This summer my daughter joined the ranks of commuters, taking the train from Sharon to her summer job in Back Bay. Recently when I had a meeting in town, I joined her on the 8:16 train. I watched commuters chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys. It was all rather ordinary until the next stop when I noticed something peculiar. The newly arriving passengers scanned the scene, searching for seats. Though there were plenty of spots, most of the open ones were in hard-to-get-to places in the middle or by the window.
Passengers had to interrupt the aisle-seat people who were chatting and reading and checking their Blackberrys to ask “Is that seat taken?” The aisle-seaters seemed annoyed at having to get up to let the person get by, rolling their eyes, sighing loudly. As the train became more crowded, the aisle-seat-people problem escalated. With commuters crammed in the path, it became more and more difficult to let the new person into the middle or window seat. I couldn’t help but wonder about the aisle-squatters. You’d think they were on a cross-country flight the way they clung to those seats, rather than on a short ride into Boston.
Later that day I shared my observations with my daughter. “Is it always like that?” I asked. She assured me that yes, it was, and went on to report a particularly nasty incident she experienced on a crowded outbound train. Rather than simply moving over, the woman in the aisle seat pushed her way into the path. My daughter was caught up in the whole mess, trying her best to move out of the way so Miss Aisle-Seat could get by and the commuter could squeeze into the middle seat. The woman yelled at my daughter to move, blurting “Go, oh!” in an exaggerated tone, voice rising and then dipping in a wave of sarcasm. But that was exactly the problem. People were packed in like sardines, arms pressed to sides. There was no where to go.
Though it certainly doesn’t justify such thoughtless behavior, I understand why commuter rail riders are frustrated. In the last few weeks alone, my daughter’s train has experienced many minor delays and several major ones. The worst was on a particularly sweltering day, when after finally arriving forty minutes late, a power failure left cars both unlit and without air-conditioning. The train had to make several stops as people were treated for heat stroke. Just last week there was another incident when the 8:16 train just didn’t show up—no notice, no warning—and the next train was late as well.
The good news for my daughter is that this is a temporary annoyance. In a few more weeks, her train troubles will be behind her. She’ll be back at college, commuting to her classes on foot. As for the commuter rail, I’m sure all will continue as it always has, with people waiting anxiously for the train to arrive, clinging to their coveted aisle seats and checking their watches to see how late they’re going to be for work as the train chugs along.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Summer Camp Notes
This summer, as in years past, we’ve stayed in touch with our son through e-mails and Bunk Notes, an online system that delivers notes to campers. Since my son is a Counselor Intern and this is his last year at camp, he’s been pretty good about writing back. He tends to report activities through numbers—Euro (European handball) goals scored, points and assists in basketball, soccer goals, the grand slam he hit over the center fielder’s head.
I was doing fine until his latest e-mail which left me completely confused. Referring to a Sixers draft pick my son noted, “He’s raw but has a chance to be real good, one of those 6’7”- 6’8” athletic swingmen.” Though I got the gist, I’d never heard of the player nor did I know what a swingman was. He continued, “I think the Celtics stole Big Baby. If he can keep himself from becoming another Tractor Trailer he could be really good.”
I was clueless, but curious. Who was this Big Baby character and why did my son think the Celtics stole him? The next day while scanning the sports page, I saw a photo of the Celtics second-round draft pick Glen Davis, the mysterious “Big Baby.” He is 6’9” and weighs between 289 – 295 lbs. Okay, so I got the “Big” part of the nickname, but I still don’t get the “Baby” part.
My husband explained he’d been sharing sports news in the Bunk Notes he’d written to our son. In addition to requesting my son’s feedback on the NBA draft, he wrote about how it was “a joke” that Pat Burrell, barely hitting .200, is the highest paid player on the Phillies ($15 million) while Ryan Howard is only making $350,000. He went on to report Ken Griffey is getting really hot (21 homers) and is hitting close to .300 before adding, “He has 584 homeruns so I don’t think he has any chance of catching Barry which is too bad because he never juiced.”
