Ol' Bluehair takes a break

We made it through the small pockets of congestion with ease. Route 93 South had a fifth of what normally traverses during the day, such a meager amount it wouldn't be fair to even call it traffic. We never came to a full stop and always sped back up as soon as we passed the blue lights and the construction vehicles. The normal onslaught of hurried commuters rushing to the city in the early morning light and fleeing in the late afternoon were long home.

We found relief in knowing that we weren't dealing with fellow day commuters, the aggression, the muscling for rank (or to be one car closer to "being there"), but were reminded that night commuters are a different sort of animal. While on the one hand we were dodging Swirvin' Ervin, whom we were pretty sure was drunk, on the other, I had to squint and slouch as low as I possibly could as another Highbeam Harry used me as a honing beacon. There was comfort to be had in the fact that at least Ervin and Harry were moving it along. Ervin and Harry didn't stop to see what the hold up was. Leaving the airport at 11 p.m. turned out to be the quickest way to return home from Boston.

Ol' Bluehair ran fairly well. She and I left at 10 p.m. were at the airport at quarter of 11 and circled around the arrival strip for South West several times so as not to have to pay to park. By 11:10 we were on our way back to Old Cape Cod. I chatted away with my dad and step mom about their trip, the places they had been and the people they had seen. Ol' Bluehair just listened. But it was somewhere on Route 6 East that she began to complain.

Dad asked me if I had checked her oil recently. Yes I had and she was primed and ready to go. We made our way off the exit down the busy route and all the way to our two mile stretch home when she quit on me. I had pushed the clutch in to make our turn when the Subaru turned off. The wheel locked, every gadget and gizmo light for the engine turned on as we coasted in to Jiffy Lube.

Shoot. That was all I could I muster at the moment followed shortly by a heavy dose of grumbling that this is just my luck.

But isn't it?

This could have happened on the way to Boston when I was alone, or at the airport, or in a construction zone, or heaven help me, on the Sagamore Bridge which is down to only one lane. So if she was going to give, and she was, she did pick a good time to I suppose.

Bluehair smelled terribly as we climbed out and looked under her hood. She was overheating, a hose, the radiator, something gave and anti-freeze dripped down as if her nose was running with green slimy mucus. Yuck.

It was 12 something this morning. By one a.m. the car had been towed, the luggage had been dropped off in the house and a little before two, I was home. Ol' Bluehair had a sleepover at Dad's where she is still sitting cooling her hooves.

Balloon's out the window

Noah's birthday party was over a week and a half ago now and somehow one of his balloon's managed to live in my car up until yesterday. I had the balloon secured under my false trunk (I drive a hatch so it has one of those slide and lock in place covers) and after grocery shopping last week, never re-latched it. The balloon stayed under the lip apparently so I forget all about it. Until it flew up, a phantom in my rear view mirror as I was heading over the Sagamore Bridge.

A good driver is taught to look into their mirrors every so often to be aware of the world around them. Often times, it's not you that needs worrying about, it is everyone else around you. So I glanced in my mirror heading up the bridge, one moment there was nothing there, then poof- the phantom balloon.

It soared up to the ceiling and bounced a few times. It swirled in circles chasing its own tail. As I became aware of what was happening my finger had already left my steering wheel and moved to the window up button. The phantom balloon sensed it and rushed forward. It bounced around on the ceiling, swooshed back and forth and made its balloon stretchy-noises. Then as there was only maybe six inches of window (or less) left to go up, it squished itself into the window jam and flew out the window. Whoosh...

Of course my eyes dart to the rear view mirror to see what became of phantom balloon and in true spook manor, it had 'visited' the car behind me making a quick bounce on the windshield and then whooshed off again.

Noah turns one

Today is Noah's first birthday! Last year at this time I was laying in a hospital bed wondering if he was ever going to come out. Now, he's sitting behind me tugging on my hair and laughing. It amazes me that when you stop to look back long enough, time, in my opinion, moves faster than the speed of light.

Developmentally speaking he has made leaps and bounds in this last year. His "bop-bop-bop" sounds are slowly being replaced with "ma-ma" and "da- da- da- dada." He is now taking tentative steps, pushing his own boundaries climbing up on stuff then tumbling down. And then there is Lucas.

He's coloring now. Big deal right? Well, he's looking at a truck picture he's coloring and said that the truck had pizza wheels. What? I looked at the picture and noticed that the wheels' rims looked remarkably, like pizzas. "That's silly huh Mommy," Lucas asked me. "Yes, yes it is," I told him.

Moments like these remind me just how fast it all goes and that there is no rewinding. So, although Noah is still willing to cuddle mommy and bang on everything for entertainment, I know that these days wont be long. I'm going to treasure everyone of them. Happy birthday Noah Bear.

Living pictures

I almost broke Thornton Waldo Burgess yesterday, in his home no-less. He presides on the wall of the staircase in the Deacon Eldred house in Sandwich where I work. I had just finished putting together some things and had boxs to get rid of and decided to at least get them upstairs out of the way. The narrow staircase does not leave much room for navigation and so I bumped poor Mr. Burgess with the box. He swayed to and fro and finally came to an uneven balance on his hanging wire. I threw the box to the ground and stablized him just before he fell down the stairs. He is such an old painting in an old frame I was trembling with the thought of what might happen if he did take the tumble.

While I logically understand he's been dead for 44 years, sometimes I fancy myself at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry where photographs actually house life.

Silly.

But have you ever been to an old house or museum and read plaques, gazed at historical photos or seen a persons personal effects that caused you to stop and think what it might have actually been like in that very same room many, many years ago? It's much like that.

The museum is dedicated to remembering him. Photographs of the native Sandwich son adorn the walls, houses he lived in, relatives, there is even a pair of his glasses in a case. Of course the children come in for the books about Peter Rabbit and all the other animals Thornton dreamed up. But what I like most about the house is the way it feels to be in it, as I eluded to previously.

The walls are plaster, (a royal pain when you are trying to mount something) the floors are old wood boards and creak even in the slightest breeze, the ceilings are low and if you are claustrophobic you might not last in there long. But somehow the place just feels warm. It's almost as if the small rooms and the low ceilings, were designed to bring everything in together. Smush it 'till it fits. But what I think what I like most about the house is that time hasn't changed it too much.

Driving around now and seeing what once were little Cape's or Saltbox's that are now McMansions destroying the natural beauty all around it breaks my heart. Eye soars, sure, but really, do we need all that? Being in this home that is nothing spectacular on the outside and certainly not modern on the inside creates a feeling for me of a time when things were simpler. Standing in the house looking out I almost expect to see a horse and buggy go by.

So now when I make my way up and down his staircase I try to stop and pay homage to the man who treasured the simple things in life and fought to preserve natural beauty. (Well, at the very least, I give him a little head nod, just in case.)

Big Top houses magic

Tuesday night Rose, Lucas, Noah and I, went to Circus Smirkus. This was Luke's second or third time going and the first time for Noah and me. In fact, this was my first time at a circus. I've always wanted to go so when Rose asked about Tuesday I was thrilled.

Parking the car in the grass the big top took shape. True, the tent wasn't as big as I imagine traveling circuses are, but was still a site to behold. Children of all ages were running about with bags of bubblegum pink cotton candy, buttered popcorn, balloons. Parents and grandparents were being tugged this way and that while their children were proclaiming, "look at this," or, "I want to show you something," or, "can I have this, please?" Whichever way I turned I saw faces that were lit, faces that could have been peering over the birthday candles right before blowing. Eyes sparkled as they darted around taking in the wonder of it all. Everyone was eager for the show. I stood there in the crowd and let the sounds and sites envelop me. (I wonder how many other people find themselves wrapped up in the excitement of an event just by standing in the crowd- probably just about everyone I would guess.)

Sitting down on bleachers took me back to high school football games. Then I was tiny and had no children to speak of, now it's difficult to hold a squirming baby and ignore the pain throbbing away in my lower back. Thankfully they were padded. Despite that and the heat, there wasn't a bad seat in the tent.

