Years ago while visiting Tucson I decided to go for a run in a park near my hotel. After less than a mile, I could barely catch my breath. Though hot, it wasn’t oppressive. What made the run so grueling was the air—it was as dry as the desert that surrounded me. Other runners were making their way around the loop, no problem. Clearly they were used to the dryness, their lungs easily filling with air.
Later as I sat outside with some of the local residents, I noticed that they were dressed in long pants, sweaters buttoned at their necks. I, on the other hand, felt warm in my short-sleeved blouse and skirt. Long sleeves were the usual attire for this “cooler” time of year, they said. It didn’t matter that it was 80 degrees. It was March, and for them, it was winter.
We make many adjustments throughout our lives. Sometimes it is a physical one, like getting used to a new climate or recovering from an injury. Other times it is an emotional one. I was thinking about this whole idea of adjustments as I look forward to my daughter’s visit home from college over spring break. She and I are getting quite good at leaving and reconnecting, this being our fifth such time since she left for college. Yes, we are now experts.
That was not the case last fall. Then it was all so new—exciting, but uncertain. There were many things she didn’t know. Would she get along with her roommate, make new friends? Would she like her classes? Would she miss her old friends, her family? Would she be bored in a small school in the middle of nowhere? Would she be happy? And I asked all the same questions for her, as well as another—would I be okay when she was gone?
Both of us have made adjustments along the way. Though my daughter had little in common with her quiet, painfully shy roommate, they got along well enough to live together. She liked most of her classes and, through perseverance, was able to get into a creative writing course second semester. She stayed in touch with her high school friends, even going with a group of them to visit a friend at college in Montreal. She drifted from some friends she made in the fall, and found a core group of close friends. She missed her family, but called to check in, say hello.
I, too, had to deal with changes. I had to adjust to my daughter just not being around, not hearing her voice, her laughter. I had to get used to a new way of life. Someone recently asked me how I was adjusting to my daughter being away at college. My answer was different from the one I would have given last fall. Then I could only think of that day we dropped her off, how she stood in her dorm room surrounded by boxes and blankets and bags. And we drove away wondering if everything was going to be all right. My answer was different from the response I would have given a few months later. Then I would have said I was coping, I was managing, I was “getting along.”
No, this time my answer was strong, unwavering. Though I miss her, I have entered a new state—peaceful, settled. I have reached a level of unmitigated acceptance. I am really, truly, okay. If I were in Tucson, I’d be running around that loop, no problem. I’d be pulling my sleeves down over my wrists, buttoning my collar. I’d be breathing in the fine dry air and taking in the last bit of coolness before spring.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Green With Lawn Envy
There was a time long ago when we had a front lawn. It was back in the days when our kids were little, and little feet traipsed across the yard in mini-steps chasing a ball or a butterfly or a shadow. We’d set up the sprinkler on designated odd or even days, dragging it every twenty minutes to a different part of the yard. On alternate days we’d hold the hose, thumb over the end, creating a fine mist, helping our grass stay green.
The backyard was always a different story. With towering oaks and pines and the flowering magnolia tree, the grass out back never had a chance. And taking far too long to rake ankle-deep leaves each fall undoubtedly contributed to the sparseness. Our backyard has always been a haven for lawn-killing activities—Whiffle ball, soccer, football, even golf, with my son digging holes in strategic places, creating his own private par-3 course. I never minded so much that we didn’t have a beautiful backyard. After all, it was in the back, hidden away from leering, judging eyes.
I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point my son decided the front yard was a better venue for football. Every season—even in winter—it was the designated place for neighborhood weekend games. Over time, bit by bit, the lawn began to disappear, and a mixture of dirt and crab grass sprung up in its place. My husband and I debated what to do about it. Putting down harmful pesticides was out of the question. But even an environmentally friendly fix-it-up-job would require blocking off the yard to allow time for the grass seed to take. We decided even that was too much. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to make the Gillette stadium of the neighborhood “off limits.”
I was fine with my front yard, I’d really come to accept it, until this spring when I looked up and down my street and saw lawn after lawn of luscious green. Though all my neighbors’ lawns are nice, one in particular stands out. The grass is carpet-thick, and is so bright you need sunglasses to shield your eyes when gazing upon it—even on rainy days. When I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I say things to soothe myself. “It’s only perfect because they use Chem-Lawn.” Or, “they probably have no life—they’re slaves to their lawn.” I scowl when I walk by, hissing at its haughty, proud perfection. “It’s so fake,” I say to myself. “Like a movie star who gets a face lift, tummy tuck and Botox injections. Who would possibly want to do that?” And then I walk away, glancing nonchalantly over my shoulder at the brilliant, gleaming green.