After reading my husband’s Bunk Notes, I went back and read one of mine. I’d told my son that the new lawnmower was much better than the old broken one and that I’d weeded the garden and gone for a run in Moose Hill. I went on to report I’d watched “Finding Nemo,” saying it was “so cute.” I detailed the dish I’d had while out to dinner with friends—salmon and shrimp with veggies and chunky mashed potatoes—because it was something I thought my son would have liked. I suppose when compared to my husband’s astute commentary on the NBA draft, player compensation discrepancies and the injustice of steroid use, my Bunk Note was pretty pathetic.
My e-mails were even worse. I sent one with “warning: annoying note alert” in the subject heading to give my son a heads-up about its contents. “Please remember to check your tick bite,” I wrote. (My daughter was on antibiotics after a tick bite, so I was understandably concerned). And then, “How’s your high school summer reading coming along?” I realize bringing up school work was pretty weak, but waiting to read all four required books until the last week of summer was a recipe for disaster. So far, my son has tolerated my notes just fine. “I’m a little behind on my summer reading but I’ll catch up next week,” he wrote. He reassured me that the tick-bitten area was fine, and, sensing my concern, kindly suggested I call him if I’m really worried. (I didn’t.)
Though my Bunk Notes are not exactly exciting, on some level I’m sure my son still appreciates them. There is, though, one thing I’ve mastered. No matter how dull my notes are, I always end them well. “Miss you and love you lots. Love, Mom.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)
I was doing fine until his latest e-mail which left me completely confused. Referring to a Sixers draft pick my son noted, “He’s raw but has a chance to be real good, one of those 6’7”- 6’8” athletic swingmen.” Though I got the gist, I’d never heard of the player nor did I know what a swingman was. He continued, “I think the Celtics stole Big Baby. If he can keep himself from becoming another Tractor Trailer he could be really good.”
I was clueless, but curious. Who was this Big Baby character and why did my son think the Celtics stole him? The next day while scanning the sports page, I saw a photo of the Celtics second-round draft pick Glen Davis, the mysterious “Big Baby.” He is 6’9” and weighs between 289 – 295 lbs. Okay, so I got the “Big” part of the nickname, but I still don’t get the “Baby” part.
My husband explained he’d been sharing sports news in the Bunk Notes he’d written to our son. In addition to requesting my son’s feedback on the NBA draft, he wrote about how it was “a joke” that Pat Burrell, barely hitting .200, is the highest paid player on the Phillies ($15 million) while Ryan Howard is only making $350,000. He went on to report Ken Griffey is getting really hot (21 homers) and is hitting close to .300 before adding, “He has 584 homeruns so I don’t think he has any chance of catching Barry which is too bad because he never juiced.”
After reading my husband’s Bunk Notes, I went back and read one of mine. I’d told my son that the new lawnmower was much better than the old broken one and that I’d weeded the garden and gone for a run in Moose Hill. I went on to report I’d watched “Finding Nemo,” saying it was “so cute.” I detailed the dish I’d had while out to dinner with friends—salmon and shrimp with veggies and chunky mashed potatoes—because it was something I thought my son would have liked. I suppose when compared to my husband’s astute commentary on the NBA draft, player compensation discrepancies and the injustice of steroid use, my Bunk Note was pretty pathetic.
My e-mails were even worse. I sent one with “warning: annoying note alert” in the subject heading to give my son a heads-up about its contents. “Please remember to check your tick bite,” I wrote. (My daughter was on antibiotics after a tick bite, so I was understandably concerned). And then, “How’s your high school summer reading coming along?” I realize bringing up school work was pretty weak, but waiting to read all four required books until the last week of summer was a recipe for disaster. So far, my son has tolerated my notes just fine. “I’m a little behind on my summer reading but I’ll catch up next week,” he wrote. He reassured me that the tick-bitten area was fine, and, sensing my concern, kindly suggested I call him if I’m really worried. (I didn’t.)
Though my Bunk Notes are not exactly exciting, on some level I’m sure my son still appreciates them. There is, though, one thing I’ve mastered. No matter how dull my notes are, I always end them well. “Miss you and love you lots. Love, Mom.”
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2007)
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Cross-Country Discoveries
In the summer of 1977, my childhood friend Ramona and I set out on a cross-country adventure. As a parent of a daughter who is now the age I was then, I can’t imagine my child going off like that. It was, though, a different time, and whether true or not, things seemed far less dangerous than today.
