponent) and Mark McGwire, responding to questions about whether his possible, but unproven, steroid use would keep him out of the Hall of Fame.
They cut away to ESPN for a quick sports update before returning for another interview, this time with Boomer Esiason—I’d surely heard of him—who relayed his playoff picks, as well as “key players” and “X-factors” (i.e. crowd noise, turnovers, rainy Seattle weather) that would likely contribute to game outcomes.
At this point, I was anxiously eyeing the clock. I knew it was time for me to return to my carpool duty, but I really didn’t want to miss the end of the show when the hosts take exactly one minute giving quick opinions on a long list of topics. It didn’t seem possible they’d make it through all of them, but as always they did. These guys are amazing. As soon as the buzzer sounded, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.
I got there in the nick of time, pulling up just as my son and his friend were walking out of the gym. Somehow, though, I think I’d be forgiven if I’d been a few minutes late. My son, of course, would certainly understand my desperate need to watch the “Big Finish” right to the very end.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
Friday, January 5, 2007
A Thrilling Time at the Beach
This year's family vacation was quite different from a year ago. Last spring we were visiting colleges up and down the East Coast, traipsing across tree-lined campuses.
With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.
As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.
I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.
They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.
I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.
Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.
It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.
She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.
Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.
Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?
My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.
He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.
In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.
My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.
As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.
I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.
They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.
I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.
Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.
It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.
She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.
Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.
Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?
My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.
He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.
In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.
My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
The Special-ness of Small Bookshops
It was with sadness that I read about the Hearts & Stars Bookshop in Canton closing at the end of July. I wandered into that bookshop many times over the past four years. Like many people, I enjoyed the intimate surroundings and the friendly helpful staff. There’s something special about a small bookstore. In addition to bestsellers, they display titles that aren’t as well known, ones that otherwise may be overlooked. And I always appreciate those little hand-written notes tucked in the stacks with the mini-synopsis and personal critique. Some of the best books I’ve read I’ve discovered in these quaint little shops.
It was in a small bookshop that I first discovered Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” a beautiful work of writing-art on life and nature. And as so often happens, that book led me to the author’s others—her memoir, “An American Childhood,” and her wonderful books about writing “Teaching a Stone to Talk” and “The Writing Life.” Those books led me to explore other essay collections in nearby stacks, those of Joan Didion, Andrea Barrett, E.B. White, and even Emerson.
It was in a small bookshop that I picked up the well-known “The Secret Life of Bees” (Sue Monk Kidd), lesser-known “Mrs. Kimble” (Jennifer Haigh), and the sweet tale, “The Monk Downstairs” (Tim Farrington). I found some wonderful vintage classics in an old used bookshop in Great Barrington, including a first-edition copy of Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bells Toll” I bought for my daughter.
And it was in Sharon’s own Annie’s Book Stop that I discovered Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” one of the most beautifully written stories I have ever read. The passage on craving and having is one I’ve turned to again and again—“for when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it…though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries.” I knew I had to read Robinson’s only other novel, the brilliant Pulitzer-Prize winning “Gilead.” But I may have never discovered either had I not wandered into Annie’s.
I’ve tried to think why these independent bookshops are so appealing and inviting. One obvious reason is their size. I don’t feel overwhelmed walking into them. It’s why I prefer small hardware stores to mega-ones like Home Depot. Having too many choices is not always a good thing. What really matters is quality. It’s like having a humongous closet filled with blouses and pants and sweaters and shoes. But out of all of those things, there are but a few favorites that you wear—the worn-in jeans, the soft sweater, the shoes that you can walk in for miles and miles. Small bookshops are like that. They may not have the huge inventories of the superstores. They won’t have multiple discounted copies of bestsellers or non-book items like CDs, DVDs, toys and games. But they have some very good books, some real gems.
The whole experience is different in a small bookshop. In a big store, I go in with a goal in mind. I may search, but I don’t linger. And though there are exceptions, I rarely “discover” a book in a big store. In a larger store, it’s less about the experience of being there, and more about just getting what I need and heading to the check-out counter.
