The Do's and Don'ts of Summertime

Hooray, summer is finally here!  If that three-day heat wave last week didn’t convince you, then the pain you feel in your jaw from clenching your teeth during the first full week of school vacation certainly will.  We’ve got about 10 weeks before the leaves begin to change and those lovable yellow busses cart our children back to school.  So here’s a list of do’s and don’ts to help you make the most of your summer.

DO enjoy the great outdoors.  Whether you’re camping, boating, lounging by a friend’s pool or digging your toes into the sand, take a moment to appreciate the sun on your face and the breeze on your skin.  Take a mental picture of whatever you’re doing at that moment so you can savor it in January when you’re scraping an inch of ice off your windshield.

DON’T forget to apply the proper sunscreen and bug spray when you spend time outdoors.  No one enjoys being mistaken for a lobster after a day at the beach.  Our days of lying on tinfoil and slathering baby oil on our bodies are over.   Pale skin is in; sporting “…the savage tan” will prompt concern from friends about premature aging and skin cancer.  And be sure to use DEET if ticks or mosquitos are around.  Lime in your drink is great.  Lyme in your body is not.

DO take advantage of all the fresh fruit and vegetables available during the summer months.  Blueberries, corn, tomatoes, peaches and zucchini are some of my favorite summer foods.  Buy local whenever possible.  Check out the various farmers markets that crop up this time of year, or visit your local farm stand.  Or you can tiptoe over to your neighbor’s house in the middle of the night and poach some of the tomatoes growing in their garden.  Just kidding.  Seriously, wait till they go on vacation and then strike.

DO give your kids extra chores over the summer.  It’s great that they have a break from schoolwork, but if your kids are anything like mine, they’re just tempted to fill in those extra hours with video games and television.  On the last day of school, my kids and I had a discussion about which chores they felt they could assume. As I type this, my son is acquainting himself with the miracle of scrubbing bubbles.  Yay, cleaning the bathroom is like a science experiment! Emptying the dishwasher, watering the plants and mowing the lawn are no longer part of my ‘to-do’ list.  By the end of the summer, they’ll be dying for homework.

DO enjoy a good book.  Dive into that epic novel you’ve always wanted to read, or enjoy a string of mindless beach reads.  Encourage your children to read throughout the summer.  Remind them of how much fun it can be when they don’t have to fill out a daily reading log.  Check out the school’s suggested reading recommendations, as well as ones from Barnes & Noble and Amazon.  Visit your local library and enjoy the cool, quiet atmosphere on a sweltering summer day. 

DO remember to drive carefully and keep an eye out for kids, teens and adults on bicycles, scooters and skateboards.  Remember that pedestrians in the crosswalk have the right of way.  DON’T think it’s ok to zoom through the crosswalk when someone’s trying to get to the playground or ball field. 

DON’T forget to eat ice cream.  Lots of it.  It’s the official sponsor of summer, right after mayonnaise-based salads and beer.  Dribbles, Far-Far’s, The Dairy Twist, JC’s, Heidi’s Hollow Farm and Peaceful Meadows…you could try a different ice cream stand each week during the summer and still not get through all of them.  If you can’t get out, flag down the ice cream truck when it drives through your neighborhood.  By the way, at what point did a distorted version of “Turkey in the Straw” become the de facto theme of ice cream trucks?  Just curious.

DO remember to go to church.   As with reading, it’s tempting to just take the summer off and resume in the fall.  I’ve spent more summer Sundays in bed than I have in church.  Yes, you can commune with God from your bed…or your boat…or your golf cart…or your jet ski.  But I find myself much more spiritually motivated when like-minded folks surround me.  In addition to a four-week bible study, I am going to try my best to get to church every Sunday that my family isn’t traveling.  Sleeping late on Sunday mornings is great, but Sunday afternoon naps are pretty awesome too.

DO remember to be safe.  No one wants to spend any portion of the summer in the emergency room.   Or the drunk tank.  Or a court room.  And most of all DO remember to have fun.  Because before you know it, summer will be over.

At A Loss for Words in the Name Game

I’ve been thinking about the laws we create for the safety and well being of the public.  The mandatory seat belt law requires motorists and passengers to wear safety belts while the car is in motion, or risk paying a hefty fine.  Our state also has a mandatory helmet law, to protect the noggins of those who prefer motorcycles to automobiles.  We even have a bicycle helmet law for children aged 16 and under, though I’d venture a guess that 75% of the kids in my town don’t adhere to it.  So if I may, I’d like to suggest one more law that might prove helpful to citizens.

Could we please have a mandatory nametag law?

I know you’re rolling your eyes right now, but I’m willing to bet that there are a handful of like-minded folks who would welcome the concept of mandatory nametags for adults.