Perhaps because it was 30 years ago, numbers come to mind when I think back on that trip. We set out on the 4th of July, were gone for 7 weeks, and drove 11,500 miles. We stayed in campgrounds for $5 a night, and paid 50 cents for a gallon of gas. I lost 10 pounds from weeks of hiking and horseback riding, and celebrated my 19th birthday roasting marshmallows over a campfire. By the end, we’d visited 15 national parks, passing through 20 states along the way.
We meticulously planned our trip, researching destinations, trip-ticking our route through AAA, packing critical camping gear—tent, Coleman stove, flashlights, sleeping bags, back packs, hiking boots. We raided our family’s pantries for staples like Oodles of Noodles soup, sardines, Spam, crackers, tuna, dried cereal and trail mix.
In spite of all the planning, there were problems. Hours from our Bethesda, Maryland home, our Toyota Corolla overheated. By the time we reached the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, the campground was full and we were directed to the overflow area behind a rundown gas station. Though exhausted, I was up for hours peeking out the tent opening, clutching my flashlight like a club, reacting to every cough, beep and crunch as I imagined an ax-wielding overflow-camper-killer prowling outside our tent. Ramona, on the other hand, nodded right off to sleep.
After the car problems, we began all long excursions late in the day. To keep awake, the person in the passenger seat would lightly close her eyes, making quiet conversation with the driver while listening to tunes like “Nights in White Satin,” “Sweet Hitchhiker,” and “Light My Fire” from the 8-track tape player we’d set up in the glove box. On one such night while lying outside to rest, I opened my eyes to an incredible mass of stars blanketing the sky. It was like nothing I’d ever seen, and in fact, have never seen anything like it since.
We drove through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle to Carlsbad Caverns, Mesa Verde, Arches National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. After weeks of camping, we spent two nights in the Las Vegas Caesars Palace, lounging in our pink and purple-decorated hotel room. We had another break from camping in San Francisco when we stayed with my parents at the Fairmont Hotel. After weeks of tent-pitching, it was surreal riding in an elevator while a white-gloved operator graciously guided us to our floor. We then returned to camping and National Park-hopping—Yosemite, Sequoia, Crater Lake, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and the last leg of our trip to Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, and the plains across Iowa heading home.
I learned many things that summer. I learned I could live on noodle soup and Spam, at least for a while. I learned I could pitch a tent, change a tire, go on a ten mile hike, and fall asleep with a rock poking into my back. I learned it is great to camp out, but smart to sleep in a car during a thunderstorm or when wolves and bears are close by. I learned that instant coffee tastes amazing after a night sleeping out under the stars.
I learned it is good to have a road map, but important to embrace the possibilities discovered in a detour. I learned that no problem is insurmountable. And I learned that while it is exciting to explore new places, it feels really good to come home.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Perhaps because it was 30 years ago, numbers come to mind when I think back on that trip. We set out on the 4th of July, were gone for 7 weeks, and drove 11,500 miles. We stayed in campgrounds for $5 a night, and paid 50 cents for a gallon of gas. I lost 10 pounds from weeks of hiking and horseback riding, and celebrated my 19th birthday roasting marshmallows over a campfire. By the end, we’d visited 15 national parks, passing through 20 states along the way.
We meticulously planned our trip, researching destinations, trip-ticking our route through AAA, packing critical camping gear—tent, Coleman stove, flashlights, sleeping bags, back packs, hiking boots. We raided our family’s pantries for staples like Oodles of Noodles soup, sardines, Spam, crackers, tuna, dried cereal and trail mix.
In spite of all the planning, there were problems. Hours from our Bethesda, Maryland home, our Toyota Corolla overheated. By the time we reached the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, the campground was full and we were directed to the overflow area behind a rundown gas station. Though exhausted, I was up for hours peeking out the tent opening, clutching my flashlight like a club, reacting to every cough, beep and crunch as I imagined an ax-wielding overflow-camper-killer prowling outside our tent. Ramona, on the other hand, nodded right off to sleep.