Thankfully, there are still some independent bookshops in the area. In addition to Annie’s Book Stop at the Heights Plaza in Sharon, there’s Paperback Junction on Washington Street in South Easton, a wonderful little shop with both new and used “great finds.” Other local shops I’ve not yet been to include Bookends on North Main Street in Mansfield and The Blue Bunny Children’s bookshop in Dedham Center. If you’re willing to travel a bit further, there’s Brookline Booksmith on Harvard Street and The Children’s Book Shop on Washington Street in Brookline Village, Newtonville Books on Walnut Street and the old Concord Bookshop on Main Street.
And though much further away, I have to mention one of my all-time favorite bookshops, the Port in a Storm Bookstore in Somes Cove, Maine. It’s worth planning a trip to Acadia just to have the chance to stop in, peruse the shelves, and discover a wonderfully obscure story tucked away in the stacks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
It was in a small bookshop that I first discovered Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” a beautiful work of writing-art on life and nature. And as so often happens, that book led me to the author’s others—her memoir, “An American Childhood,” and her wonderful books about writing “Teaching a Stone to Talk” and “The Writing Life.” Those books led me to explore other essay collections in nearby stacks, those of Joan Didion, Andrea Barrett, E.B. White, and even Emerson.
It was in a small bookshop that I picked up the well-known “The Secret Life of Bees” (Sue Monk Kidd), lesser-known “Mrs. Kimble” (Jennifer Haigh), and the sweet tale, “The Monk Downstairs” (Tim Farrington). I found some wonderful vintage classics in an old used bookshop in Great Barrington, including a first-edition copy of Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bells Toll” I bought for my daughter.
And it was in Sharon’s own Annie’s Book Stop that I discovered Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” one of the most beautifully written stories I have ever read. The passage on craving and having is one I’ve turned to again and again—“for when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it…though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries.” I knew I had to read Robinson’s only other novel, the brilliant Pulitzer-Prize winning “Gilead.” But I may have never discovered either had I not wandered into Annie’s.
I’ve tried to think why these independent bookshops are so appealing and inviting. One obvious reason is their size. I don’t feel overwhelmed walking into them. It’s why I prefer small hardware stores to mega-ones like Home Depot. Having too many choices is not always a good thing. What really matters is quality. It’s like having a humongous closet filled with blouses and pants and sweaters and shoes. But out of all of those things, there are but a few favorites that you wear—the worn-in jeans, the soft sweater, the shoes that you can walk in for miles and miles. Small bookshops are like that. They may not have the huge inventories of the superstores. They won’t have multiple discounted copies of bestsellers or non-book items like CDs, DVDs, toys and games. But they have some very good books, some real gems.
The whole experience is different in a small bookshop. In a big store, I go in with a goal in mind. I may search, but I don’t linger. And though there are exceptions, I rarely “discover” a book in a big store. In a larger store, it’s less about the experience of being there, and more about just getting what I need and heading to the check-out counter.
Thankfully, there are still some independent bookshops in the area. In addition to Annie’s Book Stop at the Heights Plaza in Sharon, there’s Paperback Junction on Washington Street in South Easton, a wonderful little shop with both new and used “great finds.” Other local shops I’ve not yet been to include Bookends on North Main Street in Mansfield and The Blue Bunny Children’s bookshop in Dedham Center. If you’re willing to travel a bit further, there’s Brookline Booksmith on Harvard Street and The Children’s Book Shop on Washington Street in Brookline Village, Newtonville Books on Walnut Street and the old Concord Bookshop on Main Street.
And though much further away, I have to mention one of my all-time favorite bookshops, the Port in a Storm Bookstore in Somes Cove, Maine. It’s worth planning a trip to Acadia just to have the chance to stop in, peruse the shelves, and discover a wonderfully obscure story tucked away in the stacks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
Guys and Sports
As a New Englander living in the land of the three-time champion Patriots, it is impossible to ignore that football season is upon us. And in my home, the all-day cheers blaring from the TV are a sure sign that fall is here.
This past weekend, I heard my husband call out as he scrolled through the Comcast Cable guide, "Great, I can switch between the Michigan-Notre Dame and BC-Army games. And then the Red Sox are on at 1:30. My day is set." It reminded me of a time last year, when my husband and son announced they were watching four things at once - the Pats, the Red Sox, USC and the Olympics-before adding, "And you're not allowed to complain about the clicking."
