Let Your Voice Be Heard on School Needs

What good is a beautiful new home if it stands empty? What use is a shiny new car if it lacks the gas to make it run? What good is a boat if there is no rudder to steer it?

What’s the point of a brand new high school if it lacks the staff to run it properly?

This is the question many Hanoverians are asking themselves as our town faces a round of serious budget cuts that will impact our brand new, state-of-the-art high school, as well as our middle and elementary schools.

As a parent of school-aged children, the proposed budget cuts disturb me greatly.  For example, reading specialists will be reduced at the elementary schools. While reading comes easily to some children, what about the ones that struggle? Without reading specialists, how many children might continually wrestle with comprehension issues for the rest of their school career? How many will never enjoy spending an afternoon with Harry Potter or Percy Jackson or Katniss Everdeen?  How many will suffer as adults?

At the middle school level, how will 7^th and 8^th graders make do with only one Social Studies teacher for each grade? Will this produce a generation of children who will continue on to high school without the basic understanding of our ancestry?  I’m always amazed by the wealth of knowledge my 8^th grader demonstrates when questioned about early civilizations. Will the next group of middle schoolers have to rely on the Internet, The History Channel and their own initiative to learn about the origin of mankind?

At the high school level, there will be one less Spanish teacher, one less Engineering teacher and a reduction of “. 8 Chemistry Teacher”. It’s curious, how humans are being reduced in increments. I recently attended a meeting for parents during which the superintendent discussed the proposed cuts. I found it hard to follow when phrases such as “.2 of a Music Teacher” and “.4 of an Athletic Director” were thrown out.  My seatmate helpfully explained that the numbers refer to hours worked.  Maybe it’s easier to think in terms of hours and increments rather than a person’s livelihood.

These examples are just a few of the proposed cuts for our schools. Losing additional teachers, administrators and other personnel will increase the workload for the staff that remains and jeopardize the quality of our children’s education.  While listening to the superintendent speak about lack of state and government funding, I realized just how little I know about how our school system is funded.  The idea of trying to prevent these cuts in our current economy is daunting.

Daunting…but not impossible. I remember several years ago when the idea of a brand new high school seemed remote. And yet today our new high school stands proudly, the first of many generations already enjoying its benefits.   Who brought that dream to fruition? A group of concerned citizens founded HHSYes and managed to convince enough people to make the dream of a new high school a reality. There is concrete proof of what our town is capable of standing smack in the middle of Cedar Street. If we can do that, can’t we find a way to insure that our schools are able to retain the staff needed to provide the quality education our children deserve?

Just before Christmas I received an email request to join a letter campaign.  The sender included a letter that outlined the budget cuts, expressed concern and asked that school committee members harness the voice of Hanover parents and children when presenting their budget to the Advisory Board.  I dutifully forwarded the letter to each school committee member and received a reply from three.  One member thanked me for the email and said that she had only received five such emails thus far.  She also reminded me that, “…parents do not have to rely upon the School Committee to "harness" their voice when advocating for the students and schools. While that is our job and we are happy to do it, I urge you to bring your own voice and, most importantly, your own experiences, to the table to be heard. Public comment, letters to the editor, letters to town officials (such as myself), and your presence at meetings speak volumes.” Well said, indeed. Yesterday I discovered a new organization on Facebook entitled Hanover Students First, which “...represents the concerned citizens of Hanover who are raising awareness and advocating for solutions to prioritize the needs of students amidst the financial crisis the town is facing.” As with HHSYes, I’m hoping this group will become a valuable resource for educating and informing our citizens as to the options and obstacles we face as we move forward.

The school committee had planned to present their budget to the advisory board on Jan. 9^th, but that meeting is being re-scheduled to a later date in order to give the committee more time to go over specific concerns. In the coming weeks it is important for all of us to make our thoughts and opinions known to the school committee, the town advisory board, state representatives, the press and anyone else who is in a position to affect positive change. If we assume that “someone else” will take care of this problem, we may very well find ourselves in a hole out of which we are unable to climb.

Raise your voice. Make some noise. Let yourself be heard. Affect change. I honestly believe that we can do this if we all work together.

Join me?

Resolution Time Again!

As we bid adieu to 2011 and gear up for 2012, it’s time to get out your pad and pencil and start writing your list of New Year’s resolutions.

I started asking friends about their intended resolutions. One friend declared she would to try to stop swearing in 2012. When I mentioned this to someone else, their immediate reply was, “Why the *bleep* would she do that?” 

Other friends listed the usual resolutions: lose weight, exercise more, save money.

Those are all on my list as well, as they are each year, but I’m wondering whether I’ll have any more success in 2012 than I did in years past. I’d like to think that this is the year I’ll work out daily, lose a bunch of weight, get into the greatest shape of my life and save enough for my family to finally take that trip to the West Coast. In all likelihood, by February I’ll still be an overweight couch potato that spends more than my husband makes.

Maybe I need to lower the bar a bit and make resolutions that are actually achievable. Starting with…

Reality television. This year I’ll limit the number of reality shows that I watch in any given week.  I can’t drop “Survivor” since my kids and I watch it together (nothing like a little family time to enjoy back stabbing and blind siding), but I could give up one of the “Real Housewives” franchises that are so bad they’re good.  Do I stick with New Jersey, home of my birth, or Beverly Hills? The train wreck known as “Dance Moms” begins in January, so perhaps I should ditch the Housewives altogether and direct my reality time to mothers behaving badly.

Then there’s the Internet. I spend way too much time checking Facebook and email, and even more time surfing sites like “Crap at my Parent’s House” and “Awkward Family Photos”. Recently a friend introduced me to “Regretsy”, a site that reposts and comments on real craft items for sale on the popular site “Etsy.  Forget handmade hats and jewelry; Regretsy sheds light on the dark underbelly of crafters complete with uterus-shaped piñatas and necklaces made from “human ivory” (also known as finger and toenail clippings). Since discovering this site I’ve wasted countless hours chortling with glee over the very worst that these artisans have to offer. Probably best to put a block on that site and replace it with time on Linked In looking for more writing gigs. 

Another vice I should curb is overspending at the grocery store. Most responsible adults plan their meals at the beginning of the week and do one major grocery run.  On any given day I may not know until late afternoon what I’ll serve my family for dinner.  This means that I’m a frequent flier at Shaw’s, Stop & Shop and most of all Trader Joes.  The latter is one of the worst places to visit frequently in that there is always something new and wonderful to try and buy. I’ll run in for one or two things only to find myself with a cart full of impulse purchases by the time I reach checkout.  Not good for my wallet or my waistline.  In 2012 I vow to make a list, hit the store once a week and skip the chocolate covered almonds with sea salt and the deep fried mac and cheese puffs.

Each year I tell my husband that my resolution is to be more tolerant and less judgmental and each year I end up just the opposite.  This year I’ll try a different approach: I won’t make that resolution.  If that bothers you then clearly there’s something wrong with you and I have no time for you.

I think I can work with this list.  Of course, if the Mayans are correct, we have only one year left on the planet.  If that’s the case, perhaps I’d be better off cramming in as much reality television, internet junk and gourmet food as possible before December 21, 2012.

Care to join me?

I’ll try not to judge you if you don’t.

Do You Believe in Angels?

Do you believe in angels?

This time of year, angels are everywhere: on Christmas trees, overlooking nativity scenes, in store displays. A most beloved holiday film, “It’s a Wonderful Life” tells the story of Clarence, a bumbling “angel second class” who earns his wings by showing a despondent George Bailey what life would be like had he never been born. By the end of the film, George appreciates his life and a tinkling bell ornament on the Christmas tree indicates that Clarence has earned his wings.

Do we all have a Clarence in our lives, hovering unseen and helping us navigate the turbulent waters of life? 

Have you ever had a narrow miss? Perhaps you were delayed in leaving the house for one reason or another, causing you to miss a horrific traffic accident that occurred just seconds ahead of you. Coincidence? Or angel?

A friend relayed the story of a family who let their kids stay up late watching television on a stormy night. These were kids who always went to bed on time, but for some reason the parents let them stay up late to watch a movie just this once. The kids were in the television room instead of their bedroom when a tree fell on the house, crushing their beds. Coincidence? Or angel?

Some might wonder where the angels were when the tsunami hit Japan or the earthquake shattered villages in Haiti and Chile. I have no answer for that except to look at the instance of an infant found alive and unharmed under tons of rubble. I do believe that it was an angel that stopped my son’s bus in Springfield last June, allowing a deadly tornado to pass just yards ahead of him, keeping him and his classmates safe from harm.

If people believe in ghosts and demons, as evidenced by countless television programs and films like “Ghost Hunters” and “The Last Exorcism”, then doesn’t it stand to reason that angels are real too? What does it take for us to believe that there are benevolent forces at work in our lives helping to facilitate whatever plans God has in store for us? Do we need Gabriel to visit us in a blinding white robe as he did with the Virgin Mary? Do we require an angel to allay our fears, as the angel did with the shepherds over two thousand years ago when he brought his “good news of a great joy”? Or can we look at all the events, both tiny and large, that happen in our lives and take it on faith that an ethereal presence is helping them occur?