After the car problems, we began all long excursions late in the day. To keep awake, the person in the passenger seat would lightly close her eyes, making quiet conversation with the driver while listening to tunes like “Nights in White Satin,” “Sweet Hitchhiker,” and “Light My Fire” from the 8-track tape player we’d set up in the glove box. On one such night while lying outside to rest, I opened my eyes to an incredible mass of stars blanketing the sky. It was like nothing I’d ever seen, and in fact, have never seen anything like it since.
We drove through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle to Carlsbad Caverns, Mesa Verde, Arches National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. After weeks of camping, we spent two nights in the Las Vegas Caesars Palace, lounging in our pink and purple-decorated hotel room. We had another break from camping in San Francisco when we stayed with my parents at the Fairmont Hotel. After weeks of tent-pitching, it was surreal riding in an elevator while a white-gloved operator graciously guided us to our floor. We then returned to camping and National Park-hopping—Yosemite, Sequoia, Crater Lake, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and the last leg of our trip to Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, and the plains across Iowa heading home.
I learned many things that summer. I learned I could live on noodle soup and Spam, at least for a while. I learned I could pitch a tent, change a tire, go on a ten mile hike, and fall asleep with a rock poking into my back. I learned it is great to camp out, but smart to sleep in a car during a thunderstorm or when wolves and bears are close by. I learned that instant coffee tastes amazing after a night sleeping out under the stars.
I learned it is good to have a road map, but important to embrace the possibilities discovered in a detour. I learned that no problem is insurmountable. And I learned that while it is exciting to explore new places, it feels really good to come home.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Monday, June 25, 2007
My Grandfather's Garden
The back door creaks. Grampy grabs the wooden rail and makes his way down the steps to his garden. He is dressed in his usual attire—plaid shirt, belted trousers, wing-tips. He pulls the brim of his straw hat down over squinting eyes. It is morning, and there is work to be done.
He gazes at his garden, at the cherry and magnolia trees to the left, the lavender lilac bushes to the right. He inhales the mix of scents—hollyhock, daylilies, roses, coral bells. His garden is far from orderly. It is wild, overgrown. He likes it that way. He likes how lettuce and tomatoes and pole beans are mixed with peonies and snap dragons. He likes bending under branches and vines, pushing back ferns as he walks the path lined with lilac and red and amber and rose. He likes how things are hidden, how he might have an unexpected encounter with a beetle or a bird, or watch an earthworm digging and wriggling under a stick on the ground.
There is a shuffling sound. A pebble skips across the path. Grampy looks down and sees a familiar furry face. The bob-tailed squirrel sits patiently, back straight, paws drawn together as if in prayer. It waits for the usual handout—scraps of crust, nuts, sunflower seeds. Grampy gently shoos it away, waving a hand, an arm, a leg. The squirrel finally takes the hint, scampering away into the bed of impatiens.
Grampy begins his work—weeding, pruning, planting, watering. He bends down low, pulling a stray brown leaf from a thicket. Nearby the yellow jackets drink the lily-nectar and Monarchs flit from rose petal to rose petal. The blue jay swoops down from the green of the trees, and the warm wind gusts, rustling the leaves. It is hotter now, the sun peeking through cracks in the trees. Grampy rolls up his sleeves and touches the warm drip at the end of his nose. Pulling out his handkerchief, he pats and wipes his face.
The backdoor creaks, a voice gently calls. My grandmother, Gammy, holds a glass of iced tea, mint leaves from the garden floating on top. She is small, frail. Her legs are like sticks, her tummy round, protruding. As always, her gray hair is swept neatly in a knot on the top of her head. She wears her cream-colored suit and her flat white shoes with the little openings at the toes. She is beautiful. “Thank you, Mother,” Grampy says, taking the tea from her hands. He takes a few sips, wipes his forehead, sips some more. “The squirrel was back again today. I think you may be spoiling it.” Gammy covers her smile with a cupped hand. Grampy smiles back, then hands her the empty glass. “I’ll be right in,” he says.