The whole quadruple sports-fest thing got me thinking about men, boys and sports-viewing. Now don't get the wrong idea. I love sports. I appreciate the drama of baseball, the athleticism of basketball and the thrill of football as much as the next guy. It's just that, like most women, I take a different approach to watching and digesting sports than men and boys do. Though I rarely watch an entire game of anything, when I do watch, I prefer to focus on one game at a time.
I can appreciate a good play, and love a come-from-behind victory. I especially like to see the underdog get the win. Just because I don't continuously click between commercials, obsess over detailed nuances and value the toughness of a play doesn't mean I'm not a sports fan. To me, the sports viewing habits of the guys in my home are simply beyond my understanding.
Take football, for example. Men and boys focus on far more than which team is scoring touchdowns. They like to see wide receivers and quarterbacks intimidated with hard hits that "make them think about it." They value the fine art of end-zone celebrations (dance moves, football spins and spikes, cell phone calls, Sharpie signatures.) They admire those who play hurt and express disdain for those who don't. They love discussing all the outside-of-game antics such as player squabbles and contract disputes. And of course, they proudly recite every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to QB rating, interceptions, rushing yards and sacks.
And it's the same with baseball. Guys like it when pitchers intimidate batters with brush-back pitches (even occasionally hit a batter) to "make him think about it." They appreciate players who charge the mound, and scorn those who don't run their hardest to first base. They love the bench-clearing brawls that lead to player suspensions. They obsess over trade talks, multi-million dollar contracts and the atmosphere in the club house.
They talk about things like "respect." And of course, they revel in reciting every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to ERAs, RBIs, IPs, Ks, HRs, saves and slugging percentages.
Basketball is no different. Guys appreciate perfectly executed dunks that psych-out the other team and "show they're in charge." They look for boxing out underneath, preferably with fierce shoves and elbows. They like trash talk, icy glares. They appreciate the time-out called when an opponent steps up to the free-throw line to "make him think about it." They obsess over things like where Larry Brown and Phil Jackson will be coaching, and which team will get the #1 draft pick. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to FG%, FT%, PPG, 3-point FG%.
There was plenty of non-game talk in hockey this past year with the season cancelled due to the lock out. In other years, guys wait on the edge of their seats for bench-clearing fights (preferably with gloves off). They look for brutal checking of opponents against the boards to "make them think about it." They relish every whack, thrash and slash with unbridled delight. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to goals, assists and penalty minutes.
Golf is about the only sport I can think of where men and women agree on the key aspect of the game: shoot a lower score than your opponent while hitting a ball into a cup. Though guys might add that Tiger is going to jack a 350 foot drive to "make the others think about it."
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
This past weekend, I heard my husband call out as he scrolled through the Comcast Cable guide, "Great, I can switch between the Michigan-Notre Dame and BC-Army games. And then the Red Sox are on at 1:30. My day is set." It reminded me of a time last year, when my husband and son announced they were watching four things at once - the Pats, the Red Sox, USC and the Olympics-before adding, "And you're not allowed to complain about the clicking."
The whole quadruple sports-fest thing got me thinking about men, boys and sports-viewing. Now don't get the wrong idea. I love sports. I appreciate the drama of baseball, the athleticism of basketball and the thrill of football as much as the next guy. It's just that, like most women, I take a different approach to watching and digesting sports than men and boys do. Though I rarely watch an entire game of anything, when I do watch, I prefer to focus on one game at a time.
I can appreciate a good play, and love a come-from-behind victory. I especially like to see the underdog get the win. Just because I don't continuously click between commercials, obsess over detailed nuances and value the toughness of a play doesn't mean I'm not a sports fan. To me, the sports viewing habits of the guys in my home are simply beyond my understanding.
Take football, for example. Men and boys focus on far more than which team is scoring touchdowns. They like to see wide receivers and quarterbacks intimidated with hard hits that "make them think about it." They value the fine art of end-zone celebrations (dance moves, football spins and spikes, cell phone calls, Sharpie signatures.) They admire those who play hurt and express disdain for those who don't. They love discussing all the outside-of-game antics such as player squabbles and contract disputes. And of course, they proudly recite every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to QB rating, interceptions, rushing yards and sacks.