A few weeks ago, my husband took at stab at fixing our mess of a lawn. He raked up the crab grass and put down kid-friendly fertilizer and grass seed. But even with all the rain, nothing took. Zilch. It wouldn’t be so bad if our poor excuse for a lawn blended in with the neighborhood, but with the lawns around ours so thick and lush, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. It is nothing but dirt and tufts of different textures and colors—like a bad hair-coloring job.
Though disheartened, I try to focus on the positive. Having no lawn has its advantages. There’s hardly any mowing to speak of, and no need to haul out the sprinkler on hot summer days. There’s no need to obsess about the weather, no losing sleep over a drought or worrying about the stretch of rain that makes mowing impossible. When I think about it, there’s really only one drawback to our skimpy lawn—it looks really, really bad.
I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the fall, when our dirt patches and crab grass tufts will be mercifully hidden under brown and yellow and orange oak leaves. And I’ll pray for a hearty winter—the treacherous snowy kind we’ve had in year’s past—so our lawn will be covered in a blanket of white, blending in with all the others.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
The backyard was always a different story. With towering oaks and pines and the flowering magnolia tree, the grass out back never had a chance. And taking far too long to rake ankle-deep leaves each fall undoubtedly contributed to the sparseness. Our backyard has always been a haven for lawn-killing activities—Whiffle ball, soccer, football, even golf, with my son digging holes in strategic places, creating his own private par-3 course. I never minded so much that we didn’t have a beautiful backyard. After all, it was in the back, hidden away from leering, judging eyes.
I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point my son decided the front yard was a better venue for football. Every season—even in winter—it was the designated place for neighborhood weekend games. Over time, bit by bit, the lawn began to disappear, and a mixture of dirt and crab grass sprung up in its place. My husband and I debated what to do about it. Putting down harmful pesticides was out of the question. But even an environmentally friendly fix-it-up-job would require blocking off the yard to allow time for the grass seed to take. We decided even that was too much. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to make the Gillette stadium of the neighborhood “off limits.”
I was fine with my front yard, I’d really come to accept it, until this spring when I looked up and down my street and saw lawn after lawn of luscious green. Though all my neighbors’ lawns are nice, one in particular stands out. The grass is carpet-thick, and is so bright you need sunglasses to shield your eyes when gazing upon it—even on rainy days. When I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I say things to soothe myself. “It’s only perfect because they use Chem-Lawn.” Or, “they probably have no life—they’re slaves to their lawn.” I scowl when I walk by, hissing at its haughty, proud perfection. “It’s so fake,” I say to myself. “Like a movie star who gets a face lift, tummy tuck and Botox injections. Who would possibly want to do that?” And then I walk away, glancing nonchalantly over my shoulder at the brilliant, gleaming green.
A few weeks ago, my husband took at stab at fixing our mess of a lawn. He raked up the crab grass and put down kid-friendly fertilizer and grass seed. But even with all the rain, nothing took. Zilch. It wouldn’t be so bad if our poor excuse for a lawn blended in with the neighborhood, but with the lawns around ours so thick and lush, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. It is nothing but dirt and tufts of different textures and colors—like a bad hair-coloring job.
Though disheartened, I try to focus on the positive. Having no lawn has its advantages. There’s hardly any mowing to speak of, and no need to haul out the sprinkler on hot summer days. There’s no need to obsess about the weather, no losing sleep over a drought or worrying about the stretch of rain that makes mowing impossible. When I think about it, there’s really only one drawback to our skimpy lawn—it looks really, really bad.
I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the fall, when our dirt patches and crab grass tufts will be mercifully hidden under brown and yellow and orange oak leaves. And I’ll pray for a hearty winter—the treacherous snowy kind we’ve had in year’s past—so our lawn will be covered in a blanket of white, blending in with all the others.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
First Lines that will Last and Last
First lines in stories are like first impressions. Good ones intrigue. They pull us in, make us eager to get to know the story, to learn what happens next. Here are some of my favorite first lines from great classic and contemporary stories I’ve read over the years. Some are simple, others elaborate. All of them are unforgettable. Except for the first one—my hands-down favorite first line of all time—they are in no particular order.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.