Grampy carries the tin watering can over to the spigot near the winding wisteria, filling it full. His legs are wobbling now, his lower back achy, strained. He lifts the can and turns again to his garden. Though weeded, it is still wild—a tangled mingling of textures and colors and scents. Satisfied with the morning’s work, he heads into the house to water the African violets lined up on the window sills. When that job is done, he will rest.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
He gazes at his garden, at the cherry and magnolia trees to the left, the lavender lilac bushes to the right. He inhales the mix of scents—hollyhock, daylilies, roses, coral bells. His garden is far from orderly. It is wild, overgrown. He likes it that way. He likes how lettuce and tomatoes and pole beans are mixed with peonies and snap dragons. He likes bending under branches and vines, pushing back ferns as he walks the path lined with lilac and red and amber and rose. He likes how things are hidden, how he might have an unexpected encounter with a beetle or a bird, or watch an earthworm digging and wriggling under a stick on the ground.
There is a shuffling sound. A pebble skips across the path. Grampy looks down and sees a familiar furry face. The bob-tailed squirrel sits patiently, back straight, paws drawn together as if in prayer. It waits for the usual handout—scraps of crust, nuts, sunflower seeds. Grampy gently shoos it away, waving a hand, an arm, a leg. The squirrel finally takes the hint, scampering away into the bed of impatiens.
Grampy begins his work—weeding, pruning, planting, watering. He bends down low, pulling a stray brown leaf from a thicket. Nearby the yellow jackets drink the lily-nectar and Monarchs flit from rose petal to rose petal. The blue jay swoops down from the green of the trees, and the warm wind gusts, rustling the leaves. It is hotter now, the sun peeking through cracks in the trees. Grampy rolls up his sleeves and touches the warm drip at the end of his nose. Pulling out his handkerchief, he pats and wipes his face.
The backdoor creaks, a voice gently calls. My grandmother, Gammy, holds a glass of iced tea, mint leaves from the garden floating on top. She is small, frail. Her legs are like sticks, her tummy round, protruding. As always, her gray hair is swept neatly in a knot on the top of her head. She wears her cream-colored suit and her flat white shoes with the little openings at the toes. She is beautiful. “Thank you, Mother,” Grampy says, taking the tea from her hands. He takes a few sips, wipes his forehead, sips some more. “The squirrel was back again today. I think you may be spoiling it.” Gammy covers her smile with a cupped hand. Grampy smiles back, then hands her the empty glass. “I’ll be right in,” he says.
Grampy carries the tin watering can over to the spigot near the winding wisteria, filling it full. His legs are wobbling now, his lower back achy, strained. He lifts the can and turns again to his garden. Though weeded, it is still wild—a tangled mingling of textures and colors and scents. Satisfied with the morning’s work, he heads into the house to water the African violets lined up on the window sills. When that job is done, he will rest.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Friday, June 15, 2007
Not All Dads are Handymen
Father’s Day gift ads are different from the Mother’s Day ads seen several weeks ago. There are no ads for flowers or candy or perfume. Instead, there are promotions for hardware—penknives, golf accessories, fishing paraphernalia. And handyman stuff, lots and lots of handyman stuff.
Many people equate dads with fix-it-up things. Not me. Growing up, I was much more likely to see my mom fixing a door handle, unclogging the bathroom drain or trimming the tree limbs in the front of our house. It was my mom who showed me how to paint a room and change the tire on our family station wagon. My dad, on the other hand, knew how to get things done by knowing who to call—the plumber, the tree guy, AAA.
My husband is slightly above what my dad was in the fix-it-up department. He is, though, infinitely more dangerous, since unlike my dad, he has a desire to tackle home projects. We’d barely moved into our home before my husband went on a hardware shopping spree returning with a drill, a circular saw, a ratchet set, and, of most concern in the hands of an amateur handyman, a chain saw. I was relieved when, after trying the saw a few times, my husband somehow managed to break it, effectively eliminating the chance of any catastrophic incident.
My brother-in-law, who knows how to use a chain saw, is the bona fide fix-it-up guy in our family. His home improvement projects include building a cedar closet, renovating a screened-in porch, and digging a six foot deep pond, complete with stone and cement bottom and waterfall. His signature project is a two-story club house with barn-style roof he built for his son. It is wired for electricity and has a window air conditioner. It even has a wrap-around porch and its own handcrafted mailbox. Basically, the playhouse is nicer than our house.