And it's the same with baseball. Guys like it when pitchers intimidate batters with brush-back pitches (even occasionally hit a batter) to "make him think about it." They appreciate players who charge the mound, and scorn those who don't run their hardest to first base. They love the bench-clearing brawls that lead to player suspensions. They obsess over trade talks, multi-million dollar contracts and the atmosphere in the club house.
They talk about things like "respect." And of course, they revel in reciting every statistic imaginable on every player, including but not limited to ERAs, RBIs, IPs, Ks, HRs, saves and slugging percentages.
Basketball is no different. Guys appreciate perfectly executed dunks that psych-out the other team and "show they're in charge." They look for boxing out underneath, preferably with fierce shoves and elbows. They like trash talk, icy glares. They appreciate the time-out called when an opponent steps up to the free-throw line to "make him think about it." They obsess over things like where Larry Brown and Phil Jackson will be coaching, and which team will get the #1 draft pick. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to FG%, FT%, PPG, 3-point FG%.
There was plenty of non-game talk in hockey this past year with the season cancelled due to the lock out. In other years, guys wait on the edge of their seats for bench-clearing fights (preferably with gloves off). They look for brutal checking of opponents against the boards to "make them think about it." They relish every whack, thrash and slash with unbridled delight. And of course, they love rattling off every statistic imaginable, including but not limited to goals, assists and penalty minutes.
Golf is about the only sport I can think of where men and women agree on the key aspect of the game: shoot a lower score than your opponent while hitting a ball into a cup. Though guys might add that Tiger is going to jack a 350 foot drive to "make the others think about it."
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
The Man with the Hat, Coat and Cane
There he is again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street. It is cold today. I can see his breath, a hazy cloud puff. His head is covered in a thick fur hat, the kind old men in Moscow wear when it snows. His hair underneath is wispy, grayish-white. His coat is long and dusty and brown and full. It looks warm. He clutches his cane with a glove-covered hand, moving it in sync with his steps. He doesn’t lean on it much; he steadies himself just fine.
He is tall and lean and delicately strong, like the limb of a large oak tree. His face is kind, his long life deeply etched in it. He has a perfect profile—a fine, pointed nose, deep set eyes. His mouth is a thin line drawn straight across—pensive, serious. He is proud, but not overly so. He nods as he approaches. Sometimes he faintly smiles.
There was a time long ago when his steps were shaky, hesitant, when he walked arm-in-arm with a younger man—his son I supposed—at his side. He is better now. He walks alone. He makes his way around the block just fine.
Sometimes I see him from my living room window, rounding the corner, ambling up the road close, closer. Other times I glimpse a hat and coat and cane in my rearview mirror as I back slowly, carefully, out my driveway. I wonder how long he’s been walking, how much further he plans to go. I wonder what he’s thinking as he moves so steadily along. I watch and wonder some more as he turns the corner and disappears around the bend.
And I know it won’t be long—a day or two, a week at most—before I’ll see him again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2006)
He is tall and lean and delicately strong, like the limb of a large oak tree. His face is kind, his long life deeply etched in it. He has a perfect profile—a fine, pointed nose, deep set eyes. His mouth is a thin line drawn straight across—pensive, serious. He is proud, but not overly so. He nods as he approaches. Sometimes he faintly smiles.
There was a time long ago when his steps were shaky, hesitant, when he walked arm-in-arm with a younger man—his son I supposed—at his side. He is better now. He walks alone. He makes his way around the block just fine.
Sometimes I see him from my living room window, rounding the corner, ambling up the road close, closer. Other times I glimpse a hat and coat and cane in my rearview mirror as I back slowly, carefully, out my driveway. I wonder how long he’s been walking, how much further he plans to go. I wonder what he’s thinking as he moves so steadily along. I watch and wonder some more as he turns the corner and disappears around the bend.
And I know it won’t be long—a day or two, a week at most—before I’ll see him again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2006)
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
The Mad Quest for Xbox 360
Every year there’s one incessantly promoted, highly desired, frustratingly unattainable Christmas gift. There were the (really ugly) Cabbage Patch dolls, the Power Ranger flip-head action figures, the original Nintendo and the desperately sought Beanie Babies. This year, it was Xbox 360.