The circus started. Children ranging in age from very young (5?, 6?) to young adult (20?) bounced into the tent with animated faces and exaggerated gestures- oh, and the costumes.
I knew that the circus performers had costumes, but not like this. It was themed,"Ever After." A collaboration of many different fairy tale figures danced before our eyes. A wolf, little red, pigs, bears, Cinderella, Hansel, Gretel and the witch to name a few. It boggled my mind how no-one was passing out of heat exhaustion and how they could move so gracefully in those garments.

The growling of the wolf frightened Noah, but the sparkling of little red's cape soothed him. (He didn't take his eyes of her.) A scene with Rapunzel and her prince brought us all to laughter. All the areal acrobatic work, the juggling, the dancing, everything was spectacular.

The kids fought of sleep and turned their dials to cranky by the end, but were wonderful despite. I am so glad that I can share experiences like this with them and that I can share in the magic even for a few hours.

Walking out of the big top we stepped over piles of popcorn strewn about the grass. I found myself looking for Templeton and thinking what a find this would be.

Taking the kids to the drive-in's for the first time

I'm a Harry Potter fan. I started reading the books my sophomore year in high school. Of course while the books are much better than the movies, I have faithfully watched them all. For me, it's not only about seeing the books come to life on the big screen, it's also about watching the actors grow into adults as well.

Perhaps it's because I am a mother of two myself and that I am interested in what sort of people they will become, but I find myself wondering about the young stars of the movie as well. Look how they have grown! (Anyone who is a constant viewer of Jon and Kate plus 8 will know what I am referring to here.) I find myself caring about these people as if they are actually friends of mine. In a way- I guess they are. I have spent many hours reading the books, watching the movies, discussing with others and of course reading up on the actors themselves. I hope that the photographs I take of my children will tell a story in much the same way.

Since the new Harry Potter film has come out I have been dancing around the house like a pixie telling Steve how much I wanted to see it. The kids would never be able to sit through a movie of its length, nor would I expect them to, so I figured we would either have to line up a sitter or else wait for it on video. Then, as if by magic (imagine that), I thought of the drive-ins.

The Wellfleet Drive-In's Theatre was showing Harry at 8:15 so Steve and I packed up the kids clad in jammies, blankies in hand and headed to the movies. I envisioned the night going as a romantic evening, kids would fall asleep on the way and then Steve and I would be able to catch the movie like a couple of teenagers on a date. We would go as a family eliminating the need for a babysitter and we would save money by paying as a car load rather than for a ticket at a theatre where prices are always soaring.

Things have changed since the last time I went to the drive-ins. Apparently you pay by person now, not by car. The last time I went in the 90's, it was around $10 or so for a car load of people. Gone are those days and sadly, prices aren't much cheaper than an indoor theatre. The kids were free at least since they are under age four.

Cars have also changed. In the 90's you had your mini-vans and trucks and a few SUV's. Now it seems like everyone is driving an SUV and they all go to the drive-in's and park as close to the screen as they can. As if their giant box on wheels weren't enough to bother us compact types, they also have to open the hatch so they can camp out. Tickets were expensive and now we were going to have an obstructed view. (The staff at the theatre thankfully were quite gracious and asked us if we could see. They were on-top of policing those SUV's and minivans for us compacts.)

With our view resurrected, we people watched while waiting for the movie. An SUV in front of us off to the left had a couple of teenage boys from Connecticut, according to their plates, sitting on the edge of their window. They had their feet in the front seats and butts planted on the window ledge. One boy had a cowboy hat on (I write cowboy hat, but really it's one of those cheap numbers you get at Target or wherever) the other had a b-ball style Red Sox hat. These two were quite the pair. Complete opposites sitting in the windows scanning for girls playing their country music just a little too loud. I giggled despite myself, was this what cool was now? When I was in high school it certainly wasn't country, it was rap- not that it worked on me. But in all seriousness- when did the drive-in's become tailgating party arenas?

On top of them, other young people came with lobster hats (clearly not from Cape Cod) and laser pointers. I guess it's still cool to use a laser pointer on Harry's head while the rest of us are trying to watch the movie- some things never change. The same group also had to photograph every moment- making memories here! The flash of the camera was OK before the movie, but as it continued during the movie coupled with the laser pointer- enough was enough. Thankfully another annoyed Potter fan yelled for the rest of us and that was that.

As for the kids sleeping, Noah and Luke were wired when we got there. I did the only thing I could think to do, I unleashed them in the backseat. Sure, the windows would be smeared with hand prints and drool and there quite possibly would be objects flying out of them, but if they were happy and not climbing all over Steve and me- I really couldn't care less.

That worked for some time, but as the movie actually started so did Noah. Usually he is the happiest baby known to man, but when he wants to, that kid can really scream. We had to put the windows up all the way so as to not disturb cars around us. Then the windshield would fog over and we would have to crack the windows again. This game of up and down with the windows and jiggling Noah went on for about 45 minutes. Tiresome, but it worked.

Steve and I finally were at the movie enjoying it and each others company. The two little bodies in the backseat snored away.

Sweetheart boats

This dreary weather we've had these past few days got me to thinking about Sweetheart Candy boxes. It was either late February or early March (obviously because of the Valentine's candy) that C.J. and I crafted boats. We were living in Pennsylvania at the time and must have had a bout of wet weather. Our parking lot always flooded when the snow melted, or we had lots of rain (basement flooded as well and toys were ruined, but that's another story). C.J. and I were sick of being cooped up inside on those long winter days.*

*A little fact about my time in Pennsylvania: we lived in Edinboro which is on the Lake Erie side of the state. It started snowing that year, '93, on Halloween, no lie. It was frigid, to say the least, that winter and two kids can only do so much in an apartment before going stir crazy. Think, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," from 'The Shining.'

So, sometime after Valentine's we decided to play in the puddles in the drive. I think that it was C.J. who had the idea of making little boats out of the box. If I remember correctly the boxes had that waxy sheen on them so it made them ideal for floating. We cut them up used toothpicks as masts and tissues (I think) as sails. We raced our boats by blowing on them, we tested their ability to hold weight by loading them with rocks until they sunk. Life was simple.

I really get to missing my brother when little things like the Sweetheart boats come back to me. I guess I really get to missing my childhood, a case of nostalgia. And you know, what really gets my head spinning now, 20 years down the road from this moment, I will miss these simple days and this time as a youth. I wonder if we do live multiple lives, if we get do overs. I don't think so. But if we could, could we come back with the memory of our short comings from our previous life and make things better? Or at least different? Could we come back with a greater sense of appreciation for the moments that we are in? Probably not. But perhaps we could teach ourselves to slow it down a little and reflect on the present because as they say, it goes too fast.

Cop crosses the line

On my way to the television station yesterday I pulled up behind a cop at the red light at the end of my road. He was a Bourne Police Officer. Sometimes being behind a cop leaves a person uneasy. To counter that, I left plenty of space between us and tried to enjoy my tunes.

Of course it's hard to look and act normal when every time you turn your head forward, a cop is glaring at you in his side mirror. He was looking very smug wearing his sunglasses on a cloudy day. I turned my head and stared out the window, my seat belt was on, my music wasn't too loud and the car was running OK. (Maybe he is running my plates to check things out, how rude.)

I couldn't look out the window too long, that would be suspicious. I looked forward and he was still looking in the side mirror as he inched forward. (God to think maybe he was checking me out- give me a break.) I held my foot on the brake pedal to the floor, the cop was now across the 'stop behind the white line' line, was he playing chicken with me? Was he egging me to inch forward so that he could ticket me for crossing the line with my front tires? (It's true, they can do that. A friend of mine failed his driver's test the first time because his front tires crossed that line when he stopped at a red light.)

The cop continued to inch forward. Then, all of a sudden, he sped off into the red light. Does he think just because he's a cop, he's above the law! Apparently so. I can't tell you how many times I have sat at that very same light for what seemed like eons waiting for it to change. Can I run it? No, of course not. That would land me a very large ticket. But, Mr. Bourne Police Officer- please go right ahead.

The light finally changed a few seconds after he sped off. I went on my way. You know- he wasn't even a Statey.