It’s not that there’s anything terribly wrong with our house, just the usual little imperfections one would expect after years of wear and tear—peeling paint, falling-apart screens, a slightly rotting porch. We were handling all this just fine until recently, when a new family moved into the home behind ours. The guy in that house has put us to complete shame. In a matter of months he’s cleared the trees, grown a perfectly green lawn, built a wooden sand box for his daughter, and erected a shed. His latest edition is a magnificent slate patio lined with flowers and potted plants. As if this weren’t enough, he put down a mulch border and added a comfy-looking hammock. This is all happening, mind you, as we are fixing our broken porch screens with duct tape.
On Father’s Day, as in the past, I’ll choose just the right card for my husband. I’ll head to the deli for his favorite breakfast—bagels, cream cheese and lox. I’ll urge him to play in his regular Sunday morning basketball game and watch a guilt-free day of ESPN. Later, the kids and I will make a nice dinner. This year, though, I think I’ll do something else. Yes, a gift card to Home Depot might help ease the pained look on my husband’s face when he gazes out over our neighbor’s yard.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Many people equate dads with fix-it-up things. Not me. Growing up, I was much more likely to see my mom fixing a door handle, unclogging the bathroom drain or trimming the tree limbs in the front of our house. It was my mom who showed me how to paint a room and change the tire on our family station wagon. My dad, on the other hand, knew how to get things done by knowing who to call—the plumber, the tree guy, AAA.
My husband is slightly above what my dad was in the fix-it-up department. He is, though, infinitely more dangerous, since unlike my dad, he has a desire to tackle home projects. We’d barely moved into our home before my husband went on a hardware shopping spree returning with a drill, a circular saw, a ratchet set, and, of most concern in the hands of an amateur handyman, a chain saw. I was relieved when, after trying the saw a few times, my husband somehow managed to break it, effectively eliminating the chance of any catastrophic incident.
My brother-in-law, who knows how to use a chain saw, is the bona fide fix-it-up guy in our family. His home improvement projects include building a cedar closet, renovating a screened-in porch, and digging a six foot deep pond, complete with stone and cement bottom and waterfall. His signature project is a two-story club house with barn-style roof he built for his son. It is wired for electricity and has a window air conditioner. It even has a wrap-around porch and its own handcrafted mailbox. Basically, the playhouse is nicer than our house.
It’s not that there’s anything terribly wrong with our house, just the usual little imperfections one would expect after years of wear and tear—peeling paint, falling-apart screens, a slightly rotting porch. We were handling all this just fine until recently, when a new family moved into the home behind ours. The guy in that house has put us to complete shame. In a matter of months he’s cleared the trees, grown a perfectly green lawn, built a wooden sand box for his daughter, and erected a shed. His latest edition is a magnificent slate patio lined with flowers and potted plants. As if this weren’t enough, he put down a mulch border and added a comfy-looking hammock. This is all happening, mind you, as we are fixing our broken porch screens with duct tape.
On Father’s Day, as in the past, I’ll choose just the right card for my husband. I’ll head to the deli for his favorite breakfast—bagels, cream cheese and lox. I’ll urge him to play in his regular Sunday morning basketball game and watch a guilt-free day of ESPN. Later, the kids and I will make a nice dinner. This year, though, I think I’ll do something else. Yes, a gift card to Home Depot might help ease the pained look on my husband’s face when he gazes out over our neighbor’s yard.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Book is Just a Click Away
The recent news about the fate of town libraries brought me close to tears. Struggling with budget cutbacks and unsuccessful proposition 2 ½ overrides, libraries in many towns are being forced to close. Others are losing certification, rendering them islands without a bridge, ferry or even a dingy to connect to the larger library world. For small libraries with older collections, this is essentially a death sentence.
Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.
While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.
It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”
On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”
Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.
While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.
It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”
On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”
Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Watching a Bird at Work
There is a hole in our porch screen. It is not the kind of hole you might see after years of wind and rain and harsh winter weather. No, this is a purposely formed opening made by folding the screen corner back into a perfect triangle.