A friend reminded me yesterday about the last words of Steve Jobs. This was a man whose heart and soul were based in technology: hardware, software, bits, bytes and ‘bots.  And yet, as he lay dying in his bed, staring into space, his last words indicate that something significant captured his attention: “Oh wow…oh wow…oh wow…”

What could garner that kind of reaction from a man who spent his life making a dent in the universe with earth-bound technology?

I choose to believe it was an angel.

Tis the Season for Stress for No Reason

Well, here we are in the holiday season. Are you enjoying your new part time job?

My friend Julianne, who is a health and fitness coach, jokes with her clients that the holiday season is like taking on a part time job. When you stop to think about it, it’s true. In addition to the job you do all year long, whether it be in an office, on the road or at home, you add the equivalent hours of a part time job once the holidays roll around.

From mid-November through the end of the year feel free to add personal shopper, interior decorator, chef, cookie maker, chauffer, wrapper (not the bling bling kind), party host, music critic, mind reader and mediator to your resume. These are the valuable skills you’ll need to survive all the holiday parties, gift exchanges, seasonal concerts and a zillion other commitments before January 1st.

Some people, however, thrive under pressure. They love a challenge and look for any and all ways to add to their already crowded schedule this time of year. So for those of you who just can’t get enough stress, here are a few sure-fire ways to raise your blood pressure during the holidays.

-Host or attend a cookie swap. Yes, we all love fresh holiday cookies this time of year, and what better way to enjoy a variety of them than by attending a cookie swap? It sounds like such a good idea until you remember that you have to actually bake several dozen cookies to bring to the swap. Forget about buying cookies and passing them off as your own. Seasoned swappers can sniff out a store bought cookie before they cross the threshold. So when you’re baking those forty-dozen cookies for friends, family, co-workers, church members and teachers, remember to churn out an extra six or seven dozen to swap. What are a few hundred cookies in the grand scheme of things?

-Participate in an online recipe exchange. We all love to share new recipes around the holidays, don’t we? Isn’t Christmas the best time to jump on board an electronic chain letter? A friend sent me the email the other day, asking me to send one simple recipe to the name at the bottom of the list, add my name and then send it to 20 of my friends within 5 days. My favorite line was “Seldom does anyone drop out because we all need new recipes”. I replied to her immediately, thanking her for thinking of me, then continued, “If you ever again ask me to participate in a recipe exchange during the holiday season, I will beat you with a candy cane. Merry Christmas.” She replied that she understood and admitted that the recipes she had received so far were for a horrible clam dish, Ambrosia, and a sodium-loaded recipe for chuck roast smeared in onion soup mix and cream of mushroom soup. Find me in February when I have nothing else to do and I’ll be happy to send you something better than Ambrosia.

-Four little words: Elf-on-the-Shelf…’nuff said.

-Send yourself into a tizzy wondering what to get your child’s teachers. And their therapists. Their coaches. Their bus drivers. Your mailman. Your garbage man. Your paperboy, cleaning woman, babysitter, dog-walker, lawn-care professional, Tae Kwon Do instructor and hairdresser. We have the British to thank for this “Boxing Day” tradition of gifting all our service personnel. Thanks Great Britain, we’ll send you the bill come January.

-And speaking of gifts…in addition to all the holiday gift shopping you’re doing, offer to do the shopping for your siblings, your parents and your in-laws. My relatives all live out of town. My sisters work full time, my parents are older and my in-laws are retired but still very busy. Plus I know what my kids want, so it makes sense for me to purchase all the gifts my family is giving to my children…and organizing them…and wrapping them…and carting them to my in-laws…and I think I need my head examined. And a drink.

And speaking of drinks…host a party. Any party. It doesn’t matter when you host it in December, you will be competing with a thousand other holiday parties and you may end up with five guests or fifty. Your home must be clean and decorated to look like a mash up of “Everyday with Rachel Ray” and “Martha Stewart Living”. Don’t buy your decorations, that’s cheating. You must decoupage every ornament by hand and weave your own napkins from wool gathered from the sheep raised in your back yard. Don’t forget to hand hammer your own paper for Christmas cards while you’re at it.

If you’ve tried all these things and still crave a challenge this holiday season, I have one more suggestion for you: Come over to my house, wrap all my presents, address all my holiday cards, hang my Christmas lights and bake a few thousand cookies for me.

Consider it my Christmas gift to you.

Holiday Tunes Can Have Some Pretty Puzzling Lyrics

The holiday season is officially underway. Some will argue it began when stores put up their Christmas displays before Halloween but as far as I’m concerned, the official start is December 1. And what better way to catch the holiday spirit than by immersing yourself in the music of the season. Whether running errands, driving kids to activities or shopping for presents, I enjoy keeping the radio tuned to those stations that feature the “sounds of the season” to put me in the holiday mood.

However, I can’t help but notice that when you listen to the same holiday tunes over and over, you start to really pay attention to the lyrics and wonder just what these songwriters were thinking when they composed these Christmas “classics”. Let’s start with “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”. This song, dating back to 16th century England, is all well and good in wishing the recipient a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. The singers even bring “good tidings to you and your kin”. It’s not till the second verse where things get weird. “Oh bring us some figgy pudding…” So apparently the good tidings come at a price and that price is a concoction of figs, butter, sugar, eggs milk, apple, rum, lemon and orange peel, nuts, cinnamon, cloves and ginger. Don’t come to my house demanding this dish because I don’t stock half of those ingredients in my pantry. The third verse is truly ominous: “We won’t leave until we get some.” Presumably by this point you’ve innocently let these well-wishers into your home only to be held hostage until the aforementioned figgy pudding is produced. My advice when you see these carolers coming? Lock the door and shut off the lights.

Moving on to “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. If my true love started things off by giving me a pear tree which a partridge in residence I’d probably think he was overestimating my gardening skills. And what makes him think I’m ready to take on a pet? Does it live in the tree permanently or do I have to buy a cage for it and bring it in the house? This gift is then followed by two Turtle Doves, three French hens and four calling (or “colly”) birds. Okay, we’re four days into this thing and I’ve accumulated ten birds I need to keep alive? When the five golden rings show up, it appears this relationship is back on track. Perhaps if I sell four of the five rings, I can get enough cash to buy birdseed. But just then my true love, who is starting to seem like “Mr. Wrong”, produces six geese-a-laying and seven swans a-swimming. We’re up to 23 birds and suddenly my house is an aviary. At this point my idiot boyfriend (no longer my “true love”) thinks it’s a great idea to bring eight maids and nine ladies into the relationship. I don’t care if they’re a-milking or dancing, this has suddenly become an episode of “Big Love”. By the end of the 12 days, it’s a safe bet I’ll kick my true love to the curb and run off with one of the twelve drummers. Because everyone knows that drummers get all the chicks.

“Winter Wonderland” sounds innocent enough, till you get to the verse, “In the meadow we can build a snowman…and pretend that he is Parson Brown…” Ahem. If you think getting married by a snowman is legally binding in any state, think again. I can guarantee that anyone who believes Frosty’s ability to validate a marriage can expect an IRS audit when filing jointly the following April. And forget about bringing Mr. Snowman in for the audit, because in the next verse the kiddies knock him down.

Does anyone else think it’s creepy that some kid saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus? It’s a bit weird, especially when he says, “I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus, underneath his beard so snowy white…” Um…gross? The kid then goes on to say “What a laugh it would have been if Daddy had only seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.” I’m thinking Daddy might have been indicted for manslaughter if he caught his wife tickling some old fat guy under his beard, though a good lawyer could get it reduced to a lesser charge.

By Christmas Eve I’m so ready for the true carols that celebrate Christ’s birth: “O Holy Night”, “Joy to the World”, “Silent Night” and the like. There’s nothing I love more than celebrating that night with those reverent, holy classics. But that’s a few weeks off, so in the meantime I’ll enjoy my new favorite holiday song: “Candlelight” by the Jewish a cappella group, the Maccabeats. This song not only tells the tale of the Maccabees warding off the Greeks, it celebrates many of the traditions of Chanukah, all to the tune of the popular song “Dynamite”. The chorus is my favorite: “I flip my latkes in the air sometimes saying ayy-ohh, spin the dreidel…
Just wanna celebrate for all eight nights singing ayy-oh, light the candles.”

Beats the heck out of figgy pudding.

Power to Forgive is a Story Worth Telling

The concept of forgiveness keeps cropping up in my life.

My church, as part of its annual stewardship campaign, sent cards to each of its members with a different word and bible verse attached. My word was forgiveness. A week later a leader at my bible study delivered a message, again about forgiveness. The following weekend my son’s church school class learned about Joseph and his reunion with his brothers during the Egyptian famine.