Techno jams possible key to dancing my tummy off

Having children changed my life. Laying on the carpet and watching them play makes me laugh more than a comedy ever has, sunny days are warmer and offer more things to do and taking time to stop and smell the roses takes on a whole new meaning. Of course, my energy levels have plummeted, I envy my friends who can just take off and do something just because they feel like it and lets face it, my body will never be the same.

Noah is going to be one in just over a month. The experts say that it takes most women a full year to lose the baby weight after giving birth. Some are lucky and are naturally thin and the weight just sort of melts off them in a month, others give birth to small babies that leave no trace of ever having been in the womb and still others work out, have a trainer, a nutritionist or damn good genes and sweat it off.

With Lucas, I dropped most of it within a month and worked the rest off within six months. Then came Noah. My almost ten pound wonder. Here we are at almost 11 months and I would say I need to lose roughly, between 5 and 7 lbs. OK- now that doesn't sound like much, but next time you're in the grocery store take a look at two pounds of hamburger meat and think again.

While I would love to hit the gym, first, I don't have the time and second, I can't afford it. Instead I have the play room where I have crunched until I thought my spine chipped on the floor, ran in place until I almost stepped on Noah and wiggled and jiggled until I thought I would faint. The problem with that is that I'm inconsistent, the children are always under foot and honestly, the space just isn't meeting my needs.

Lately I have been trying to work past all that by tuning in to my Ipod. Noah goes in the excersaucer where he gets mad and tries fruitlessly to escape, I make Lucas stay on the other side of the line and I just pump up the jam.

While I like all different types of music I never was a big fan of techno until I decided it could be the key to my weight loss. With the ups and downs, the sudden stops, the build, who wouldn't get excited enough to move? I mean- just freak out. Punch the air, kick and spin in circles like 'Flash Dance,' run around hands over head like Kevin in 'Home Alone.' Freak Out.

It's so easy to do if you just forget yourself for awhile. One advantage of not being at a gym I suppose. And did you know that just about every song sounds good after the end of a techno jam? Personally, I'm keen to sandstorm followed by everybody dance now (sweat). Now if only I could make it routine.

Orange Slices

I don't put very much thought into the outfits I dress my boys in every morning. I cover the basics, no stripes with plaids, no peddle pushers and as long as they are wearing matching socks, we're good. Yesterday, my gloomy feelings due to the weather we've been having seeped subconsciously into my kids clothes.

I got Noah ready first. I picked out his orange shirt that Steve and I got him in Virginia at the Great Wolf Lodge. It's got cartoon characters on it and is especially cute when you lift him up and his belly hangs out. Next was Lucas. I let him help me decide what he should wear and we settled on his raccoon shirt, which just so happened to be orange. It wasn't until I had them both ready to head out the door that I realized what I had done. Ever see those kids in the mall or at the zoo with matching shirts and while at one time you think, cute, at the same moment you're thinking, come on parents- lame. The latter of those two thoughts hit me, but I figured since Lucas' shirt was more of a burnt orange and Noah's was bright orange, it was OK.

At lunch time I decided to treat the boys to Mickey D's. Remember birthday parties when you were younger when all the boys wore variations of the same shirt, probably Transformers or GI Joe, and the girls all had pink on? Entering McDonald's yesterday made me turn in circles looking for my party hat and gift bag.

McDonald's was flooded with orange shirts. Two boys, roughly a year or two apart in age had the same shirt on (cute or lame- your decision), bright orange, another little boy was wearing a dark orange like Lucas, and his name, unbelievably, was Lucas. My eyes kept darting from orange shirt to orange shirt, I couldn't help it. It was an epidemic. Then, the icing on the cake, a man who clearly was on a lunch break came in wearing orange also. I'm not sure why, but suddenly I felt nervous and hunched down in my booth lest I be seen with the boys in orange.

From my crouched position I noticed others were checking out all the orange as well. It was then that I realized that the rest of New England was feeling about the same as I did, sick and tired of the dreary days, rain, overcast skies- to hell with it all. Why else would there be five kids and one adult wearing bright orange shirts?

Lofty Goals

At a job interview yesterday I was asked about my long term goals. Fair enough. When you go to an interview you anticipate questions like these, most of the time you even prepare an answer that would suggest that they (your goals) can be met, or come very close (always leave room for growth), with a position where you are interviewing. I know this. But what do you say when your goal is so lofty and unbelievably hard to reach? Um, maybe you should say something else.

"So Jennifer, what was it that attracted you to this position, why here, what are your goals?"

(OK- I've got this. Growth, community involvement, an opportunity to learn...)

"It sounded really interesting. It seemed to me that there was opportunity for growth, which I am always looking for. The job description had various aspects that dealt with my education in addition to past experience which I thought would make this a great fit for what I am looking for. I have two little boys and would really like to get involved with the community, meet people, I love talking to people. Yeah."

(OK- not bad, hit many of the key points there, but then the part I should have kept to myself escaped.)

"Ideally, I would love to write books."

Signed, sealed, delivered, doom. What on Earth, does this position have to do with writing books? I mean, they managed not to scoff to my face at least, but the more people you tell about your dream, only means the more people who see that it's nothing more than that, a dream, when you do not actually achieve it. Half-empty perspective perhaps, but really, how many people do you hear of that say they are going to do something professionally one day and you think, sure, sure you are. Nice dream kiddo.

Sure, it COULD happen. When effort is applied, grueling hours met and long-term focus is kept, it can be done. It helps too when you have a knack for your dream. The question ought to really be, how are you going to achieve your goals?

(Ah, now here is something that I can grasp. A plan. A plan of attack. The plan that would see me to success. I could jabber on about how even having two children didn't slow me down, how I am more of the long distant runner type, not a sprinter...)

"Well, thank you for coming in Jennifer, we will be in touch."

The Hair Gets It

It is fair to say that I realized I was in the midst of an identity crisis when I started messing with my hair. This isn't the first time I've gone searching to find myself, Lord knows that we all go through this many, many times, it's called being an adolescent, a teen, an adult. This time however I'm not particularly concerned with what others think of my image (still a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl), or if the music I listen to is popular ( Kansas' greatest hits was one of my first CD's) nor do I care that you won't find my picture littered on other people's places and spaces with booze in my hand. So what sparked the need to color my hair that I was for the most part- happy with?

There is no place for me. These words spewed from my mouth like putrid meat or worse yet, sour milk Sunday evening. Almost as soon as I had said them, I wish I hadn't. As if uttering what I was actually thinking, when I actually thought it, no sugar coating, no lying aloud and saying that I was fine- the truth and nothing but it, sealed my fate once and for all. The whoa-is-me feeling that I fend off as much as possible gripped me and I was powerless to stop it.

I should have read the signs. I should have seen this coming. I had prepared hadn't I? I have been actively job searching since March. Actively. Every job board has my resume, every job that might somehow find me a viable candidate has been applied to, companies who as far as I or anyone else is concerned are not looking, they have received an email and resume as well- just in case. Shouldn't that be enough? No. So now I have hit the road in search of yet another way to fill a void as it continues to stretch deeper and deeper within me.

There is of course more to it than being unemployed. Isn't there always. Hearing a friend recall the weekend she spent being spontaneous and having awesome fun makes me frown. I am of course psyched for her new found identity, molding herself into a group that makes her feel alive and good. I just desperately want to feel alive and good too. A family day turns out not the way I anticipated it and it brings me to tears. Stuff that normally rolls off my shoulders have hit this huge chip in my shoulder that seems lodged, perhaps for the long run. I feel cheated, discounted, more than anything thought of last.

As I drove around in the rain yesterday, fiddling with the wipers, it's raining steady, now it's not, now it is, the mundane'ness of it all seeped through me. I come last to employers too. How could this be? I have an excellent GPA, I am a great communicator, wrote some wonderful cover letters and proofed my resume more times than I care to count. What is it with me?

I loathe this pitiful version of me. Always been the optimistic one, always kept smiling, always bottled it all up inside me, now finding I have trouble with that. What's funny about this, I feel ashamed to reach out to others because I know, someone is suffering more than me, we've all heard it before and no-one, absolutely no-one, wants to hear it anymore.