I envy those people who can remember the name of everyone they’ve ever met, from pre-school classmates to the guy at the liquor store who just recommended a decent bottle of red.  I am not one of those people.  I will forget your name 30 seconds after you tell it to me.  I will ask you on two or three subsequent occasions to “tell me your name again” and then promptly forget it.  When I am introduced to someone, I am so caught up in wanting to make a good first impression that I forget to do the one thing that actually helps make a good impression: remember their name.  

There can be only two explanations for those people who can effortlessly remember all the names of people they’ve met: They have an extra gene woven into their DNA.   Or they have super powers. 

This affliction hasn’t improved much with age.  A few years ago, at a brunch for some friends, I began making introductions so that folks from home and work could get to know each other.  As I went around the room, I successfully rattled off each friend’s name until I came to the last person, a friend’s husband.  “And this is…uh….uh…” I stammered, as my brain farted and I prayed for the earth to swallow me.  This wasn’t a casual acquaintance, this was a close friend’s husband who I had known for many years, whose name I must have spoken a hundred times.  After what seemed like six or seven hours, his name finally popped into my head, but the damage was done.   To this day, I cringe at the memory.

This type of block has become more frequent.  It doesn’t help matters that the older I get, the more people I meet.  When I recognize a face, I can no longer place whether it’s from my children’s pre-school, from my time with the Newcomers club, a Pampered Chef party, Lego robotics or one of the many sports teams my kids have played on.  Add to this the fact that as a columnist, my picture is printed in the paper each week, so people recognize me even though I’ve never met some of them.

This is where the mandatory nametag law comes into play.  Just think how much easier life would be if everyone wore a nametag all the time.  No longer would I need to pull my sneaky trick of introducing someone whose name I know to someone whose name I forget, hoping the latter will volunteer that information.  

Not only would we be able to remember the names of friends and acquaintances, we could also address total strangers by name.  “Go ahead Gail, I think you were here first,” I could tell the customer at the deli.  “Excuse me Tom, is anyone sitting in these seats?” I’d inquire at the movies.  Doesn’t our behavior improve when we’re around people we know?  If we were identifiable 100% of the time, we’d have to be on our best behavior.  Otherwise, we run the risk of someone saying to a friend, “Laura Anderson just flipped me the bird when I cut her off at the transfer station.”

I realize this flies in the face of privacy issues, especially at a time when each doctor’s visit requires the signing of a ten-page disclaimer.  But just think of all the awkwardness and embarrassment we could avoid if we could just let go of our anonymity. If you agree with me, just cut out the following and paste it to your shirt:

“Hello!  My name is _______________________”. 

If you do, I promise to call you by name.

One Special Day was Years in the Making

What are the gifts we give our children?

One obvious answer might include Barbie dolls, Legos, Nerf guns and video games. Many of us tend to shower our children with an inordinate amount of material possessions. You can add North Face jackets, Ugg boots, iPads and laptops to that list.

We give our children the gift of health by tending to their physical needs with regular doctor visits, healthy meals, daily exercise and good hygiene.   Our unconditional love and support are gifts that allow our children to develop confidence and the ability to venture out into the world knowing that someone will always be there for them, no matter what the future may hold.  Our discipline is a gift that tells our children where their boundaries lie, so that they may grow to delineate right from wrong.  And our forgiveness is a gift that helps our children learn mercy, compassion and empathy for others.

I believe, however, that the most important gift I’ve given my children is the gift of faith.  This past Sunday, my oldest son was confirmed in the Christian church.  Though the confirmation process lasted five months, I feel that it’s really been 14 years in the making.

My son’s faith journey was much like my own, with the exception of him being raised in a Congregational church, rather than a Baptist one.  I was christened as a child, and then baptized, full water immersion and all, as a teenager.  I remember nothing from our weekly meetings with our pastor other than the ride home, when my friends and I would beg the minister to play a favorite 8-track tape from his collection: Greatest Hits of 1962, Vol. 2.  I remember wearing a bathing suit under my robe for the immersion part, holding my hands in front of my face as if in prayer, though it was really to keep water from going up my nose.  I think I was more preoccupied with the new dress I could buy for the occasion than the important decision I was making in my life.

Though I spent my formative years actively involved in church, youth group and choir, I ended up taking a 15 year “faith hiatus” when I graduated from college.  I had every intention of finding a church to join, but this didn’t come to pass until I had kids of my own.  Suddenly, it became important to provide a nurturing church community for my children.

Just as my mother dragged my sisters and me to church every Sunday, I started bringing my own children to church regularly.  Gradually, I began to volunteer my help with vacation bible school, Church School and middle school youth group.  As my children found their place in the church, I found my own faith growing as well.