 Once again, the message was forgiveness.

I’m not sure why this topic seems to keep reoccurring. Is someone trying to get my attention? I’m not at odds with anyone, at least not to my knowledge. Is it possible that there’s someone I should forgive or ask forgiveness from?

While channel surfing one night I came upon a movie entitled “Bond of Silence”. The film was based on the true story of Katy Hutchison, who lost her husband Bob to a sudden, tragic act of teenage violence. I discovered that her book, “Walking After Midnight” was available through our library and within days I had finished reading her story: happily married with four-year old twins, Katy and Bob were celebrating New Year’s Eve with friends when one mentioned that a neighbor’s son was throwing a New Year’s Eve party while his parents were out of the country. When repeated phone calls to the house failed to locate the host, Bob and two friends went over to make sure things were all right. What they found were more than 200 teenage partygoers, many of them intoxicated. As Bob tried to reason with the kids, one of them dropped him to the ground with a punch at which point another kicked him in the head. He died as a result.

It’s hard to read a book like that without thinking “What would I do?” How would I tell my kids their father is never coming home? How could I not want to find the person responsible and tear them apart with my bare hands? How would ever be able to pick up the pieces of my life? I was awed by Katy’s promise to her daughter that someday a gift would come out of this terrible tragedy. That gift is “The Story of Bob”, a presentation that Katy Hutchison has made to over 450,000 students. Katy uses her experience to educate teenagers about the dangers of alcohol, drugs, peer pressure and other misguided choices often made during these crucial years.

Another key component of her message: forgiveness. When Ryan Aldridge was arrested for Bob’s murder, four years after the event, Katy’s first impulse wasn’t vengeance. It was understanding. She asked to sit down with him, so he might know how his actions impacted her family but also to understand what brought him to such a violent act. Following his confession and guilty plea, Ryan and Katy met on several occasions throughout his five-year prison term. Though she was firm in her belief that he be punished for his crime, Katy also believed that Ryan should be given every available opportunity to redeem himself and go on to live a purposeful life. Upon his release, Ryan even accompanied Katy on her tour of schools, helping to spread “The Story of Bob”.

The day after I finished the book, I checked Katy Hutchison’s website to see if she ever travels to New England from her home in British Columbia. To my surprise, she was scheduled to speak at North Quincy High just two days later. Coincidence? After emailing with Katy, I obtained permission from the high school to sit in on the presentation. On the day of the event, I sat surrounded by mesmerized teenagers as Katy listed all the happy milestones of her husband’s life, a life cut short by a tragic mistake made under the influence of alcohol at an unsupervised party. You could have heard a pin drop as Katy spoke passionately about her experience, wanting to share her story to help other teens avoid the same fate as Ryan. The presentation ended with a photo of Katy and Ryan side by side, two individuals from opposite sides of the same tragic event, united to prevent others from making such a deadly mistake.

 Katy and I spoke for several minutes after the lecture and I knew then that I would take whatever steps needed to bring her important message to the teenagers in my own town. Perhaps all those times that forgiveness cropped up in my life were preparing me to receive Katy’s message and to help spread it to others. Forgiveness is a gift, whether it be given or received.

As we enter this season of giving, I’m thankful to be reminded that the gift of forgiveness is one of the greatest gifts of all.

Thanks...but no thanks!

Thanksgiving is nearly here, a time when we reflect on the bountiful blessings we’ve received and give thanks for them. Ordinarily I would write a column listing all the things for which I am thankful. But “been there, done that”, and if there is something I strive not to do in this column, it’s repeat myself.

Instead, I think I’ll share all the things I could do without. I’m sure the Pilgrims had similar sentiments when they sat down to their Thanksgiving feast with their brethren and their new Wampanoag friends. They bowed their heads and gave thanks for their harvest, but silently they were thinking, “Lord, thank you for these new friends and all this food, but we could really do without smallpox and bitterly cold winters and chamber pots and that jerk King James back home. Amen.”

So in the spirit of those Pilgrims…

I can do without people who don’t know what to do at a four-way stop intersection. According to the driver’s manual “At a four-way stop, vehicles must go in the order they stopped. The first to stop is the next to go. If in doubt, give the right-of-way to the driver on your right.” There you go. Learn it. Live it.

I can do without middle schoolers wearing Lululemon yoga pants and Coach sneakers and carrying Vera Bradley handbags. When did twelve-year-old girls start dressing like 35-year-old women?

I can do without a perky computer-voice named Cheryl leaving messages on my answering machine asking me to call immediately to lower my credit card interest rate. Cheryl, you are not fooling anyone. You are a machine taking part in a scam to prompt citizens to divulge personal information to complete strangers. Shame on you Cheryl.

I can do without Christmas music on the radio 24/7 long before anyone sits down to carve their Thanksgiving turkey. It’s bad enough we’ll hear “Dominick The Christmas Donkey” hundreds of times as it is. Do we really need an additional three weeks of “Hee-haw, hee-haw”? Let’s take our holidays one at a time, shall we? Respect the bird, folks.

I can do without cryptic Facebook postings that are designed to tantalize the reader without giving any details at all. Postings like “I can’t stop scratching” or “I hate mean people” tell me nothing. Spill it our keep it to yourself.

I can do without advertisements for the CD “Now That’s What I Call Music 40!” We’re up to 40 now? Isn’t it time to change the name? The first CD, released in 1998, featured “Mmmbop” by Hanson. At this rate we’ll be listening to “Now That’s What I Call Music 99” in 2027. Way to brand, guys. Kris Jenner could take a lesson from you.

I could really do without store clerks wishing me a “happy holiday” next month when what I’m really looking for is a “Merry Christmas”. Heck, I’d even take a “Happy Chanukah” or a “Peaceful Kwanza”. I know many of these clerks are forced to utter the safe “happy holidays” by their employers. Psst, big box stores. In case you haven’t noticed, you are swathed in Christmas lights and menorahs. It’s okay to acknowledge the actual holidays that are filling your pockets.

And speaking of Christmas, I could do without the Christmas letters that will arrive any day. Rather than wasting time listing all of your family’s individual accomplishments, just sign your holiday card, “We’re better than you” and be done with it.

Several weeks ago I posted a message on Facebook asking people to write what they were thankful for. I received two responses. Today, I asked people what they could do without, and I received forty-two responses. Clearly I am not alone in my anti-thankful sentiments. So in addition to my list, add the following things my friends could do without: multiple holiday catalogs, school projects that cost $20 for materials only to be tossed in the trash, illness, ex-husbands who think that attending one of their child’s sporting events makes them Father of the Year, holiday-induced guilt from family members (“you don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t visit…”), professional basketball (wish granted!), crazy drivers, the word “proactive”, stress, the MCAS, internet passwords and Black Friday. Whew!

Of course, for every annoyance there is a blessing. So when I sit down to my Thanksgiving table this year, surrounded by family, wearing my L.L. Bean sweater and listening to “Now That’s What I Call Christmas 17”, I will give thanks for all the blessings in my life including one I absolutely cannot do without. My readers.

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Simple Stick can Strengthen Roots

I’d like to tell you a story. It’s the story of a stick.

The stick began its journey as a branch. This branch served many purposes. In summer, its green leaves provided shade on hot days. In fall, its leaves turned brilliant hues of red and orange, contributing to a kaleidoscope of colors in the yard. In winter, the branch would bend and sway in the wind, sometimes carrying heavy loads of snow and ice during storms. Perhaps it was one of these storms that caused the branch to finally break and come to rest on the ground.

In the spring, a time of rebirth, the stick was collected and placed on a pile of branches and twigs that had suffered a similar fate. As the air began to warm, other boughs high above sprouted new green buds, but the stick remained in the pile of dried brush waiting for the next stage of its life.

Months later, a boy approached the brush pile. After careful consideration, the boy selected the stick, hefted it in his hands, and brought it across the yard to his back porch. Measuring the stick against his own height, the boy broke off a length until the stick was just tall enough to reach his chin. Under the watchful eye of his parents, the boy took out his pocketknife and began to carefully strip away the bark.

The boy had been given the task to create a walking stick as part of his Cub Scout badge. It was a requirement. This was a boy who preferred to stay inside and play videogames, but something made him to forgo the game controller and instead spend time outside, carefully preparing his stick. When all of the bark was finally stripped off, the boy and his father began the process of sanding the stick.

The boy spent hours rubbing the stick with different grades of sandpaper. The father helped the boy smooth down the sharp knots along the stick with a small hand sander. After hours of work, the boy could finally run his hands along the length of the stick and feel nothing but smoothness.