“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.
“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.
“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.
“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.
“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.
“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.
“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.
“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved
“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.
“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.
“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.
“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.
“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.
“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.
“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.
“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.
“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.
“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.
“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.
“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.
“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.
“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.
“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.
“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.
“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved
“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.
“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.
“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.
“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.
“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.
“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.
“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.
“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.
“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
Monday, April 2, 2007
A Too-Quiet Summer
Summers tend to be more relaxed, less hectic, quieter. This is the case in our home, especially this year with our son at overnight camp for the summer. I’ve noticed lots of changes. Trips to the grocery store have been simpler—less frequent, with far fewer items to purchase. Cooking, too, has been a breeze. And there are long stretches when I can hear the ‘quiet sounds’ of crickets, birds, even the gently blowing wind. As much as I welcome the reduced shopping and cooking load, and savor the quiet moments, I’m feeling a bit out of sorts without our son. Yes, things are quite different around here without him.
It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.
In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.
And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.
Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).
This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.
Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.
This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.
In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.
And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.
Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).
This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.
Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.
This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Graduation and the Wings of Time
Time flies. Like most clichés, this saying, though tired, common and trite, is also in many ways true. But not all time soars like a bird across the sky. Only some time does. When we anxiously await an outcome, time goes slowly. When we are bored, time creeps along. When we ache, worry or feel sad, time stands as still as a flag on a windless day.
When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.
Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'
But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.
She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.
Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.
I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.
I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.
I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.
There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.
I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.
Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'
But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.
She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.
Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.
I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.
I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.
I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.
There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.
I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
Friday, March 30, 2007
Pondering March Madness Picks
This year I did something I’ve never done before. I filled out my very own March Madness brackets. The picking of winners in the NCAA tournament has been a ritual in my home for as long as I can remember. As in years past, my husband and son pondered—no, painstakingly labored—over their picks, considering things like player and coach quality, tournament history statistics and testimony from columnists and ESPN commentators before printing out on their web-site generated brackets form. Their picks were chosen with the wisdom and meticulous care only the most compulsive college basketball fans possess. I, on the other hand, did something only slightly more sophisticated than eanie meanie minie mo before scribbling my picks on the newspaper brackets sheet.
The one bit of information I paid attention to were the seeds, the ratings between 1 and 16 assigned to teams in each region based on records and schedules. I stubbornly ignored the advice of the handicapping help sidebar, information that included statistics and tournament history to supposedly help pick the winners. I paid no attention to things like the top 25 teams by region, nor did I check last year’s tournament record that showed the Big East with more bids, first round wins and a higher winning percentage than the Big 12 or Pac 10.
I ignored information about the Final Four berths and national titles from the past twenty years. And I skipped over the seeds of hope section that revealed the not-so-surprising news that #1 seeds had a winning percentage of almost 80% as compared to a 0% winning record for the #16 seeds. No, these things I looked at only afterwards in a useless attempt to understand what my husband and son deem critical to the successful pick process.
Though I wasn’t as knowledgeable as the men in my family, I took the whole thing quite seriously. I wanted to take some risks—to show some guts, so to speak—so I chose a few upsets in the first round. My heart played somewhat into the process as I picked my childhood hometown teams to go far—Georgetown to the Elite Eight and Maryland to the Final Four. My other Final Four picks included Pittsburgh, Texas and Louisville, this last pick made because—and this is one thing I know—Rick Pitino is a great college coach.
Sentiment also played into my pick for the overall tournament winner. One of the few players I’d heard of was A.J. Abrams, a guard for the Texas Longhorns, and for reasons that might seem both silly and obvious, I was rooting for him. For this namesake reason—in addition to the presence of freshman phenomenon Kevin Durant—Texas was my choice to win it all.
It wasn’t until I’d finished my picks that I realized I’d failed to have any # 1 seeds make it beyond the Sweet Sixteen. Not too smart in retrospect, a scenario that would no doubt leave bracketology experts snickering and shuddering and shaking their heads. But I’d scribbled my picks in ink, so that was that.