I’d heard about it since the summer when my son learned that stores were taking pre-orders. The graphics, he said, were amazingly realistic. And it apparently does all this other stuff I can’t even begin to understand. Although I like to start my gift buying early, I refuse to Christmas shop in weather above 50 degrees. Besides, at $400, this was one pricey machine. Yes, this would require much thought and discussion.
We had an agreement that our son would contribute toward the purchase price, and that this would not only be his Christmas gift, but his February birthday gift as well. Given the price tag, we should have insisted that this would cover his gifts for the next several years, maybe even for life.
My son was on this e-mail notification list where he got critical Xbox 360 information— release dates, numbers of units per store, proportion of core (no frills) vs. premium systems. When he told me about the first release date in late November, I headed to Best Buy. I thought I was so clever, arriving just as the store opened at 9:00 am. The clerk informed me that they were sold out, and that customers had been camped out since 2:00 am. These people are nuts, I thought, never for a moment thinking that I would soon be one of them.
The Xbox talk in our house grew more desperate as the calendar turned to December. By that point, the word was out—Xbox 360 was not to be had. Unsatisfied with that response, my son perused e-Bay, anxiously searching for possibilities. Entrepreneurs (or scalpers, depending on one’s point of view) were selling units for double the original price. Others were offering “bundles” where, for $1,200 you could get an Xbox 360 complete with extra wireless controllers and games. Even my son knew that these “deals” were off-limits.
Through his notification system, my son learned about the final pre-Christmas release date on December 18th. Forty two units would be sold at the Dedham Best Buy, which was to open at 8:00 am. “If we get there early, we might have a shot,” he said. “How early?” I asked, as I looked into his pleading eyes. He hesitated. “Around 5:00 am?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “I feel really bad asking you to do this.” In a weird sort of way, hearing that my son felt bad made me feel better. “It’s good that you feel bad,” I said. I then heard myself say what I thought I would never utter. “OK.”
It was dark and unbearably frigid that Sunday morning. I had an odd sensation that I was getting up to go on a fishing trip, only I don’t fish, and even if I did I wouldn’t be out in 20 degree weather, unless I was ice-fishing, which I also don’t do. We were, though, incredibly prepared. We dressed in layers and wore wool hats and ski mittens. I brought bottled water and even tossed in my Henry James short stories and book light (for reading in line.) As we pulled up to Best Buy, we saw a line winding around the back. We parked and got in line.
It was hard to tell how many people were in front of us. Clearly many of them had been there all night. These were serious Xbox 360 seekers with their folding chairs, blankets, empty pizza boxes and soda cans. The woman in front of us, headset connected to her BlackBerry, was calling every Best Buy and Circuit City in the area for periodic updates—how many units? Which kind? What was the store’s system for distribution?
As we waited my toes went from cold to numb, and the line in front of us grew wider and wider. There was talk about a mad rush when the doors opened, that it could “get ugly.” After several people behind us decided to call it quits, I turned to my son. “This is insane. This is not worth getting trampled, or possibly something worse.” He reluctantly agreed, and so, after an hour of waiting, we left.
When we got home, I fell back asleep. Around 8:00 am, I was awakened by an excited voice coming from the basement. “Mom, Mom, come quick!” In a last desperation check on BestBuy.com, my son had seen a unit that he’d added to his shopping cart. We completed the order with my credit card, and he clicked “buy.” This can’t work, I thought. This was way too easy.
But it did. Three days later, after much excitement tracking the UPS shipment from Minneapolis, to Shrewsbury to Norwood, my son had his Xbox 360. We figured that all the crazies (like we’d been) were waiting in line somewhere during the time he’d nabbed his online. As with many things, it was all about persistence and timing. When he later checked online, they were all gone.
“It’s like we hit the lottery,” my son said. Clearly it was to him, though I think I’d be somewhat more elated if we’d actually hit the lottery. With the Xbox 360 firmly in hand, we reminisced about our experience—driving in the dark, waiting in line, stopping at Dunkin Donuts on the ride home. I laughed at myself for actually thinking I’d read Henry James while standing in the freezing cold.