The father and the boy then brushed the stick with several coats of stain, giving it a warm, honey-colored hue. Weeks later, the boy brought his walking stick to a scout gathering at a local state park. The stick shone like gold in the late afternoon sun, while other boys admired it for its sturdiness and craftsmanship. As the boy walked through the woods, the stick bore his weight easily, supporting and steadying him on his trek across the uneven forest floor. The father walked beside the boy, fondly remembering the hours spent crafting the walking stick.

That boy is my son, his father my husband. The stick now resides in a corner of my living room, amongst other walking sticks, some carved decades ago by my son’s great-grandfather. My son’s walking stick adds a rich, golden glow to the collection, waiting patiently for the next hike, the next campout, and the next adventure.

The stick that began its journey as a branch on a tree has now become part of my son’s family tree. Perhaps one day it will sit in the corner of his home, and he will share with his own children the story of how a simple branch became a symbol of a father and son’s love.

Keeping Up With The Krassness

This past summer millions of Americans sat raptly before their television sets and watched the Royal Wedding of Britain’s Prince William and Sarah Middleton. Not long after, America had its own “royal” wedding of sorts: The wedding of reality television star Kim Kardashian and pro-basketball player Kris Humphries. Though the wedding took place on August 20, the television special “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding: A Kardashian Event” aired on the E! Network on October 9 & 10. 4 million viewers tuned in to watch a fairytale wedding which had a decidedly “Grimm” ending. 72 days after the nuptials took place, Kim Kardashian filed for divorce. Her husband discovered this fact by way of the gossip site TMZ. The Brits have their royals and we have our royal pains in the butt.

In the annals of celebrity weddings, 72 days is nothing to sneeze at. Cher and husband Greg Allman were married all of 9 days the same amount of wedded bliss as Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra. Back in 1970 Dennis Hopper and Michelle Phillips made it only 8 days. Britney Spears and her childhood friend, Jason Alexander, were married for all of 55 hours (ahhh, Vegas…) And for those of you who are old school(or just old, like me) Ernest Borgnine spent less than a month married to Ethel Merman. In each instance, many us smiled and shook our heads and chalked it up to immature celebrities and their impulsive actions. Is Kim Kardashian any different with her 72 day marriage?

The answer is “yes”! While these other celebrities may have made mistakes choosing their mates (Nicolas Cage and Lisa Marie Presley? Lisa Marie Presley and Michael Jackson?) they made these errors off camera. The Kardashians have their own network broadcasting their every move around the clock. Somehow the E! Network became the Kardashian Channel, snowballing the success of “Keeping up with the Kardashians” by adding “Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami”, Kourtney and Kim Take New York” and “Khloe and Lamar.” (I guess Khloe decided to settle down after running out of cities to take.) I’m sure another show featuring younger sisters Kylie and Kendall are in the works. The entire network is like “The Truman Show” following one spoiled, overexposed Beverly Hills family.

When Kim said “yes” to Kris, was it because she truly loved him? Because he spells his name with a cutesy “k” like the rest of her family? Because she knew that E!’s ratings would skyrocket and advertising dollars would go through the roof? Or was it the modest, intimate proposal from Kris, conveniently timed to coincide with the season finale of “Keeping up with the Kardashians” that won her heart? That and the 20.5 carat diamond ring?

I purposely opted out of any wedding coverage, but several friends couldn’t wait to take in every detail of the fairytale event: The Vera Wang wedding gown, the $20,000 wedding cake, the $172,000 bridal registry that included a $7,000 vase and $1,600 silver place settings. By contrast Prince William and his bride asked that charitable donations be made in lieu of gifts for their wedding. Those Brits are classy, while our Kardashians are just…”krass”.

Is anyone surprised by this recent turn of events? Will it spawn yet another E! reality show? “Kris and Kim take Divorce Court”? “Keeping up with the Prenup?” Perhaps they can branch out to Lifetime Television for Women with a movie entitled “I Married a Stranger” or “72 days in Kardashian Hell”. It seems more than a little coincidental that Kim filed for divorce on Oct. 31, the day before the November television sweeps period begins. E! already had plans to repeat the two part wedding program on Nov. 2nd and 3rd, but when the divorce announcement was made, moved up the first part to Oct. 31, with part two to follow the next day. Not wanting to appear insensitive to the devastated couple, E! decided to move part 2 back to Thursday night. How thoughtful.

I feel a bit sorry for Humphries who got sucked into the Kardashian machine and was “krushed” in the process. Though Kim’s mother asserts that her daughter didn’t make “a dime” from the wedding, I suspect there might be untold millions made from photographs, interviews, and of course the subsequent airings of “Kim’s Fairytale Wedding”. I have to ask myself, what kind of world do we live in where so much media coverage is devoted to such an insignificant event?

A krazy one.

Let's hear it for the Girls!

Never underestimate “girl time”.

My life is divided into many compartments, each which demands its own amount of time in any given 24-hour period. There’s “family time, which typically comes first in my life. This may be time spent sitting around the dinner table sharing stories about our day, watching “Survivor” with my sons, or enjoying other activities with my husband and children without interruption from the outside world.

“Work time” is all-encompassing and can include writing my column, food shopping, housework, volunteering and about a thousand other things I do on a day to day basis.

There’s “me time”; time spent alone pursuing my own interests like reading, films shopping or exercise. Often, this time gets pushed aside in the day to day of life. I’ll read a chapter in my book, only to have to put it down to fold laundry, make dinner or drive the kids to one of their after school activities.

“Girl time” is a whole different animal. It’s the time spent with my friends for no other reason than to revisit, if only for the length of a luncheon or a shopping expedition, that girl I once was, before I was married with children. The girl who had discretionary income, to spend on glittery flip-flops or overpriced make-up; The girl who could indulge in an extra martini without worrying about seeming inappropriate in front of her children. A girl who could laugh about stupid things with like-minded friends and not worry whether anyone is judging her for it. Years before we were someone’s wife or mother, we were those girls.

This past weekend, I had a 24-hour stretch of “girl time” at a friend’s Cape house. The group was a mix of old friends, recent friends and a couple of new friends. The host’s invite was for a “Girls Gone Wine” weekend, so armed with bottles of red and white, we headed to Chatham on Saturday morning. Upon our arrival, we found that a couple of the girls had indeed “gone wine” the night before, and were sleeping off their actions. The rest of us headed into town, despite a steadily falling rain and the threat of a true nor’easter that afternoon.

My friends and I spent the next few hours strolling in and out of shops, eating a leisurely lunch, and capping off our afternoon with a cocktail to warm our bodies as the weather turned more cold and foul by the minute. The sheer luxury of being able to base decisions on nothing more than our own whims made a dreary, rainy afternoon feel like a breath of fresh air. We all felt a bit giddy to be free from our usual weekend routines. How nice to enter a store without hearing the inevitable, “Mom, can you buy this for me?” or to choose a restaurant without wondering if there’s a kid’s menu. It didn’t matter that we returned home drenched from the now-imminent nor’easter. By the time we arrived back at the house we were ready to pull on our lounge pants and relax in front of the fire with a glass of wine.

The rest of the evening unfolded lazily as we enjoyed dinner, music, television and most of all, each other’s company. Whether it was Wii Bowling or a viewing of “Poltergeist”, the hours were filled with lively conversation and many laughs. At one point I realized that what I was experiencing was a grown up version of the slumber parties I had enjoyed nearly thirty-five years ago. Though we are all a bit older than those teenage girls who traded nail polish, fan magazines and stories about the boys we had crushes on, the camaraderie remains the same. We’ve just swapped Coke and Tab for Pinot and Zinfandel.

After a night of wild wind and rain, we woke to a beautiful, sunny morning. Though we would have liked the chance to stay and enjoy another day of leisure, there were confirmation and birthday parties to attend, washers and driers to fill, and pumpkins to carve for Halloween the next day. We returned to our regular Sunday activities with some reluctance.

It may be a while before I can enjoy another full day of “girl time”. I’ll have to be content with the occasional lunch or movie. That’s okay. I love my “family time”, my “me time” and even my “work time”. But when the opportunity for “girl time” comes again, the wife and mother will temporarily step aside and let the girl come out to play with her friends.

Remembering 9/11

On Sunday we will commemorate the 10th anniversary of 9/11. Can it really be that ten years have passed since that dark day in our nation’s history?

Ten years ago, I had a toddler and an infant. Ten years later, one is beginning his first year in middle school and one is finishing his last year there.

Ten years ago, 1,609 husbands and wives lost a spouse in the attack. Ten years later, some have remarried, and some have not, but none will forget the loved ones lost on that day.

Ten years ago, 3,500 children lost a parent in the attacks. Ten years later these children, who are a decade older, will continue to mourn their parents. Those who were too young or perhaps not even born on 9/11 will rely on photographs and videos of their mothers and fathers, listening to stories about the people who gave them life and left them far too early.

Ten years ago, parents lost children, most of them adults. Ten years later, parents continue to mourn the children that are gone, weddings they will never attend and grandchildren they will never enjoy. These parents have aged much more than a decade.