So how have I fared so far? The good news is that eleven of my picks made it to the Sweet Sixteen. The bad news? Three of my Final Four picks were knocked out, including Texas. Though my picks were admittedly pathetic, it was fun following it all, rooting for teams that, with a mere stroke of a pen, became “mine.” And I will definitely fill out my brackets next near, though only after analyzing every last tournament trend, record and statistic from the beginning of time.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
The one bit of information I paid attention to were the seeds, the ratings between 1 and 16 assigned to teams in each region based on records and schedules. I stubbornly ignored the advice of the handicapping help sidebar, information that included statistics and tournament history to supposedly help pick the winners. I paid no attention to things like the top 25 teams by region, nor did I check last year’s tournament record that showed the Big East with more bids, first round wins and a higher winning percentage than the Big 12 or Pac 10.
I ignored information about the Final Four berths and national titles from the past twenty years. And I skipped over the seeds of hope section that revealed the not-so-surprising news that #1 seeds had a winning percentage of almost 80% as compared to a 0% winning record for the #16 seeds. No, these things I looked at only afterwards in a useless attempt to understand what my husband and son deem critical to the successful pick process.
Though I wasn’t as knowledgeable as the men in my family, I took the whole thing quite seriously. I wanted to take some risks—to show some guts, so to speak—so I chose a few upsets in the first round. My heart played somewhat into the process as I picked my childhood hometown teams to go far—Georgetown to the Elite Eight and Maryland to the Final Four. My other Final Four picks included Pittsburgh, Texas and Louisville, this last pick made because—and this is one thing I know—Rick Pitino is a great college coach.
Sentiment also played into my pick for the overall tournament winner. One of the few players I’d heard of was A.J. Abrams, a guard for the Texas Longhorns, and for reasons that might seem both silly and obvious, I was rooting for him. For this namesake reason—in addition to the presence of freshman phenomenon Kevin Durant—Texas was my choice to win it all.
It wasn’t until I’d finished my picks that I realized I’d failed to have any # 1 seeds make it beyond the Sweet Sixteen. Not too smart in retrospect, a scenario that would no doubt leave bracketology experts snickering and shuddering and shaking their heads. But I’d scribbled my picks in ink, so that was that.
So how have I fared so far? The good news is that eleven of my picks made it to the Sweet Sixteen. The bad news? Three of my Final Four picks were knocked out, including Texas. Though my picks were admittedly pathetic, it was fun following it all, rooting for teams that, with a mere stroke of a pen, became “mine.” And I will definitely fill out my brackets next near, though only after analyzing every last tournament trend, record and statistic from the beginning of time.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The World of iPods
It is only recently I’ve learned to appreciate iPods. I know I’m coming to this rather late, seeing as how they’ve been around for years. Though I hate to admit it, this coming-to-things-late tendency is fast becoming my M.O. I watched the television show “24” for the first time a few weeks ago (the premier of its sixth season), was one of the last people I know to get a DVD player, and have yet to trade my bulky Canon for a digital camera. My children got their iPods fairly recently — my daughter for her high school graduation last spring, and my son this past Christmas — so that may partially explain my limited iPod knowledge.
When my daughter got her iPod, I didn’t pay much attention. I never learned how it worked, and since she always had it with her and was rarely home, there weren’t many opportunities to check it out. My first real introduction to the wonders of iPods came earlier this year, when my son called me over to his shiny new black one.
“You’ve gotta see this, Mom,” he said, motioning to me as he clutched his iPod. He was watching a mini-football game — the 2007 Fiesta Bowl, to be exact — on the tiny 1.5 by 2 inch screen. The iPod downloaded version of the game contained 25 minutes of highlights, including Boise State’s trick behind-the-back handoff “Statue of Liberty” two-point conversion play that led to their victory over Oklahoma in overtime. I was immediately pulled in. Though the picture was tiny, it was incredibly clear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was all quite amazing.
He then showed me some songs he’d downloaded, and how they were organized. Later, when I saw his iPod lying around, I scrolled through it, flicking to bands and songs, running the tip of my finger around the circular touch pad at the bottom. I tried to imagine listening to my music, white wires dangling from my ears. It took about five minutes before I knew I had to — someday — get one.
The greatest part is how everything is so organized. For someone like me, this is incredibly appealing. At the peak of my record collecting days, I was obsessed with sorting, storing my LPs alphabetically in plastic bins. Though it was rather neurotic, it was comforting to know I could always find Jackson Browne next to the Allman Brothers, the Eagles alongside Fleetwood Mac.