So my poor hair went from a light brown to a golden brown, to too blond at the roots to blond but still not happy to be here, all in three days. I guess I should thank my lucky stars that at least it didn't fall out.

Reusable Shopping Bags, Nice Idea when remembered

I thought it a novel idea instantly, reusable shopping bags at the grocery store, and for only .99 cents! Everyone after all, is 'going green' what better way to practice what you preach then to stop filling land fills with plastic that (a) blows around all over the place, (b) doesn't bio-degrade and most importantly (c) kills. I scooped up some green canvas bags from various supermarkets and thought, 'yay for me- such a good do bee.' I should have considered the odds of whether or not I would remember to grab my special bags to take with me every time I shop- before I bought.

I'm sure I'm not alone when I say that I remember, only after I have already made it to the grocery store, that I have those reusable canvass bags under the kitchen sink. Oh well. Next time. You know what? Those 'next times' happen every time. I am literally at the point where I can remember to scold myself for not remembering the shopping bags whenever I shop.

If I were smart I would load the bags into the trunk of the car after unloading the groceries from them. But you know something else? That would mean another trip to the car. When I shop, I shop. I usually have to make three to four trips back and forth, car to house, car to house, car to house and finally car to house. I'm tired by the end of this last trip of lugging groceries in, and where I live doesn't help matters any. For anyone who has ever seen Terminator 2, or any other movie for that matter that implores the use of suspense by providing the protagonist with many doors to escape through, all with different keys and complete with chainsaw maniac after them- you need not see my home.

There is an outer security door requiring key 1, my apartment door automatically locks when closed requiring key 2 because I must close it between trips so that the kitty cat doesn't escape, and not to mention key 3 to the hatch of my Subaru because 'Old Blue Hair' won't open unless you turn the key while you pull. Aren't quirks in old cars cute? Such cruel irony.

After considering my bad luck with what started out as a great idea I thought of another novel idea. Cubbies. Cubbies like we had in Kindergarden. I could pay for my reusable bags, keep them in a cubby at the store and pick them and shop when I needed. Of course this still leaves the problem of remembering to bring them back to the cubby from home. Perhaps if I were rewarded with a free bag, or a five dollars off next purchase coupon every time I returned ten bags I would remember to bring them back. Shoot- I think I would even take a sticker.

Morning Madness

Standing in the shower has always left my mind free to wander. Sometimes I think about a dream I had, sometimes a song is stuck in my head, most mornings I think about what I have to do that day. Well today annoyed me.

As I stood washing my hair I realized how much I didn't feel like washing my hair. Then of course, knowing I would have to condition next unless I wanted an intricate web of tangles, I felt even more agitated at the never ending process of it all. I mean, how often have you ever stopped and considered your morning routine for what it really is- a maddening time consuming attempt to make you feel better about yourself even though you know in the end, it isn't going to solve all your insecurities anyway.

For example... when I shower there are many steps involved. First, I must comb my hair thus avoiding tangles in the shower and hair in the drain trap. Second, the wash. OK, simple enough. Then there is the condition, which must sit for two minutes at the very least. Now we have the face scrub, the body scrub and the special foot scrubber because who doesn't want cute pedi's all summer. Now I'm going to avoid the hairy situation of shaving- ladies I don't even need to go there because you all know what a pain this is. As for me, I also brush my teeth in the shower- saving water here... Finally, I can step out of the shower after using shampoo, conditioner, soap, body wash, body scrub, acne face scrub and shaving cream. Phew!

No wait, still not ready. After toweling off comes the body lotion. Taking two minutes to apply, I then must rewash my hands so that I can use a different lotion for my feet and hands. Then I must use another topical lotion rinse for my face, followed by yet two more lotions including SPF. Oh my God! How much stuff do I really need to use! Did I even mention mouth wash or floss- OK I'll admit it here, I gave up on both the minute my braces came off. I finally can dress and sigh a little before I realize I'm still not ready.

Back to the hair. Detangler spray, my hair is super thick and wavy, anti-frizz for the summer humidity, comb it though, blow dry, brush, dry some more perhaps, should I straighten it today? (I think you see my point.) These steps require more product and appliances and another 30 minutes at least. My hats' off to you ladies who can do these things and somehow make it out of the door in the morning. After the hair is done, hopefully I am satisfied with my outfit, I'm done. Hasta luego. Oh wait- is that a chip in my nail polish?

The Rail Line at Stalk Grove

OK- I know it is taboo to have a long post in a blog. People don't have time to read your rambling thoughts for extended periods of time. Well- with that said, I do think it is fair game to first warn you that I am IGNORING protocol and am doing it anyway. Below you have two choices. You may either stop at the end of this paragraph and navigate away from this page or you can read a short story I wrote for fun. I would like to ask the members of the latter, if they would be so kind to leave a comment and let me know what they thought. You may decide now.

The Rail Line at Stalk Grove

As Alicia stood there surveying the tracks underneath the heavy growth, several oddities occurred to her. The first was how could this place, as beautiful as it is, possibly reach her list of places one should just not go, a list created mainly by her parents, only developed further as her own curiosity grew. The list includes grave sites, haunted houses, scenes of horrific accidents and other traditional scary places of course. But Stalk Grove?

Stalk Grove is small town. Littered with rows and rows of cornfields, there isn’t much else to see. Once, it had its day. Many would go through on their way to Garden City on the Old Clay rail line. But the train stopped running in 1951, the year of the Great Flood, which nearly destroyed all of Kansas. But it was a few years before that, that Woodland Avenue; the largest rail line intersection in Stalk Grove, was actually deserted.

It seemed to Alicia that the air felt different here at the place where the tracks once crossed Woodland Ave. She felt silly for even thinking it. It was merely a child’s story that brought her here after all. Her good friend, Gale, who thought Alicia was just a little silly for chasing ghosts had been in Kansas City the week before and heard the story from a little man she had met in a bar. She laughed her ass off she had said when the man finished his tale. Alicia was half asleep when Gale had called but she remembered Gale thinking it was his crude attempt at a pickup. His story had been enough to get Gale to call Alicia, if not to get her home with him.

So Alicia had come to Stalk Grove. Now standing here at Woodland Ave. observing the area where the trees stand still, no leaves rustle and no birds’ chirp. The little man at the bar had said that very few people even dared to pass by the area anymore and a local town proprietor had confirmed, adding that children avoid this spot altogether. As is customary no one in town talks about Woodland Ave., those that do need prying or strong liquor at the very least. Larry, the proprietor Alicia came across said, that many simply can’t recall what happened there, but some still do. Over a cup of coffee he had told Alicia that the town elders and naive adults sum up the events of August 16, 1949 as nothing more than a child in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the children know better he said, but she better not tell anyone he says so.

“It seems that as children we are given the power of strong imagination, but more importantly the power to believe. As we age these things are buried by the things that jade us like failed relationships and stressful work. I know all about stressful work. I have never stepped a foot off Kansas, never,” Larry had said to Alicia. He had gone on to say that “Somehow, we never believe children when they speak of things that we just can’t grasp. It’s like our minds have been wiped clean of what we once knew." Unsurprisingly then, the folks of Stalk Grove just couldn't accept the children’s version of the incident.

Alicia gripped the Stalk Grove Daily in her fingers. She thumbed it absent-mindedly. Larry had given her one of his dozen or so copies of the paper that had come out two days after the disappearance of Curtis Austien. She had taken it back to her room at the Old Clay Inn and read it through, twice. The events that occurred that night were recorded as follows in the Stalk Grove Daily; young Curtis Austien had gone for a walk in the woods that surround the old rail trail. Night had fallen around him and he had lost his way. Stumbling through the dark, he had come across the rail line and had decided to follow the tracks back to town. (So speculates the reporter here Alicia notes.) The paper goes on to say that Curtis got his foot stuck under one of the rail ties and the 1 a.m. express to Meadville came through and he was struck. Officials searching for the missing boy the next day identified some teeth as Curtis’s and the poor boy’s father identified a bloodied sneaker.