Ten years ago, New York’s tallest buildings became a 1.5 million-ton pile of smoldering rubble, which in turn became a gaping, empty hole, much like the hole left in the families of nearly three thousand Americans. Ten years later, a memorial and museum will be unveiled at the site of the World Trade Center, remembering the victims of the terrorist attacks and honoring the men and women who came to their rescue. The hole in the hearts of those left behind will never be completely healed.

Ten years later, firefighters and police officers will continue to honor their fallen brothers. Many will participate in “stair walks” nationwide, climbing 110 stories in honor of their lost comrades.

Ten years later, Osama Bin Laden has been eliminated, thanks to the unselfish dedication of our men and women in the armed forces. As terrorism continues around the globe, the United States and its allies will continue to flush out its sources, going to any length to protect its citizens.

Ten years later, newspapers, magazines and cable channels will revive and rerun photographs and video footage of the tragedy. We will turn to each other and ask, “Where were you on September 11?” trading stories about the day that changed every Americans life forever.

Ten years ago, ordinary citizens became heroes in New York City, Washington DC and in the air over Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Ten years later, their names will continue to be read and honored.



Children too young to understand 9/11 at the time will ask their parents questions about that day. Parents will reassure their children that they will keep them safe, while silently wondering if they can keep that promise.

The 10th anniversary, appropriately enough, falls on a Sunday. Many will sit quietly in church, praying for the victims and the survivors. They will pray that the world will never forget such an act of hatred. And they will pray that such an act will not happen ever again.

God willing.

The Perfect Summer meal

I think I’ve managed to create the perfect summer meal.

I start with pork spareribs, the baby back kind. I parboil the ribs for an hour and then finish them on the grill, basting them with barbecue sauce and turning them constantly to avoid burning. We bought our cheapo grill when we moved in twelve years ago and still haven’t replaced it, so sometimes the flame gets too high and things get a little crispy. When this happens I tell the kids I’m serving our food “Cajun style”.

My kids are true carnivores, grunting and moaning with delight as they gnaw the meat off the bones. Apologies to Dr. Mazzocco, our orthodontist. I’m fairly sure that ribs are on the no-no list for kids with braces. These type of ribs should always be served with extra napkins and wet-naps, as hands and faces get extremely messy. Or we can wait till after the meal and use the garden house to spray the kids down, like a scene from a prison movie.

It wouldn’t be a summer meal without a few ears of native corn. One of my first columns was about the joys of summer corn and how local corn really is the best. If I’m up in Hingham, I always stop by Penniman Hill Farm and grab a few ears of their sweet corn. Sometimes I time it just right and arrive as they are unloading their bounty fresh from the fields. Fresh picked corn is sweeter than candy and when it’s in season I forgo French fries, tater tots and all the other starches my kids love and serve corn on the cob every night. Don’t worry Dr. Mazzocco, my son cuts his corn off the cob before eating. We have to draw the line somewhere. Sadly, my husband is allergic to corn, an allergy that reared its ugly head well into his adulthood. As the rest of us gorge ourselves on sweet corn, my husband has to make due with a sweet potato as a sad substitute.

Watering my basil and tomato plants every day has paid off as I prepare a heavenly salad of basil, tomato and buffalo mozzarella. My husband and I discovered this “Caprese Salad” while on our honeymoon in Italy. Though you can prepare this salad year-round, I think it tastes best with fresh ingredients picked right from your own plants, the scents of the basil and the tomato stem still clinging to your fingers. This year’s basil plants have grown especially large, so I make a homemade no-nut pesto for my family (sunflower seeds instead of pine nuts) and prepare a pesto pasta salad.

Our beverage of choice varies from person to person with this meal. My kids enjoy lemonade while I opt for the hard version and enjoy a Mike’s Hard Pink Lemonade over ice. My husband’s first choice is a bottle of cold Samuel Adams beer, enjoyed in the frosty mug he keeps in the freezer.

Dessert is sometimes a trip to a local ice cream stand, whether it is JC’s Dairy in Hanover, Heidi Hollow Farms in Hansen or Dribbles in Scituate. Our favorite, Far-Far’s in Duxbury, is just a little…well…far, so we only stop there when we’re headed home from the beach. Given the abundance of summer fruits, I like to shake things up occasionally and make a pie for all to enjoy. Earlier in the season when strawberries were fresh, my family enjoyed a strawberry-rhubarb pie. I make my own crust from scratch (it’s the allergy thing again). This time I decided on a peach pie, then on impulse threw in some blueberries we had on hand. The combination of the two flavors, lovingly wrapped in a flaky crust and topped with whipped cream, embodies all that is good about the summer.

While the foods may vary, the one element that remains unchanged for my perfect summer meal is having my whole family together around the patio table for a leisurely, unhurried meal. Soon enough we’ll be bundling up and enjoying cold weather soups, chili and stews. But for now the air is warm, the sun sets late, and my family and I can enjoy those perfect summer meals for a few more weeks.

Astaink no more...

At the risk of sounding like some old codger recalling her days of yore, I want to make the following statement:

I remember life before e-mail.

Heck, I remember life before cell phones. When I was pregnant with my now-thirteen-year-old son, I didn’t own a cell phone. Neither did my husband. We had pagers (also called “beepers” for you young’uns). But I digress.

Somewhere around this same time period, my husband bought a home computer and set us up with email. This was when you had two choices of Internet access: AOL or CompuServe (my codger is showing again). During this time, I had to choose a screen name. Thinking myself clever, I chose the same name as my freelance writing business: Asta Ink. Asta is my middle name and Ink because I’m a writer. I even had fancy business cards with images of fountain pen nibs. So I figured Asta Ink would be a unique screen name that would tie in well with my business.

Here’s the problem. As the Internet grew, so did the number of Internet providers. And while it was all well and good that within the world of AOL I was “Asta Ink”, outside of that particular part of cyberspace my screen name suddenly became one word: astaink.

Astaink…it could be “a stink” misspelled. It could be stink’s past tense: stank. It could be a combination of “stink” and “stank”. Add in a “stunk” and I could be a line from How The Grinch Stole Christmas.

In any case, it lost the professionalism and polish I had intended.

However, by this time it was the email address with which all my friends and business associates were familiar. It was on my business cards. It was on my resume. Every online website that had an account for me (eBay, Amazon, etc.) had that name. So the idea of changing my email identification, and all the work associated with it, was daunting. My vanity would have to take a back seat to practically. I stayed “astaink”.

Fast-forward ten years. The Internet is everywhere. My contacts, associates and accounts have increased a hundred fold. In addition to emailing, I’m Facebooking, twittering and blogging. Astaink is everywhere. I’m used to explaining it to the inquisitive and spelling it for help desk professionals overseas: “a” as in apple, “s” as in Sam, “t” as in Tom…” etc. etc. etc.

And yet, my whole history of being “Astaink” was jeopardized with just one wrong mouse click.

I received one of those “phishy” emails, the ones that seem like they might actually be from AOL or Bank of America or one of many other online accounts to which I subscribe. Typically I delete without even opening these emails, or if I think it could possibly be legitimate, I use my family’s Mac computer instead (Macs are nearly impervious to worms, viruses and other nasty creations typically targeted to PCs).
But something about this particular email seemed legit, so I did the unthinkable: I clicked. From my PC. And I have regretted it ever since.

Over the subsequent weeks, nearly every friend or contact in my address book has received emails from “astaink” touting everything from twitter to Viagra. I’ve tried running anti-viral software, to no avail. I changed my email password, twice. I had my friend’s husband, who is a PC mastermind, remove a “Trojan Horse” (that sounds nasty) from my PC and install even more anti-viral software. And I changed my password again.

And still the “phishy” emails are sent from poor, innocent, ignorant “astaink”.

And so it’s time to change to a new e-mail. I’ve switched my provider to Yahoo (appropriate since I consider myself a “yahoo” for falling for that “phishy” email in the first place). And though I toyed with the idea of continuing my use of “astaink” as part of my new email address, I decided it was time to let that part of my past go.

Goodbye “astaink”. It’s time to let the air clear and start fresh as someone else.

It's Like Riding a Bike...

Summer is the perfect time to throw your car keys in the key bowl, hop on your bike and enjoy the beautiful summer weather. Grab your water bottle and your helmet and just zoom off on your trusty bicycle.

Ah…if only it were that simple.

When I was a child, my bicycle was my primary mode of transportation. My friends lived within biking distance and most of the roads in my town had sidewalks. I biked to school, to my friends’ houses and, when I was a bit older, to Food Town, a local store a mile from my house that sold cold cuts, booze and hunting rifles. (But that’s a column for another time). Whenever I needed to go somewhere, I’d just grab my bike and be off.

Unfortunately, getting my family out on our bicycles is a much bigger production now. Sidewalks are virtually non-existent in our town and our steep driveway rolls straight down into the very busy street on which we live. When my kids were little, my husband and I would take them through our back yard, out our back gate and into the less crowded cul-de-sac neighborhoods behind us. Traffic is minimal there and the kids would have plenty of warning when a car approached.