I was thrilled when my son reached the age of confirmation. As he began the process I hoped that it would prove to be a meaningful experience for him.  Being the only confirmand from Hanover, I worried he might feel left out since the group was comprised mostly of kids from Norwell.  But after six months of weekly meetings, games, snacks and a weekend retreat, my fears were unfounded.  These young men and women were bound by faith, and had reached their destination as one unified group.

I could not have been more proud as I watched my son and his peers perform every aspect of the church service; some read faith statements, while others read prayers and scriptures.  One young man stood side by side with the minister, weaving his faith statement into her sermon. All of the confirmands served communion to the congregation who, in turn, laid hands on these young men and women and blessed them. 

My wish is that this foundation of faith will serve my son well in the years ahead.  This gift that was given to me by my own mother 45 years ago is one that I pass to him with much love and hope.   May God’s blessings be on these newly confirmed Christians from the United Church of Christ in Norwell: Colleen Benedict, Ben Champagne, Xander Dawson, Doug Greene, Chris Fairfield, Isaiah Jackson, Chris Holland, Alexei Sherman and Jack Warendoff.  And special thanks to their infinitely patient spiritual leaders, Rev. Deborah Spratley and Geoff Gordon.

Greetings from The Garden State

Lately, it ain’t easy being from New Jersey.

Perhaps I should clarify.  It’s never been easy being a native of The Garden State.  I endured many jokes about living in the “armpit of the nation” long before Joe Piscopo created his iconic Saturday Night Live character who asked, “Are you from Joizey?  I’m from Joizey too!  What exit?”  As if citizens of that state are defined only by their proximity to the New Jersey Turnpike (I’m exit 9, by the way…)

People used to get a false impression of New Jersey based only on the scenery that abuts the aforementioned turnpike.  Newark, Elizabeth, Bayonne and Trenton are all ugly, industrial areas that would leave anyone with a bad taste in their mouth (not to mention a sharp stink in their nose).  But whenever anyone argued about the state’s ugliness, I would counter with the fact that there are beautiful parts of the state as well, including the Jersey Shore.

Thanks a lot, Snooki and Jwoww, for ruining The Jersey Shore for us too.   The words “Jersey Shore” used to evoke images of white sandy beaches, warm surf and lazy summer afternoons, walking along the boardwalk and eating funnel cake and grilled sausages.  Now those words are synonymous with drunk, obnoxious twenty-somethings who divide their time equally between the gym, the tanning booth and the bar.  When these characters aren’t vomiting in public they’re starting brawls or hooking up in germ-infested hot tubs. 

Without New Jersey, we wouldn’t have The Sopranos”; a brilliantly executed television program which made household names of James Gandolfini and Edie Falco, and gave Little Steven Van Zandt something to do when The E Street Band wasn’t touring.  But the show gave the impression that all New Jersey residents of Italian descent were “connected” and the series finale was a real letdown.  Another show that doesn’t do any favors for New Jersey Italians is The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  I admit, I’m fascinated by the antics of these crazy women, but they certainly don’t represent the friends I know from that state.  My Jersey friends don’t live in gilt palaces, drop thousands of dollars on designer children’s clothing and use words like “ingredientses” or refer to nor’easters as “Norwegians”. 

As if all this isn’t enough, in recent weeks my old home state has suffered even more indignities.  Perhaps you’re familiar with Patricia Krentcil, New Jersey’s very own “tanning mom”, who was accused of bringing her 6-year-old daughter into the tanning booth with her resulting in sunburn.   I’ve you’ve seen pictures of Krentcil, you’ll seen that her skin has been tanned to the point of looking like a cross between an Oompa Loompa and a baseball glove.  This woman puts the “nut” in Nutley, NJ.  In interviews, her skin is shiny, as if she primped, not with makeup, but by rubbing a stick of butter across her face.  Although she’s been banned by more than 60 tanning salons in New Jersey, we’ll soon see more of her, as she’s expressed a wish to pose naked in Playboy magazine.  And you know what that means: we’re going to need a lot more butter.

Then there was the Camden couple who decided to play New Jersey-style “Peek-a-boo” with a child they were babysitting: they put him into an industrial sized washing machine and closed the door.  To their surprise, the door locked and the machine automatically started.  It took a quick-thinking Laundromat employee to cut the power to the washer and rescue the toddler. 

Last week, I read a story about a New Jersey man who had a confrontation with local police.  The man injured himself with a knife, and then proceeded to throw bits of his flesh at the police.  I wont get into any greater detail than that, other than to say that it’s appropriate the man was from Hackensack. 

It’s getting increasingly difficult to defend my home state.  If we didn’t have 24-hour diners, traffic circles, Atlantic City, blueberries, the Jersey Devil and Stephen Colbert, what would we have to fall back on?

We have Bruce Springsteen.  So rock on New Jersey.  Rock on.