While everyone agreed that the boy had yes, gone for a walk that night in the woods, what happened next comes in two very different versions. Curtis’s parents like the other adults in Stalk Grove took the story the reporter wove around the only fact, the boy had gone for a walk, as complete truth. This is the way it was and no one could tell them any different Larry had said. “The children tried to tell them the truth, but they just wouldn’t listen. How could they? The story the children offered frightened all that heard it until ultimately it was dismissed. Any child caught telling the tale was punished. Some children continued to preach the story, in the end the adults finally silenced it, at least amongst themselves. No child would speak of that night to anyone, except for someone who could believe what happened, in all cases, this meant another child.”

After hearing out Larry and reading the paper for herself, Alicia decided it would be best to actually see the area and draw what conclusions she may. Going over it again, “the children say that Curtis wasn’t alone that night,” well that was certainly possible thought Alicia, “according to the children, Curtis had indeed set off for a walk but he was to meet his friend Alice who lived a mile or so from Meadville. He had taken a short cut through the woods as he always did,” it was hard for Alicia to see that as a possibility now. The growth here was so thick, but maybe, before time had forgot this place, the area may have very well been less dense, enough so for Curtis to cut through. It was from here that Alicia couldn’t be sure, and perhaps the only way for her to be sure, to “sense it” so she called it to Gale, was to walk through herself.

As Alicia set off she thought of the children’s tale. “Curtis didn’t get lost. He had walked to Alice’s house many times before, once in a summer thunderstorm when the sky was gray, the woods pitch-black and sheets of rain were falling from the sky. Curtis made it to Alice’s house that night without any problems,” or so he thought- thought Alicia.

After sweating, panting and stumbling through the first part of the wood Alicia sat for a break. Unfolding the newspaper she found the police report clip Larry told her she would. He wouldn’t tell her how he came to have the document, but she accepted it any way. What she found there was the account that Alice gave to the police the next day. For some reason, the reporter did not include Alice’s testimony to the police in her article. Perhaps it was too unbelievable to her, or perhaps she was frightened out of her wits. Whatever the reason, many still don’t know anything about Alice or that she had seen the boy that fateful night. For those that did hear her story they just couldn’t believe her. She’s out for attention was what they said, and so the girl’s story never made it beyond the walls of the police room or their old files. Only a few of Alice’s close friends would listen to her. They told younger children who in turn told younger children. Now only the children that handed it down to the next generation even remember it at this point.

“Mother made meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner,” Alice told the Stalk Grove Police. She had gone to the Meadville Police the night Curtis was killed. The police listened to her story reluctantly, took brief notes and had her mother pick her up at the station. The next afternoon, after the discovery of Curtis’s shoe and teeth, the Stalk Grove Police had called Alice in for questioning.

“We ate and then I went up to my bedroom because Curtis had phoned earlier to say that he would be coming by. We never told our parents when we got together this way. It was always late and getting dark, mother would never approve. Curtis is also funny about his friends knowing. He wouldn’t have it. I was so fond of Curtis that I didn’t object, so long as he came. Whenever Curtis would come by he’d throw pebbles at my window softly so mother wouldn’t know of course. We’d been doing it for years. I wasn’t in my bedroom very long when I heard a tink, tink on my window. I knew it was him. So I called down to him, Curtis is that you.”

Deputy Don Reigner had been listening to Alice, so far with no more interest than if he were flipping through the paper at the doctor’s office.

“If you knew it was him, why did you call out your window that way?”

“That was the way I always did. I knew it was him, but what if it wasn’t? It was just what we did.”

“Go on Alice, what happened next?”

“Curtis called up, ‘of course it’s me,’ he said, ‘who else would I be?’ which always made me laugh. And then I gathered up my coat, tossed it down to where he was standing, climbed out my window onto the birch tree and slid down.”

“And then?”

“We set off together, as we always did.”

“And what do you always do?”

“Walk. Especially this time of year. The leaves are so beautiful and Curtis knows, knew, how I love to hear them crunch beneath my feet.”

“And was anything amiss last night? Was Curtis acting strangely?”

“No, not at all. He was excited in fact. He was to be vacationing with his family next month in Paris and was beyond himself to tell me all about his plans. Everything was wonderful.”

“When did that change Alice? When you went to the Meadville Police last night, you said the night was dreadful. Their records say you were clearly upset and looked a bit disheveled.”

“I said that the night was horrific. My time with Curtis was wonderful, but I couldn’t have known. Neither of us could, it was just, just…”

And the reports say here that the interrogation stopped for approximately five minutes or so, so that Alice could regain her composure. She had burst into tears.

The Deputy went on, “Please Alice, tell us what you believe happened next.”

“Well, we’d been walking for so long, he was still talking about Paris and I was so wrapped up in what he was saying, I’d lost track of time and of where we were. I grabbed his arm to stop him a moment so that we could turn back…”

“And then Alice?”

“He kissed me. For the first time, the only time. As he was about to say something to me, I believe he was going to ask me to go with him, his family I mean, to Paris, but he didn’t say it. He just stared past me into a cluster of trees.”

“How’d he look?”

“He looked alarmed. It was as if someone had been watching us he said to me. It was then that I reminded myself of the hour and that it must be getting very late. His look had spooked me so much that I told him I’d like to turn back right away. I needed to get home.”

“How did he respond?”

“He still wouldn’t look at me. He was staring into the bushes so intently. As if in a trance he just replied yes. He said yes we should leave this place and abruptly grabbed my hand and started tugging me back the way we had come. He was glancing over his shoulder as he did. I asked him what was wrong, what was it he thinks he saw. He said he didn’t know. He said he felt as though there was someone leering at us back there, someone hiding in the trees. He said he was worried we had gone to far and then quickened our pace so much that I was practically running to keep up.”

Alicia looked up quickly. Had she heard a bird? No. Did the trees rustle? No, no, no. This had to stop. She was just letting the story scare her silly in this really quiet, really beautiful place. She stood and began walking again. It wasn’t long before she came to the clearing where the rail line stretched on and on it seemed. Following it west, towards Meadville she continued to read, moving slowly.

“Things went a rye from here you say,” the Deputy says to Alice. He pours his coffee and sits back down.

“Yes.”

“Please, Alice, continue. What happened next?”

Alice begins again.

“I stumbled. There was a thick root from an Oak in the path. It must have been buried under leaves. I didn’t see it. It was so dark. I tripped and fell to my hands and knees. As Curtis bent to help me to my feet, he grabbed my ankle and yanked me backward.”

“Who?”

“Him, the man. The hobo.”

“How do you know he was a hobo?”

“I don’t really. I just don’t know what else to call him.”

“Describe him then.”

“His hair was slick with grease. It was untamed, it had twigs in it, it fell just above his shoulders. His shirt was tattered and torn. A large hole was above the left shoulder and another was in his midsection. He smelled disgusting. Liquor, sweat, urine? I can’t, I don’t know what all the smells were. There was hay on his pants, or maybe it was straw. These only came down just below his knee and were ripped at the knees, they were stained in the crotch, brown, muddy-like.”

“Alright Alice, then what happened?”

“His nails scratched me and I could feel the blood, it was warm and tingly in my socks where it was collecting. But his face…”

“What about his face?”

“It wasn’t sinister. It was grave. Or maybe it was hopeless or desperate maybe, but it was, oh, I don’t know the word to describe it. There were cuts, slashes across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. He was missing skin around his chin, like a chunk had been cut away. His eyes were blackened and dirt was in the corners.”

“What do you think he wanted from you?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t carrying any money, no pocket book, just my coat. Perhaps he wanted that.”

“What happened next?”

“Curtis struck the man with a large branch that was laying near by.”

“Where?”

“In his arm. The one that was holding my ankle.”

“And then?”

“The man was furious. He was enraged. He released me and clawed at Curtis’s face, tearing away at his cheeks, scratching his throat.”

“What did you do?”

“I, I don’t know. I screamed. I couldn’t help. I didn’t know what to do. I screamed and screamed and then nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?”

“I must have blacked out.”

“The Meadville Police have note that you say you were struck by the man.”