But my children are 10 and 13 now, and they’ve long since outgrown the neighborhoods behind us. How many times can you ride around the same circle before you become bored? (The answer is 16 times.) Given that my kids are still not the most confident bikers and the lack of sidewalks in our town, our remaining choice is to load up the bikes and drive somewhere safer to ride.

Not so fast. First there’s an elaborate production involved to getting our bikes ready. Our garage is filled with stuff, including a 1979 MGB convertible that hasn’t run since we moved here 12 years ago (actually, I don’t think it ran even then). So my husband and I keep our bicycles suspended from ceiling hooks, while the boys’ bikes are entangled in the rest of the clutter. Once our bikes have been extracted, inevitably tires will need to be inflated. Apparently just the act of sitting stagnant in the garage allows tires to lose air. My husband pulls out the world’s smallest, slowest portable bike pump and begins inflating our tires.

Two hours later, when all the tires are nice and firm, we’re ready to head to our destination. Except we’ve now got to load the bikes into our mini-van, which only has room for three of our four bikes. So one of the bikes ends up on the roof of the car, lashed down by an elaborated network of bungee cords. In addition to our hillbilly bike rack, these bungee cords have also served as our hillbilly ski rack and our hillbilly luggage rack. My husband still maintains that this is one of the best Christmas gifts he’s ever received from my dad.

An hour later when all the bikes are stuffed inside and strapped to the roof, we’re ready to collect our water bottles and bike helmets and head off to Wompatuck state park, a twenty minute drive from our house. The bike on top rests on an old rubber mat, ostensibly to protect the roof of our van, but provides the added bonus of a disturbingly loud flapping noise throughout the drive. The kids are hungry; I didn’t pack lunch because I didn’t think it would take two and a half hours to prep our bikes and reach our destination. I tell them to drink water and be quiet. Once we reach Wompatuck, it’s another fifteen minutes before the bikes are out the van and ready to ride. But wait…my husband’s rear tire is flat again. Apparently sitting inside a mini-van is just enough activity to deflate his tire. Out comes the world’s smallest and slowest portable bike pump. “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh,” goes the pump as my kids and I sit in the shade, slowly starving to death.

Finally, at long last we are all pumped and helmeted and ready to ride. The paths at Wompatuck are beautiful. It’s a warm, dry sunny afternoon and the kids have stopped complaining. Perhaps it is worth all the time and energy spent when the result is a blissful family ride.

But then bliss turns to blister after my son grips his handlebars too tightly. My other son is trying to get the hang of shifting gears, causing his chain to fall off…twice. After less than an hour of riding, we head back to the parking lot to clean and dress my son’s thumb wound. At this point the kids are hot and cranky and ready to return home. In go the bikes; out come the bungee cords and soon (okay, twenty minutes later) we are headed home.

Pacified with ice cream, my kids thank us for taking them on “a fun ride” and ask when we can do it again. I assure them we’ll schedule another ride soon, wondering whether it would just be simpler to sell my house and move to a bike-friendly neighborhood rather than go through that production again.

What's a Mom to Do?

What do you do?

You’re a single mom with a child in high school. You work full time to support your child. Your ex-husband lives one hundred miles away. The school-subsidized bus that used to take your child home from school has been eliminated due to budget cuts.

What do you do?

With the economy the way it is, you’re lucky to have a job. You wish your job was closer to home. You can’t leave work to bring your child home from school every day. You scour the want ads and hope that a job opportunity becomes available nearby. But for now, you’re stuck where you are.

What do you do?

You reach out to other parents who are in the same situation. You try to get a bus together on your own. But not enough parents are interested in this option. You’re told that “…most kids don’t want to take the bus anyway…they call it the ‘loser cruiser…”. School officials tell you they assume most kids will get a ride with siblings or friends who are upperclassmen. But your child has no older siblings and all his friends are the same age.

What do you do?

You try to arrange carpools with other families, but their problem is the same as yours: they can manage the morning drop off but can’t leave work in order to pick up their kids at 2 p.m. Some work from home or part-time, but if their child is involved with after-school activities, they may not pick them up for an hour or two past dismissal.

What do you do?

People ask why your child can’t walk or ride a bike the three miles between school and home. With a very heavy backpack and no sidewalks for most of the route home. What happens when it rains? When the temperature dips below freezing and the wind whips through town? What about when it snows? When the streets are covered with ice and slush? When the plows leave a wall of snow, narrowing the roads further and limiting visibility.

What do you do?

You ask the school where children are supposed to wait if they need a later pick-up. If the school library is closed, you’re told that your child can do their homework in the cafeteria. You are told that there are always teachers and janitors “around”. But on the day when your child tries to do his homework in the cafeteria, he’s told that there is a meeting scheduled there, and that he can’t be in any other room in the building without adult supervision due to fire laws. So your child waits outside in the rain for two hours before someone is able to pick him up.

What do you do?

You scramble. You rely on the kindness of friends and neighbors and your father who lives 25 miles away and is willing to come twice a week to drive your child the three miles home from school. You worry about the day when you don’t have a ride lined up. You understand budget cuts; no one wants their child in a classroom with 30 other students. You don’t want your school to cut music or art programs. You realize that the money has to come from somewhere. But shouldn’t getting students safely to and from school be a priority? It may not be “the law” but isn’t it the right thing to do?

This is what friends of mine are dealing with now. And when my child moves up to the high school next year, I will be dealing with it as well.

So…what do you do?

The Orchid Thief...

I’m a bit of a botanical burglar.

Okay, maybe the term burglar is a stretch, but I have a tendency to covet flowers and plants that grow in places other than my own yard.

I’ve written in the past about my black thumb. My houseplants are frequently in a state of being either over or under watered. Outdoor potted plants stand a 50/50 chance of surviving their season and only then if there is regular rain and sun it’s beyond my capability to remember to water something daily in hot weather. My perennial beds are overloaded with bulbs that haven’t been split in years. Clearly my abilities to keep anything other than my own children alive are limited.

My life of crime began in my last house, which had a small, scraggly, spindly lilac bush in the back yard. This sad little plant usually yielded only a sprig or two of my absolutely favorite, fragrant flowers. Meanwhile, neighborhoods all around me were bursting with the heady scent and purple and white beauty of Syringa vulgaris. I could never bring myself to clip flowers from someone else’s yard without their permission. However…there was an enormous lilac bush which used to grow in the parking lot of my bank. Sometimes, when using the drive thru, I would lean out my left window to stick my ATM card in the slot, then lean out my right window and snip a few buds off the lilac flowers that were brushing up against my passenger window. Coming home, my husband would observe, “I see you’ve made a lilac withdrawal.” When we moved to our current home, my back yard contained not one but two healthy lilac bushes. Finally I could clip my favorite flowers without feeling guilty. To assuage my past sins, I’d even clip extra blossoms and give them to my friends and neighbors.

The next flowers on my oh-how-I-wish-I-could-grow-these list were hydrangea. I fell in love with them on my visits to Nantucket, where my husband has family and we were lucky enough to be married. There is something about those fat, vibrant blue and purple flowers that provides so much visual pleasure. Each summer it lifts my spirits to see hydrangea in bloom. The one small bush my husband planted two years ago has yet to yield even a single bud (surprise, surprise). Luckily I have several friends who have bushes that are flush with flowers. Taking pity on their poor, blossom-less friend, they have encouraged me come share their bounty. Thank goodness, because I’d look pretty ridiculous creeping through their yards in the middle of the night, dressed in black with clippers in hand.

And now that summer is over, there’s another blossom I’m coveting. This one I’m thankful is not growing in my yard. A floral-minded friend introduced me to the beauty of Bittersweet. These are vines that contain small yellow berries. During the fall the berries shed their yellow skin and reveal a vibrant orange color underneath. As the vines dry out, they are used to make wreaths or can be draped along mantels or placed in vases for a beautiful, autumnal display. My friend has a keen eye for bittersweet, and points them out to me whenever we drive anywhere together in the fall. However, it’s important to point out that there are two types of bittersweet: American bittersweet, Celastrus scandens, is disappearing quickly. Oriental bittersweet, Celastrus orbiculatus, is an invasive vine which can threaten other vegetation. American bittersweet have berries which cluster only at the tip of the vine. Oriental bittersweet produce berries all along the length of the vine. It’s important to make this distinction before clipping any vine in order to preserve the dwindling supply of American bittersweet. However when I see the oriental variety, I feel no guilt about clipping a few vines off and bringing them home to dry. It beautifies my house and I’m doing my part to help remove an invasive species from my town. The idea that something so pretty could also be harmful is…well…bittersweet.

I’m glad that I no longer need to resort to theft to obtain some of my favorite flowers. Thanks to generous friends and a plentiful invasive species, I’m able to enjoy these beautiful buds on a regular basis.