By the time I transitioned to CDs, I’d relaxed my organizing system somewhat, grouping them by type — one shelf for rock, one for classical, another for Broadway shows, and so on. Though I didn’t go crazy if my CDs were inadvertently misplaced, I tried to keep some semblance of order.
Invariably, though, someone (i.e. husband, child) would swipe a CD, leaving the plastic case either empty or with a CD that I was not at all interested in listening to. To me, the #1 advantage of an iPod is never again suffering the infuriation of the CD swipe-and-switch.
Just as I’m beginning to understand iPods, Apple announced a new gadget — the iPhone. Though it won’t be released until June, it is all the rage. The main appeal, in addition to its sleek touch-pad design, is its multi-use capabilities. It has everything people on the go deem essential — a mobile phone, e-mail, usable Web access, text messaging, and yes, an iPod.
And, unlike some multi-use gadgets, the iPhone is user-friendly. The 3.5-inch screen morphs into whatever you need. Touch the music icon, and up pops your music collection that you can flip through by album cover. Touch the text-messaging icon, and you see messages arranged by recipient and a fully functional keyboard. The Web browser displays real Web pages, ones that you can actually read.
Though I don’t plan on getting an iPhone — at $600 it is far too expensive — I’m definitely putting in a plug for an iPod. Maybe this summer, for my birthday, I could get one. By then the credit cards will be paid down from all the holiday gifts, car repairs, vacations and college textbook charges. Maybe if I hint and plead and petition and beg — maybe then someone will get the message. It sure is worth a try.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
When my daughter got her iPod, I didn’t pay much attention. I never learned how it worked, and since she always had it with her and was rarely home, there weren’t many opportunities to check it out. My first real introduction to the wonders of iPods came earlier this year, when my son called me over to his shiny new black one.
“You’ve gotta see this, Mom,” he said, motioning to me as he clutched his iPod. He was watching a mini-football game — the 2007 Fiesta Bowl, to be exact — on the tiny 1.5 by 2 inch screen. The iPod downloaded version of the game contained 25 minutes of highlights, including Boise State’s trick behind-the-back handoff “Statue of Liberty” two-point conversion play that led to their victory over Oklahoma in overtime. I was immediately pulled in. Though the picture was tiny, it was incredibly clear. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was all quite amazing.
He then showed me some songs he’d downloaded, and how they were organized. Later, when I saw his iPod lying around, I scrolled through it, flicking to bands and songs, running the tip of my finger around the circular touch pad at the bottom. I tried to imagine listening to my music, white wires dangling from my ears. It took about five minutes before I knew I had to — someday — get one.
The greatest part is how everything is so organized. For someone like me, this is incredibly appealing. At the peak of my record collecting days, I was obsessed with sorting, storing my LPs alphabetically in plastic bins. Though it was rather neurotic, it was comforting to know I could always find Jackson Browne next to the Allman Brothers, the Eagles alongside Fleetwood Mac.
By the time I transitioned to CDs, I’d relaxed my organizing system somewhat, grouping them by type — one shelf for rock, one for classical, another for Broadway shows, and so on. Though I didn’t go crazy if my CDs were inadvertently misplaced, I tried to keep some semblance of order.
Invariably, though, someone (i.e. husband, child) would swipe a CD, leaving the plastic case either empty or with a CD that I was not at all interested in listening to. To me, the #1 advantage of an iPod is never again suffering the infuriation of the CD swipe-and-switch.
Just as I’m beginning to understand iPods, Apple announced a new gadget — the iPhone. Though it won’t be released until June, it is all the rage. The main appeal, in addition to its sleek touch-pad design, is its multi-use capabilities. It has everything people on the go deem essential — a mobile phone, e-mail, usable Web access, text messaging, and yes, an iPod.
And, unlike some multi-use gadgets, the iPhone is user-friendly. The 3.5-inch screen morphs into whatever you need. Touch the music icon, and up pops your music collection that you can flip through by album cover. Touch the text-messaging icon, and you see messages arranged by recipient and a fully functional keyboard. The Web browser displays real Web pages, ones that you can actually read.
Though I don’t plan on getting an iPhone — at $600 it is far too expensive — I’m definitely putting in a plug for an iPod. Maybe this summer, for my birthday, I could get one. By then the credit cards will be paid down from all the holiday gifts, car repairs, vacations and college textbook charges. Maybe if I hint and plead and petition and beg — maybe then someone will get the message. It sure is worth a try.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2007)
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