“Yes, yes I was. He hit me with the branch that Curtis hit him with, to silence me I guess and then I blacked out. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the ground next to Curtis. He looked bad his face was bloody, clothes torn. I shook him awake and helped him to his feet. I felt so woozy, like I was going to fall again. His arm was broken and he was screaming in pain. We thought the man had left. We were wrong.”

Alicia stopped in her tracks. She became aware that chills had just run through her. She quickened her pace as she read on.

“Then what happened,” asked the Deputy.

“We started walking as quickly as Curtis could, he was limping so we were moving slow. I kept asking why, why did the man attack us? Who was he? I asked Curtis, did he know? Curtis wasn’t answering any of my questions. He was such a mess. His pockets were torn out so I thought the man had wanted money and when he didn’t find any he left. But then he was upon us again. He hit us from behind with something sharp. I don’t know what it was, it felt like glass. I went sprawling on the ground and looked over to Curtis. The man was spitting and yelling at Curtis. I couldn’t understand him. I was so frightened. Curtis turned his head slow and mouthed to me, run. And I did, and I’m sorry Curtis. I ran. I ran.”

Another brief break is recorded here and more tears from Alice. It is awhile before Alice continues.

“I was lost. I had no idea where I was but I found the railroad a few moments later. I started following the tracks in the general direction that I thought was Meadville and never turned back. I just ran as fast as I could until I reached town.”

“And what were you thinking Alice?”

“That I had to get help. Someone needs to help Curtis. I screamed all the way into town, help me please. No-one heard me until I reached the police station.”

“And you say that you do not know what happened from there. How Curtis’s teeth and shoe were found near the tracks?”

“That’s right. I don’t know. I hope he escaped and I hope you find him and bring him home.”

The report continues another few pages from there, but Curtis was never found.
Alicia stops. I’ll never sense this she thinks to herself. She sits down in the gravel next to the lines. As she is stirring up the gravel with her shoes and thinking about Alice and Curtis something catches her eye. It’s a small trinket, nothing much, but it could be something. As Alicia bends down to pick it up she recognizes it for what it is at once, a jackknife. An army issue if she is correct. Could this have belonged to the hobo or to Curtis perhaps? Alicia doesn’t stay long. Some mysterious are better left she thinks as she heads back to Stalk Grove.

“ Some children say that the police closed the file because they had nothing and didn’t want to come across as inadequate. Others say that the police themselves were afraid a madman was on the loose and they had no leads on him, better not to scare the people and keep it quiet,” Larry had said.

If they had walked where I did and felt what I felt, which they most certainly must have, then they simply knew better than to mess around with these things Alicia thought.
Alicia returned to Stalk Grove and found Larry on his fourth cup of coffee since she left him that morning.

“I have found something. It isn’t much I have to tell you. It might even belong to someone around here for all I can be sure. I thought at first to leave it well alone and get the hell out of there. But as you are the keeper of this tale and some police documents that I am convinced you obtained illegally, I thought you should have it.”

Alicia placed the jackknife in Larry’s open hand and turned and walked out of the diner. She went back to her room at the Inn, packed and boarded the next flight out of Wichita to Boston. When she made it home early the next morning, Gale called.

“Well- did you go? What do you think?”

“I, I didn’t go Gale, it just sounds a little too…”

“Let me guess, childish. I thought you might think that. Ah, well, it’s probably best you didn’t. I bet it would have been a big waste of time, the little man at the bar was probably a loon.”

“Yeah, he probably was Gale.”

Alicia hung up the phone and just looked at it for a while. A loon she thought, just a loon with a good story.

Empty House

When you go on vacation it's quite natural to feel out of your element. The double bed you're sleeping in is not only much smaller than the king size you have at home, but it also doesn't have the familiar body dips that you sink into every night. The bathroom is almost too clean. You don't even dare to put items in drawers because the layout is strange and you know that putting your hairbrush in a drawer most likely means leaving it behind.

The coffee smells good and tastes better because for once you didn't awaken, pad across the linoleum and make it yourself. The furniture is comfy and matches better than yours at home. Waking up at ungodly hours is OK too because you might actually see the sunrise.

Walking around the house, the cabin, or the inn is like visiting a museum. Paintings, pictures and antiques dress up the rooms and make the place feel warm and almost familiar. You always feel welcome. You always feel like you have stepped into open inviting arms.

The next best thing to that vacation, for many, is the return home. Opening the front door and seeing your mismatched sofa and arm chair, seeing your T.V. covered with dust and getting a big wiff of that familiar smell of home is a very settling experience. Dropping your bags you make your rounds around the house, room to room, just checking things out. The bed is there with the body dips, the bathroom shelf is waiting for the toothpaste and the chairs at the kitchen table are as you left them, sort of pushed in. Ah, home at last.

For many unpacking is the first thing to do. I never left types. The laundry is done immediately, coffee is brewing and your back at the computer checking email, reading the news. Home has welcomed you back after having missed you dearly.

Others drop their bags and plop down on the couch. I'll unpack tomorrow types. It's nice to be home, but it's back to the old routine and this thing called work. They often make the scrapbooks so that not a moment of splendid away time is forgotten.

I can probably think of millions of other types of people and coming home, but I can't think of many who go home and feel that it is empty.

I am that type. I look at my walls and they are bare, white. I need more pictures, art, anything to make this apartment feel less airy and more like a warm home I think to myself. Everything is just as I left it and that disappoints me too. I miss having a room full of people, well not people, my mom.

A week just doesn't fill me enough with laughter, fun and chit-chat. I need more time. I think about her at home after the boys and I have just left to head back home and imagine how empty her house feels now too.

It takes me distracting myself with chores to keep from calling my mom the second I get home. How I will miss talking everyday, do miss talking everyday. I'm back home. Back to once a week phone calls. Back to work. Oh, and back to my white walls.

Goodbye Scarecrow, I think I'm going to miss you most of all

Suffolk University on Cape Cod had a graduation dinner party last night for the 18 of us that finished this year. While the food was excellent, it was the company I will long remember. Who knows when we will, if we will, gather together again. All the grads stood up and gave speech's and thanked everyone and like most things of similar nature, someone will cry, I just didn't think it would be me. When my time came I couldn't begin to say what I wanted. I felt much like Dorothy leaving OZ. Tears overwhelmed me and I sat down before I thanked the people I wanted to the most.

Last night I had intended on thanking Jim Kershner for believing me and giving me the chance to stretch my editorial skills. Everyone around me is crediting me with 'saving the Mainsheet,' and all I can really say is that I did what anyone else would have done. I had poured so much of myself into that paper all year that I couldn't just see it come to an end, especially on the note it played last. So for two editions, I was the editor and it did feel really good.

I had so many courses with Jim and still don't know why I saved Journalism for last. I wish that I had gotten involved sooner so that I might really build a position at the Mainsheet. In the end, I still have that sense of accomplishment I am looking for and can't thank Jim enough for that.

I wanted to tell Tim Miller that his remarks on my papers were some of the ones I took to heart the most. As he writes professional opinions, I was always nervous to hand him my work. Would he like it, would he hate it? In the end I know that either one would be alright as long as it made enough of a splash to invoke some reaction. "All Killer and No Filler," I will remember that and carry it with me and hope to make him proud.

Alicia. God, she was more than my inspiration. I don't really know how to say what I want to about her. I don't think should I ever have another editor, that they would be as kind, insightful, encouraging or as talented as Alicia Blaisdell-Bannon. My very first class with her awoke the hungry writer inside me and convinced me that I had found my calling. She stopped me as I left my final that day and said to me, "Jen, keep writing." I pondered the nature of her comment for a while and all but convinced myself that I needed to really work on my writing because it was lacking big-time, but understand now that she believed in me and my words. I suppose that's how any writer feels when their craft is appreciated, but knowing that Alicia appreciates mine makes me feel a real sense of accomplishment. I hope one day to see something of mine published that would make her proud. Thank you Alicia, thank you.

As for my classmates, I believe that Doug said it best when he said he would take some of us with him always. That's exactly how I feel. I loved Suffolk, I loved our small classes and I will think back to the memories we created always.