Otherwise, I’d be in withdrawal.

Approaching Senior Moments...

Does the following sequence of events sound familiar?

I grab the laundry basket from my hall closet and then head into the bedroom to pick up any dirty laundry lying around. While I’m there, I notice that the bed hasn’t been made, so I put down the basket and start making the bed. Once the bed is made, I notice that there’s too much clutter on my dresser, so I start putting things back in their proper place. As I’m doing this, I trip over the laundry basket. Oh right, the laundry. I abandon my dresser and pick the basket back up, grab the dirty clothes and head down to the laundry room.

I start the washer but then notice that I don’t have a full load, so it’s back upstairs to the kids’ rooms to see what needs to be washed. While doing this, I notice my son left his dirty cup from breakfast on his bedside table, so I bring it to the kitchen to rinse and place in the dishwasher. The pots and pans from last night’s dinner are still soaking in the sink, so I give the cup a quick rinse and then start washing the pots and pans. Once those are done, I head back into my son’s room, only to stand there stupefied, with no clue why I am there.

I head back into the kitchen and realize that the counters need cleaning. We’re nearly out of paper towels, so I head back down to the basement for another roll. As I enter the furnace room I again completely forget why I’m there. I notice that the light is on in the laundry room so I walk over to shut it off only to discover that the washer is filled and waiting for the rest of the dirty clothes that are somewhere in my son’s room. Oh right…That’s what I was doing in the first place.
I know I’m edging ever closer to 50, but is it possible that I’ve got both a mild case of Alzheimer’s combined with an undiagnosed case of adult ADD? In my previous life as a video producer I could juggle casting sessions, shoots, edits, script revisions and a hundred other tasks effortlessly. When I had my children, I could still run a load of laundry while paying my bills online and feeding a bottle to my infant. What happened?

Now when I try to multi-task the results are far from favorable. On a recent afternoon I decided to get a jump on dinner by grilling some chicken breasts. I threw the chicken on the grill and wandered back into the house where my focus was immediately claimed by several other tasks that needed attention. Sometime later I drifted back into the kitchen and wondered, “What’s that smell?” only to discover the forgotten chicken breasts outside on the grill. Hey kids, it’s blackened Cajun chicken tonight!

I also find that my brain doesn’t always kick into gear as quickly as it used to. In conversation I often find that key words refuse to make the jump from my brain to my tongue. This also happens with names. A few years back I hosted a brunch for several friends and while making introductions my mind went completely blank when it came to the name of my friend’s husband, someone I’ve known for years. While it was an embarrassing aberration at the moment, it’s happening more and more frequently of late.

Are these instances what my friend calls “menopause brain” or something more serious? When my book club read “Still Alice”, a novel about a woman with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, we were all convinced we had it too. Then again, one friend reassures me that,”It’s okay if you forget where you left your car keys…it’s not okay if you forget what those keys are for.”

I’m wondering if what I’m experiencing is what my parents refer to as “senior moments”. I guess it’s not a big deal that I have to call my own cell phone once in a while to find where I left it (and don’t you wish you could do the same thing with your car keys and the television remote?) It may take me a little longer to remember someone’s name or a word I’m trying to verbalize but eventually they do come. Rather than trying to accomplish multiple tasks at once, I’ll focus on just completing one before moving on to the next.

Thankfully I’m not alone. A friend recently recounted that she tossed her Kindle on top of her laundry and brought the basket downstairs to catch up on reading while doing the wash. She inadvertently threw some towels on top of the Kindle and a short time later dumped the whole load into the washing machine. Three minutes later, when she couldn’t find her Kindle, she realized her mistake. Despite her efforts to revive it, the Kindle was dead. We could chalk this up to a “senior moment” but she’s quite a few years younger than me.

This story made me feel better. I may burn the chicken and lose my keys and forget your name and start and stop a dozen tasks throughout the day, but at least I know that Kindles are hand wash only.

Hop in the Wayback Machine

This weekend I hopped into my time machine and traveled back 30 years. The time machine was my car and the time travel involved my 30th high school reunion.

Just acknowledging the fact that I’ve been out of high school for thirty years is enough to depress me so I fill the five hour drive to New Jersey with music from the 70’s and 80’s. Shaun Cassidy, Styx and Journey blast from the speakers and a wave of nostalgia hits me as the “Welcome to New Jersey” sign comes into view. My parents have lived in the same house for over 50 years, so I consider myself fortunate that I’m able to revisit my childhood home often.

When I pull into my parent’s driveway I step out and close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of the grass and indigenous trees bring back memories of my childhood, and for a split second I can pretend that it’s a summer day back in the 1970’s and I’m about to spend the day roaming the neighborhood with my friends. Reality sets in and I haul my adult size bags in the house and up to my old bedroom.

One the day of the reunion, I check the Facebook page of the classmate who is organizing the event. There’s a list of those who are scheduled to attend and as I scan this I see the names of classmates from as far back as first grade. My best friend Tracey, who I’ve known since fifth grade and still see several times a year, is my wingman for the evening. We meet for a drink prior to the reunion and make a pact to stick together, rescuing each other from banal conversation if necessary.
I don’t know what to expect from this reunion, having been to both my 10th and 20th previously. The 10th was fun, the 20th was impersonal (a reunion company was used) and the 30th is scheduled to be held at a local Knights of Columbus hall. As Tracey and I pull into the parking lot, we see several middle aged women who look in no way familiar to us. Perhaps this is due to the fact that our graduating class numbered more than seven hundred. We enter the K of C and sign in.

As I wait in line, I notice that the room is filling up fast with receding hairlines and beer bellies. The women look a bit better but many of them are starting to show the same pre-menopausal muffin top that I’ve been sporting. Faces look the same but many (including mine) are surrounded by a few more chins. I whisper to Tracey, “Wow. When did we get so old?” and this is emphasized by the name tag I’m given bearing my senior photo from 1981. Though the face in the photo is much thinner, my hairstyle was thicker; an afro. I console myself with the fact that in the intervening thirty years, I’ve learned about the benefits of hair products and no longer look like a doppelganger for James Caan.

As I mingle through the crowd, I’m reminded of how strange reunions really are. Someone you first met when you were six years old might not have given you the time of day in high school, but thirty years later we are hugging and exclaiming , “It’s great to see you!” We make our way through the crowd, squinting as we try to read each other’s name tags and see if the name or face rings a bell. Since many of us are friends on Facebook now, we already know what some people look like, what they do for work and how many children they have. Instead of whipping out our wallets with photos of our children, we pull out our smart phones and display an entire photo array of our kids.

The evening flows smoothly as the DJ plays hits by The Knack, Styx, Journey and Kansas. The Knights of Columbus are our bartenders for the night, pouring soda and beer and wine from a box. Several people have brought their yearbooks with them, and we pore over the pages, comparing the faces from yesterday with the reality of today. One guy in particular, who was thin and blond and hot in high school (and kind of full of himself) is totally unrecognizable with the addition of an extra hundred pounds and a Grizzly Adams beard. My friend says this makes her feel sad but personally it makes me feel great.

This time around I’m excited to catch up with Kim, a close friend from high school who has not been back to a reunion until this one. We reminisce about the perverted Psych teacher who supervised Driver’s Ed, how we tormented our French teacher, and the time we braved a snowstorm to see Cheap Trick in concert. Kim also tells me about the passing of both of her parents and how proud she is of her three children. Though we are Facebook friends, these are moments best shared in person.
Tracey and I sneak out before the reunion ends and find a quiet bar where we can share a drink and recap the evening. We laugh about the folks who have changed and the folks who haven’t. Though I enjoyed seeing all the faces from my past, I’m reminded of the fact that the most important friends from school are the ones I still see regularly, in particular the one who is sitting next to me at the bar sharing an order of potato skins.

I guess you can go home again after all.

Taking Refuge in the Library

Last week, on what turned out to be the hottest day of the summer (so far), I found myself with a few blessed hours without my children. One was working as a CIT at our town’s park n’ rec camp and the other at a friend’s house. Rather than spending my few precious hours catching up on the latest episode of “Dance Moms” or luxuriating in a pedicure chair, I chose to run errands.

My destinations included the bank, the transfer station, the pharmacy and a few other stops. In each instance I reluctantly dragged myself out of my air conditioned mini-van and trudged through the hundred degree heat to dump my garbage, pick up prescriptions and cash a check. The extreme heat and humidity were taking their toll on me. With each errand I felt more like a wet noodle and less like a human being. And then I stopped at my final destination before heading home and discovered an untapped oasis in the midst of the baking heat.

The library.

As I walked through the front door, I was immediately enveloped in an embrace of air conditioned silence. The skin on my arms, previously slick with sweat, immediately developed goose bumps. As I slid my books into the return slot, I received a smile and a warm welcome from Judy, one of the librarians who happened to be working at the Children’s Desk. As I climbed the steps to the Adult Circulation area, I congratulated myself on making this the final stop on my list of errands, rather than the first. Had I started my round of errands with the library, I might never have left.