The day before the hole was made I was sitting on the porch, reading. As is often the case this time of year, I heard a bird flitting and tweeting and rustling about. As the noise came closer, I looked down and saw a small bird coming in through one of the floor-to-ceiling screens that had pulled from the silver latches that once held it in place.
This particular screen had come completely out of its socket, and was held precariously upright by a porch chair. I tried to quiet myself, taking in the tiniest of breaths so as to not disturb the bird. I watched as it moved in an unusual combination of flitting and hopping from the floor to the wicker chair to the hanging basket, and then finally, up to the ledge in the corner of the ceiling. It was there that the bird had built its nest.
I watched the bird bob up and down, up and down, and wondered what it was doing. Was it stuffing a small stick or seed into the nest, or perhaps feeding something to little ones snuggled inside? The bird then reversed itself, flit-hopping from the nest to the basket, to the chair, to the floor, before making its way out the opening in the screen.
A few minutes after I’d returned to my book I heard the bird’s tweeting grow loud, louder, and then saw it again appear through the screen opening. I watched in wonder as it repeated its routine flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. It bobbed up and down as it did its work, and again made its way down and out as before. During the next fifteen minutes, the bird repeated its routine at least a dozen times. Needless to say, I did not get much reading done.
Later that day my husband announced, “I’m going to Home Depot tomorrow to get some duck tape and finally fix those porch screens.”
“No, you can’t do that!” I said, panicked, and then seeing the confused look on my husband’s face I explained the whole thing about the bird and the flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. Though my husband got the duck tape, he adjusted his fix-it-up plan. He smoothed the tape around the edges of all the broken screens. And then, with the care and skill of an expert architect, he carefully pulled back the lower left corner of the bird’s screen creating a perfect triangle opening.
That afternoon I watched from the kitchen window, looking for the bird. Though the new opening was plenty wide, I wanted to be sure that we’d not disturbed its routine. I soon heard the familiar tweet. The bird was back. It easily made its way through the triangle-hole, flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest and back down and out again.
We are all on lookout these days—watching and waiting, wondering what’s next.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
The day before the hole was made I was sitting on the porch, reading. As is often the case this time of year, I heard a bird flitting and tweeting and rustling about. As the noise came closer, I looked down and saw a small bird coming in through one of the floor-to-ceiling screens that had pulled from the silver latches that once held it in place.
This particular screen had come completely out of its socket, and was held precariously upright by a porch chair. I tried to quiet myself, taking in the tiniest of breaths so as to not disturb the bird. I watched as it moved in an unusual combination of flitting and hopping from the floor to the wicker chair to the hanging basket, and then finally, up to the ledge in the corner of the ceiling. It was there that the bird had built its nest.
I watched the bird bob up and down, up and down, and wondered what it was doing. Was it stuffing a small stick or seed into the nest, or perhaps feeding something to little ones snuggled inside? The bird then reversed itself, flit-hopping from the nest to the basket, to the chair, to the floor, before making its way out the opening in the screen.
A few minutes after I’d returned to my book I heard the bird’s tweeting grow loud, louder, and then saw it again appear through the screen opening. I watched in wonder as it repeated its routine flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. It bobbed up and down as it did its work, and again made its way down and out as before. During the next fifteen minutes, the bird repeated its routine at least a dozen times. Needless to say, I did not get much reading done.
Later that day my husband announced, “I’m going to Home Depot tomorrow to get some duck tape and finally fix those porch screens.”
“No, you can’t do that!” I said, panicked, and then seeing the confused look on my husband’s face I explained the whole thing about the bird and the flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest. Though my husband got the duck tape, he adjusted his fix-it-up plan. He smoothed the tape around the edges of all the broken screens. And then, with the care and skill of an expert architect, he carefully pulled back the lower left corner of the bird’s screen creating a perfect triangle opening.
That afternoon I watched from the kitchen window, looking for the bird. Though the new opening was plenty wide, I wanted to be sure that we’d not disturbed its routine. I soon heard the familiar tweet. The bird was back. It easily made its way through the triangle-hole, flitting from floor to chair to basket to nest and back down and out again.
We are all on lookout these days—watching and waiting, wondering what’s next.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2007)
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