Here's to the Suffolk University graduating class of 2009, with love

~Jen

From May 12, 2009- Snippets & Snapshots

As this is my final column for the Mainsheet, I leave you with a few things I have learned in college that can benefit us all. I know the A through Z method is old fashioned, but tried and true seems to fit here.

"Accuracy, Accuracy, Accuracy!" This word is fundamental in the journalism world but carries through virtually everywhere else as well. If you can't see its importance, see Professor James Kershner and he will clear it up for you. Bold is better. I have gotten by 'safely' with my writing before but in the end, bold produces "all killer and no filler." (Again for clarification, see Professor Tim Miller.) Cranky attitudes create cranky environments and can burn bridges fast. Deep breaths can flush out anger, animosity, and other icky things before they are released on the wrong people. (Take a minute to try that now.)

Empathy can not only make you a kinder person, but it can also open your eyes to real-world issues. Faculty members can be more than teachers. They can be colleagues, mentors and friends. Gain respect by giving respect. Haiku poetry can be a funny way to release thoughts that are troublesome.

"I need to find work,
A meaningful job will do,
Someone call me please."

Ignoring the problem will not make it go away. "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming"... (OK- that one I learned from "Finding Nemo.") Keep an eye on the road ahead but make time to enjoy the moments before because it all goes so fast. Learning isn't all about textbooks and courses; everyone around you has a story to tell and so much can be learned if you just listen.

Making money is a fine objective, but following a passion is often more rewarding. Never trying is the only true way to fail. Omitting information can be the same as lying. Persistence will help you overcome the most difficult of challenges. Question of the week in the Mainsheet is a fun way to get people talking. There is real value in stiking up conversation with people you don't know. (Try that one later.)

Remember that just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Strive for excellence and ask for help when you need it. Think first. How many of us spout off at the mouth again and again when a little insight first could save face later. Understanding the task is the key to completion and success. Valentine's day and like holidays are dreaded in the newspaper business; they are old, old, old. Try to bring a fresh idea to all that you do and keep an open mind. Whining, complaining and excuses don't help and are unpleasant for everyone. Xerography is a dry photocopying technique (in case you were wondering.)

Yale and Harvard are top-notch schools true, but the energy, passion and dedication put forth by the faculty and adjunct members of Cape Cod Community College make the education far superior here at CCCC. In our small community we can build life long connections beyond comparison. (See letter 'Q' for the importance of talking to people.)

Zygotes make up all of us regardless of our skin color, ethnicity or sexual orientation, so lending a line from "Bill and Ted," be excellent to each other.

From May 5, 2009- Snippets & Snapshots

Cinco De Mayo has been a time-honored tradition in my family ever since my father met my stepmother 15 years ago. Not one of us is Hispanic or Spanish or even speaks Spanish fluently. And yet Cinco De Mayo has come to mean barbeques, Coronas and horseshoes in the rain. On that day all who gather are family, and as we all sing in chorus style that "there's booze in the blender and soon it will render, that frozen concoction that helps us hang on," we really believe it's so.

Red, green and yellow chili pepper lights hang from the hearth of the fireplace, a smiling cactus holds dips on the kitchen table, and a dancing pepper sings Ole- Ole, Ole- Ole feeling hot, hot, hot. Family, friends, friends of friends mill around my parents house as if it were the Taj Mahal. We meet and greet familiar faces that we haven't seen in a year. Stories are shared, jokes are made and we laugh, boy do we laugh. Simple card games like Uno Attack turn into drinking games, flip-flops are lost in the shuffle and at least one person gets their photo snapped while they are in the Sombrero.

This year it seems as though our annual celebration of a holiday that in no way belongs to us, will not be happening. I am bummed beyond belief. Attendees that I anticipate year after year will not be declaring that "with all of our running and all of our cunning, if we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane," they won't be devouring Shawnie's tacos or be attempting to drink out of Dad's stein filled with holes.

I'm going to have to create my margarita solo ( with a splash of Bols Orange Curacao) and be una cabeza de loro alone this year (Spanish meaning; a parrot head).

As my family grows I realize how important having a special tradition is to me. I'm not talking Christmas or Thanksgiving; I'm speaking more so of the Country Music Festival that my best friend Amy and I go to every year or the flea market scavenger hunt. If I hand down anything special to my children, it's going to be a tradition unique to our family. (Sombreros will be optional, but horseshoes in the rain required.)

From April 28, 2009 -Snipets & Snapshots

I was snubbed at the park recently. Noah and I were sitting in the sand; sunshine on our backs and Lucas was spinning around in the swing with Steve giving him all the pushes he needed. A nice mom, 42, sat next to me and we awed and cooed over Noah and the puppy she had with her. We were having a great time laughing at our kids and just chitchatting away. Another mother, 30, sat with us. The best way I can think to describe her attitude toward me is icy. I might have well as been a phantom sitting there. As soon as she sat down she monopolized the conversation, babbling away about expensive fancy restaurants she apparently frequents all the time and blah-de- blah blah. My sympathetic new friend did her best to include me in the conversation she was now having with Ms. Designer Frame's sunglasses- to no avail I might add. With a smile on my face I ran down the mental checklist of what could possibly be keeping this woman from talking to me?

OK, first, maybe she noticed the temporary tattoo on Luke's arm. It was a swashbuckling pirate from Pirates of the Caribbean, I didn't feel it was in bad taste, but perhaps I was wrong? Second, I was in jeans and a tee shirt, not fancy, but we were at the playground in sand no less. I wore flats that dressed it up a little, but oh-that's right, I too have a tattoo, and no, it's not temporary. OK, so maybe she had an aversion to tattoos- well too bad. Third, I certainly wasn't wearing designer frames. Could all these little things really be enough to ignore me?

Apparently so.



And so the conversation continued to circle around her and her wonderful universe until the gods smiled down on me for being so patient. An opening. Marvelous! My chance had come to re-insert myself into the conversation, make a point and then craftily exit out unscathed while snubbing her back just enough to show her, her ugly side and boy was it showing.

All the restaurant dribble came to a pinnacle when she brought up a relatively new restaurant that I actually knew a thing or two about. And boy did it feel good to correct her inaccuracies. ZING. (Please don't think less of me, or frown upon me for this- but by God, does it feel good to smack someone so rude down.) The color semi-drained from her face, her mouth pinched together (silence at last) and behind her glasses I'm sure she was giving me the death stare as I corrected her, saving for last my credentials and where exactly I got my information. As she rebutted with "My friends work there," and so on, I waited. When she was quite finished, I gracefully stated my piece about the name change and how I had spoken to the owner himself. So there. Hardee-har-har.

Walking away victoriously felt great. But, oh shoot, did I show a little bit of my ugly there too? Ah- the snubbed becoming the snubber (not a real word, bear with me)- a lesson for another day perhaps.

Dreams...

It's been a few weeks now since I dreamt about my grandfather. The one year anniversary of his death is approaching and I can still hear him. I wonder how long that will be true.

We were never particularly close. I loved him of course, I just didn't understand him or even know him really. I am still learning who he was from stories I hear when I see my grandma.

They met in the military through a friend. I chuckle even now when I remember my grandma saying that she thought he was much too short for her. Eventually she did give in and go on a date with him. They were married for 48 years before he died.

He came from Michigan, he had a brother and a sister. He worked for GE for a long time and my grandma would sometimes bring him lunch.

He was sarcastic, lived by Murphy's law, went to church, read the bible and was my grandma's best friend. They called each other Pal.

He took me fishing. I think he always enjoyed fishing with my older brother a little better than me, but he took me anyway. He taught me how to shoot with a bow and arrow. My darts often missed the target and went flying in the woods, but he showed me again and again.

If I close my eyes long enough I can smell the warm, sweet-scent of his pipe, I can hear the way he exhaled through his nose, I can see the smoke rise from his puffs and swish away to oblivion in the ceiling fan blades. I can hear his voice just as distinct as if he were really speaking to me because the sound of his voice was grandpa and the way he said "Well, hi a there Jenny," was grandpa too.