I am a huge fan of libraries in general and Hanover’s John Curtis library in particular. Where else can you find thousands of books, movies, CD’s, magazines and even video games that you can bring home and enjoy without paying a single penny? Unless, of course, you forget to return them on time.

In my younger, carefree days, I used to buy books. Lots of books. But I’m older now and have things like a mortgage and camp payments and a million other fiscal responsibilities. So with a few exceptions, my book-buying days are behind me. Which makes the library that much more valuable to me. Whenever my kids clamor for a new book, my first response is “Let’s see if the library has it.”

I also love that my library is part of the Old Colony Library Network, which means if my library doesn’t have a particular item, it’s a safe bet that one of the other libraries will. From the convenience of my own computer I can log onto the website (www.ocln.org), search for items and put them on hold. The network will even deliver the item to my own library.

There have been times when the library hasn’t had a particular item I’m interested in. Let’s face it, not everyone is as much of a zombie enthusiast as me. When that’s the case, I just fill out a card requesting that they purchase the item I’m interested in. More often than not, the item is added to the library’s collection and I get to be the first person to take it out.

Another godsend in the summer are the library passes that enable my family to visit places like the Peabody Essex Museum, the Roger Williams Zoo, the Museum of Science and countless other area attractions for a discounted fee. Again, from the convenience of my computer I can see when passes are available and place a hold on them. Last summer my kids enjoyed the Institute of Contemporary Art for the first time and have been clamoring to go back.

Our library also hosts author talks, book signings, magic shows, animal shows and countless other events throughout the year. Currently there is a photography exhibit showcasing the work of Matt Gill, former news editor for the Hanover and Norwell Mariner (I’ve seen it, it’s fabulous!) At the end of the summer the library will host an art exhibit featuring the work of South Shore Art Teachers.
If you simply must buy books, the John Curtis library has an impressively stocked used book room which features books, videos and puzzles for both adults and children. Most books are $1 or less and the thousands of dollars raised from the book room goes right back to supporting the programs offered by the library.
With everything the library has to offer, it’s a wonder I don’t spend all my time there during the summer (except Saturdays and Sundays when they’re closed). Much as I’d like to, there are other chores and errands that require my time and attention. But it’s nice to know that when the heat and the noise of summer gets to be too much, there’s a nice cool, quiet respite just a mile from my house.

See you at the library.

Fairwell Harry Potter

It’s time to say “goodbye” to an old friend.

Actually, make that several friends. This Friday, July 15, audiences worldwide will have the chance to bid farewell to Harry, Ron, Hermoine and Hagrid. Appropriately, the movie posters promoting the film say it best: It All Ends.

J.K. Rowling’s novel, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” was first published in 1997. Over the next decade, Potter fans (and I count myself among them) have immersed themselves in a world of wizards, witches and whomping willows. We’ve watched young Harry Potter grow from an 11-year old boy living in a cupboard under the stairs to an adult taking on the most powerful and evil wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort. We know that the spell “lumos” illuminates the tip of a wand, that Berty Bott’s Every Flavor Beans include flavors like vomit and earwax, and that good eventually triumphs over evil, though at a price.

Three summers ago, I wrote a column both hailing and lamenting the final Harry Potter novel in the series: “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”. At the time, I was excited and apprehensive about the novel’s release. At last readers would know the outcome of the long battle between Harry and Voldemort. Was Severus Snape really evil? Would Ron and Hermoine finally acknowledge their feelings for each other? Would Harry continue to be The Boy Who Lived or would he pay the ultimate sacrifice to free the wizarding world from tyranny?

I could not read that final book fast enough, and yet I tried to savor every word, knowing there would be no more to follow. Once I was finished I passed it to my husband and when he was done we took turns reading it, chapter by chapter, to our children each night before bed. As sad as I was to bring that final epic story to a conclusion, I consoled myself with the fact that there were three more movie adaptations to enjoy.

And now, in less than 48 hours, the last of those three films, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2” will be unveiled. Once again, Potter fans will line up, this time to buy tickets instead of books. Some will don 3-D glasses (not me), some will stay up way past their usual bedtime to be the first to see the film when it premieres at midnight (again, not me) and nearly all will breathe a final sigh of satisfaction tinged with sadness when the end credits roll for the last time. Since the first film premiered ten years ago, audiences have watched each adaptation with baited breath, hoping the filmmakers could do justice to their beloved story. In my humble opinion, each film successfully achieved that goal.

The first movie captured all the wonder and wide-eyed magic of Harry’s unexpected entrance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Following the tone of the novels, each film has grown progressively more dark and ominous. Looking back I realize that the film version of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” was released a mere two months after the events of 9/11. As America battled her own dark forces of evil, Harry began his cinematic journey to fulfill his destiny as “the chosen one” and bring down Lord Voldemort.

My children were just three and six months when the first film premiered and now with the final chapter just hours away, they are thirteen and ten. As audiences have watched the characters of Harry, Ron and Hermoine grow into adulthood before our eyes, I shake my head and wonder how my own son could possibly have grown as tall as me. My husband and children have shared my passion for Harry Potter over the years and I look forward to experiencing this final chapter as a family. Or to quote Harry in one of the film’s oft repeated trailers: “Let’s finish this the way we started it…together.”

Life's a Beach

Now that summer is here, it’s time to pack our boogie boards, slather on sunscreen and head to the beach.

Or…not.

Actually, I used to love the beach. When I was young, my parents would take my sisters and me to the Jersey Shore for two weeks every summer. Each day we would head out to the beach just after breakfast, setting up camp with our towels and radios and trashy romance novels. We’d smear our bodies with baby oil (yes, baby oil), and bake on the beach till lunchtime. After lunch, we’d troop back to the beach and spend a few more hours baking and burning and bouncing in the surf. After rinsing off in the outdoor shower (is there any shower better than an outdoor shower?) we’d eat dinner, then head back to the beach for a walk along the shore, collecting seashells and rocks and flying the kite we’d brought with us. At that point summer just seemed to last forever.

Do you know why the beach was such an idyllic place to go as a child? I finally figured it out. It’s because our parents were the ones who packed all the blankets and towels and snacks and boogie boards and sunscreen and bug spray and yes, that darned kite! Our parents shopped for the food that sustained us each day, and the drinks that kept us hydrated and shelled out cash each night when we’d hear the ding-a-ding-a-ding of the ice cream truck. I don’t know when that sweet, tinkling bell was replaced by the warped, distorted version of “Turkey in the Straw” but I sure do miss that ice cream truck.

I didn’t mind sand in the house back then because I wasn’t the one sweeping it up each day and shaking it out of the beds and washing it down the drain. I didn’t mind getting sunburned because I knew it would fade to a tan, or peel like crazy and then fade to a tan. I didn’t think about the fact that in forty years my neck and chest would look like the side of Samsonite luggage.

When my kids were little, I loved the idea of taking them to the beach. Notice I say I loved the idea… In my mind we’d sit placidly on the beach, our umbrella shielding us from the sun as we dug sand castles and jumped in the surf holding hands. The reality was much different however. My toddlers thought the beach was a great place to run in opposite directions. It was like “Sophie’s Choice”, trying to decide which kid to run after and which to abandon. And then there’s the stuff. Even if I could get my little ones to carry one small sand pail or towel, that still left me to haul the cooler, the beach bag, the umbrella, two boogie boards and a sand chair. It’s not like I could make two trips. Without my husband along, it was like a family consisting of two small children and one pack mule. After a day of sweating and swearing (under my breath), I’d haul my two little ones and all our gear back to the car and begin the process of de-sanding everyone and everything before loading them into the vehicle. Inevitably, the kids would scream for ice cream on the ride home when all I wanted to do was kick up my feet and open a cold one.
Going to the beach now is still a production, but less of one. Now that my “little ones” are 10 and 13, they get themselves ready. They pack their own goggles and towels and spray themselves with sunscreen. Last week I barked “Make your own sandwich” and to my surprise, they did. They each have to carry their own boogie board and sand chair to and from the beach. And while I still keep a watchful eye on them when they are in the water, it’s nice to know that I can sit several hundred yards away in the comfort of my beach chair and scan a page or two of my magazine. They build sand castles without my assistance and when they ask if they can walk down to the jetty on their own, I’m fairly comfortable saying yes. When we head home I’m the one who suggests we stop for ice cream.

The task of vacuuming up all the sand that finds its way into my house still falls to me. I hang the towels on the back deck to dry and run the bathing suits through the wash while my kids plop their exhausted bodies in front of the television. I still moan and groan when my kids ask if we can go to the beach, but I take them because now I’m old enough to know that the summer doesn’t last forever. Like my children’s youth, it’s all too fleeting.