There is, though, a downside to this story. There’s that saying, ‘be careful what you wish for, you might actually get it.’ I have a feeling that’s what will be going through my mind when my Visa bill arrives later this month.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
I’d heard about it since the summer when my son learned that stores were taking pre-orders. The graphics, he said, were amazingly realistic. And it apparently does all this other stuff I can’t even begin to understand. Although I like to start my gift buying early, I refuse to Christmas shop in weather above 50 degrees. Besides, at $400, this was one pricey machine. Yes, this would require much thought and discussion.
We had an agreement that our son would contribute toward the purchase price, and that this would not only be his Christmas gift, but his February birthday gift as well. Given the price tag, we should have insisted that this would cover his gifts for the next several years, maybe even for life.
My son was on this e-mail notification list where he got critical Xbox 360 information— release dates, numbers of units per store, proportion of core (no frills) vs. premium systems. When he told me about the first release date in late November, I headed to Best Buy. I thought I was so clever, arriving just as the store opened at 9:00 am. The clerk informed me that they were sold out, and that customers had been camped out since 2:00 am. These people are nuts, I thought, never for a moment thinking that I would soon be one of them.
The Xbox talk in our house grew more desperate as the calendar turned to December. By that point, the word was out—Xbox 360 was not to be had. Unsatisfied with that response, my son perused e-Bay, anxiously searching for possibilities. Entrepreneurs (or scalpers, depending on one’s point of view) were selling units for double the original price. Others were offering “bundles” where, for $1,200 you could get an Xbox 360 complete with extra wireless controllers and games. Even my son knew that these “deals” were off-limits.
Through his notification system, my son learned about the final pre-Christmas release date on December 18th. Forty two units would be sold at the Dedham Best Buy, which was to open at 8:00 am. “If we get there early, we might have a shot,” he said. “How early?” I asked, as I looked into his pleading eyes. He hesitated. “Around 5:00 am?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “I feel really bad asking you to do this.” In a weird sort of way, hearing that my son felt bad made me feel better. “It’s good that you feel bad,” I said. I then heard myself say what I thought I would never utter. “OK.”
It was dark and unbearably frigid that Sunday morning. I had an odd sensation that I was getting up to go on a fishing trip, only I don’t fish, and even if I did I wouldn’t be out in 20 degree weather, unless I was ice-fishing, which I also don’t do. We were, though, incredibly prepared. We dressed in layers and wore wool hats and ski mittens. I brought bottled water and even tossed in my Henry James short stories and book light (for reading in line.) As we pulled up to Best Buy, we saw a line winding around the back. We parked and got in line.
It was hard to tell how many people were in front of us. Clearly many of them had been there all night. These were serious Xbox 360 seekers with their folding chairs, blankets, empty pizza boxes and soda cans. The woman in front of us, headset connected to her BlackBerry, was calling every Best Buy and Circuit City in the area for periodic updates—how many units? Which kind? What was the store’s system for distribution?
As we waited my toes went from cold to numb, and the line in front of us grew wider and wider. There was talk about a mad rush when the doors opened, that it could “get ugly.” After several people behind us decided to call it quits, I turned to my son. “This is insane. This is not worth getting trampled, or possibly something worse.” He reluctantly agreed, and so, after an hour of waiting, we left.
When we got home, I fell back asleep. Around 8:00 am, I was awakened by an excited voice coming from the basement. “Mom, Mom, come quick!” In a last desperation check on BestBuy.com, my son had seen a unit that he’d added to his shopping cart. We completed the order with my credit card, and he clicked “buy.” This can’t work, I thought. This was way too easy.
But it did. Three days later, after much excitement tracking the UPS shipment from Minneapolis, to Shrewsbury to Norwood, my son had his Xbox 360. We figured that all the crazies (like we’d been) were waiting in line somewhere during the time he’d nabbed his online. As with many things, it was all about persistence and timing. When he later checked online, they were all gone.
“It’s like we hit the lottery,” my son said. Clearly it was to him, though I think I’d be somewhat more elated if we’d actually hit the lottery. With the Xbox 360 firmly in hand, we reminisced about our experience—driving in the dark, waiting in line, stopping at Dunkin Donuts on the ride home. I laughed at myself for actually thinking I’d read Henry James while standing in the freezing cold.
There is, though, a downside to this story. There’s that saying, ‘be careful what you wish for, you might actually get it.’ I have a feeling that’s what will be going through my mind when my Visa bill arrives later this month.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
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