He was a crafter. He made lots of things from wood. He made piggy banks out of wood, that look like real pigs and he carved Lucas' initials into the bottom of his piggy. He never had a chance to carve Noah's initials into his piggy and I am torn as whether to leave it be or to carve them in there as he would.

He was a gentleman. He always dropped my grandma at the door and then found a place to park. He had a singature smile that I knew well and a signature dance I'm told.

He could be tough and mean even, but he was grandpa. He let you know when he had, had enough by squeezing your knee. He had sayings, I am frustrated I can't remember them all.

I don't think I ever saw him wearing blue jeans. Even when he worked in the yard he had kahki pants on, but that was grandpa too.

I wonder what his youth was like. I have seen picutres of him when he was my age, he was handsome. He was exactely what I would picture a young man in the 40's and 50's era to look like.

He helped me build a pully once. I hated the assignment and didn't want to do it, but he helped me. He came to my high school graduation. I wonder what he would have looked like at my college graduation. How proud would he have been to see his only granddaughter complete her college education.

He never met my children. He was a great-grandpa and never met them. The last time he saw me, I was in my early teens. What would he think of this woman now?

He loved bull dogs. He made his own bread in R2D2, he named the bread maker. He fed the neighbors dog, Joe. He helped C.J. and me plant our very own trees in his backyard.

He loved baseball and took C.J. and me to a few games. We ate hotdogs. He liked trains and would build a track around the Christmas tree each year. He gave me a special box to put my teeth in for the tooth fairy when they would fall out.

I know these few memories don't do him justice. He was all these things and more. He would hide a piece of the puzzle and save it for last so that he could say he put the last piece in. I hope one day he will share a few more pieces with me so that I can know him more. Well, he is grandpa and I will always love him and hopefully his voice will never fully fade.

From April 21, 2009- Snippets & Snapshots

My kids get dirty. Downright filthy. I pride myself in that. In truth, I scoff at moms I see snatching out the handy-wipes or digging for a tissue because they see some jelly on the side of precious' face. There is nothing wrong with wanting little Michael to have a clean face before going out, but I draw the line when I see the cat-like licking of personal cleanliness products and the futile scrubbing across his little cheek.
What do I care if there's a little evidence that my child has explored, that he's climbed a tree, that I have let him live a little. Too many kids are being conditioned to use "indoor voices,"( what the hell is an indoor voice anyway), to use a Clorox wipe on their chair before snack time because little Tommy Too-Busy, doesn't wash up before snack and has just touched it. When does it stop?
I'm afraid my prejudices against commando moms have misled me in the area of "holistic health." I recently attended a chapter formation of a holistic health moms group and while I continue to give my child a little cough syrup instead of honey, I was surprised to find a variety of moms at this gathering.
They ranged from first time moms to moms at their second maybe third time around. Moms that didn't believe their children should be vaccinated to moms that were just simply looking for alternatives. A few fathers were even in attendance.
While for the majority of the evening I was able to maintain my skepticism about much of the holistic belief, I realize there are deeper rewards to be earned here. As a young mother myself, I can't think of anything more beneficial then to be able to gather around like-minded moms. We can watch our children play together, giggle and relate about what little Tommy and Billy are up to. Maybe we might all read the same book and discuss it and perhaps it might leave us so weepy that we share our tissues and my silly taboo feelings about sharing wipes might be forgotten for just a moment.

From April 14, 2009- Snippets & Snapshots

A recent trip to the beach reminded me of the truth behind J.R.R. Tolkien's assessment that "Not all who wander are lost." Luke was standing at the edge of the sand where the waves break and recede back to the sea. Watching him watch the ocean that way, with love, joy, curiosity and hope, I couldn't help but wonder what was really on his mind. Where do his thoughts lead him in those little moments, to a place where trees are lollipops and the road red licorice with gummy bear friends high-fiving him along the way? Watching him that way caused me to drift off too.
Am I just wandering lost? What the hell am I doing and am I doing it right? The end of the semester draws near bringing with it my final days as a student and the inevitable struggle to find a job. Yes, I am afraid. I have been struggling for six years to reach this point and now that it's here, the hardest is yet to come.
I long for future days when I can say, "Look at me. I made it." I know it can't be that far off, but looking out across the vast sea, never actually seeing the place where sky meets land, leaves me uneasy. These thoughts are just for today. I don't always "space out" and think about the future in all of its uncertainty. I just wish there were more days when I saw myself in an old Victorian home, in an office filled with paper flowers, glass orbs hanging from the ceiling, bookshelves lined with books (some that I have written perhaps), photos of adventures I had been on and a black cat curled up in a plush arm chair facing the morning sun.
Looking at Luke staring at the sea, knowing that he might be imagining sweets for breakfast or a long ride in a fire truck, I hope he can always wonder, dream and create, knowing ultimately, that it's OK to wander while we wonder on our way.

From April 7, 2009- Snippets & Snapshots

I am Mother Earth and I promote good feeling. Or at least Lucas and Noah think so. On days that I feel powerless or like everything that can go wrong will (no need for 'I told you so' Murphy), I think about how to them, I am super woman of sorts and feel a whole lot better. If only I could actually control all the elements, always be on top of my game and have total power. No more stress about tests and no more utter exhaustion at the end of the day. Who needs to see through walls or fly in the sky, with the good vibrations running through, one would always be content.
Lucas thinks my first power is the power of the elements. Take a rainy day for example, if he wants sun he doesn't think about tomorrow, he turns to mommy and says, "Sun mommy." As if at that simple request I could snap my fingers and shoo away clouds 'til there's sun. If the planet were left up to him, there would be no rain, no wind, no way. No need to rub the magic lamp, just ask mommy.
Noah on the other hand gives me the power of good feeling. He is full out crawling now and is pulling up to his feet on furniture. OK parents, this is when the real baby proofing comes in to play. He's on his tiptoes, he's swiping at the cat on the couch and then he's down. BOOM. Tears well up in his eyes and he lays flat on his back and cries for mama. Picking him up in my arms, the tears cease, the smile breaks across his face and the he is squirming to get down and do it again. Somewhere in my arms surges the good vibrations of comfort and in my face, a morning sunrise, an ice cream cone or (a warm bubba full of milk)~ at least that makes my baby happy.
Thinking about all the times I feel powerless it's nice to know that to my sons at least, I can do anything.

From March 31, 2009- Snippets & Snapshots

Early on Thursday morning, Lucas had his clear backpack filled with Matchbox cars strapped on, a Matchbox car carrying case filled in one hand and a tackle box, also filled with Matchbox cars in the other. An image of Fred Flintstone heading off to the rock quarry conjured in my mind as he paced around the living room, Noah crawling as fast as he could behind him. "No, Noah, my cars," Lucas saying all the way, as if he couldn't share even one with his baby brother.
I tried fruitlessly to count his collection of cars once. They seem to always be turning up. One under the couch, one in the car (the real one), I even found one in my dresser- I'm still not sure how the Camero got there. Picking the cars up after he's tucked in bed sometimes, cursing in the darkness as I step on them, I think back to my childhood collections. One in particular jumped to mind as Earth day approaches- my beloved bottle caps.
My father belonged to a Rod and Gun club when I was little and would occasionally bring my brother C.J. and me to meetings. We did our best to stay entertained but there are only so many things you can do while your dad is talking about guns or fishing or looking at whatevers and whosey-whatsits. C.J. and I took to picking up bottle caps that were lying around fence areas. Pockets stuffed with as many different caps as we could find and with dirt embedded fingernails we would return home with our collection. I liked all the different pictures and logos on the caps, I'm not sure what the appeal for my brother was and I know my father didn't appreciate them lying around.
Bottle caps shortly made their way from my heart to the trash.
If I still had them I'd probably turn them into some sort of funky craft project, a picture frame or maybe a mobile for Noah (I think some parents might make a stink about beer caps hanging over a sleeping baby though.) Or maybe I would sell them on EBay because maybe someone else loves my recycled treasures too.
Remember Earth day is this month. Whether you find yourself scooping up rocks for a collection, picking pennies up for luck, or just find yourself being a good "do bee" by throwing away litter, remember that Earth is our greatest treasure.