SUMMER SHENANIGANS CONTINUE

My siblings and I like shenanigans. We are always getting into some kind of adventure or, as often happens, trouble, but it keeps us spry. It's the kind of stuff we pulled as youngsters. 

Of course, we aren't as daring as we once were, like suffering lacerations and a broken nose while on roller skates (the old four-wheel type) tied via long rope to my sister's bike. Or trying to throw another toddler out the second-story window at church nursery school one Sunday morning. Or building giant snow horses instead of snowmen so we could scale the icy things to play on them. Or taking our downhill skis through the very hilly and tree-filled backwoods around our property -- amazing that we didn't smash our helmet-less skulls.

Now, we are into tamer pursuits, for the most part. We did replace skiing through the woods with sledding at supersonic speeds past stumps, trees, and boulders (still helmet-less), and playing snowball baseball by swinging shovels full-tilt. 

We still have a smidgen of daredevil in us.

When my sister and I take in an easy hike to Cascade Falls, we don't expect much. We have had exactly two days of rain in the last three or four weeks. Imagine our surprise when there is actually water running over the rocks. This is where normal people would snap some pictures and stay on the trail.

We are far, far from normal people.

Instead, we go off-roading. After all, we are both wearing sensible shoes. We take to balancing on the rocky and jutting surfaces as if we are the Flying Wallendas (and, a couple of times, we almost become them).We tiptoe over crags, jump over small water features, and climb up small rock faces, all in the name of shenanigans.

We do get some artistic photos. My sister leads the trail, for the most part, so I get a lot of pictures of her rear-end. We work our way along the rocks and through small paths made by others who ventures off the trails as did we until we reconnect with the trails we are supposed to be on. (Don't panic! We were both Girl Scouts, and I was an Assistant GS Leader to two different troops. We only stepped where others had and did not damage any wildlife.)

Surprisingly, we end up on the family-friendly trail after crossing a bridge. We are greeted with Ruby the Rock Snake, a human-created sculpture of rocks laid along the trail to extend Ruby's length, and a concrete block game of hopscotch. Naturally, we dive right in to both activities and are pleased that we are still able to hop and scotch with the best of them.

I'm sorry to see Summer winding down, but that just means a whole bunch of new shenanigans once the season changes. 

STOPPING TO SMELL THE (REAL) ROSES

I'm notorious for stopping in random towns and random places when I'm out driving around because, to be completely honest, I despise the highway. Traveling by interstate may get you where you're going a lot faster, but the scenery is blasé, to be polite. Monotonous. Repetitive. The view from I-95 in Maine is often the same as it is in Connecticut, North Carolina, and Florida: Trees! Some houses! An occasional cow! Pretty standard stuff.

So, I like to wander off the overly-beaten path. Oftentimes, I get lost. (I get lost a lot, actually.) Sometimes my travels lead somewhere unexpected, like finding an old schoolhouse in the middle of being lost in Vermont, or having a quiet lunch by myself while being lost along the edge of a vineyard in New York. 

Perhaps, it even means passing by a sign pointing to a place I didn't realize existed in its location. This is how I stumble onto New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill.

I knew there was a botanic garden in Massachusetts, but I thought it was closer to Boston. Instead, it's tucked into the middle of the state, much closer to Worcester (but not too close). It's off a backroad, but an easily accessible backroad, and there's no hectic city traffic to confuse my nonexistent sense of direction. After passing the sign a half dozen times in the last month or so, I decide that a hazy summer afternoon of temperatures in the high seventies means that it's time to stop and, quite literally, smell the roses.

And smell the other flowers, and the plants, and the trees, and the rocks, and the statues. Well, I do not smell the sculptures because that might be too weird, but the place is a treasure trove of vision, smells, and serenity. I'm wearing my comfy and sturdy flipflops, so I at first stick to things that say "easy walk." Then, I see "moderate" and decide, yeah, I can do that, too. There is one trail marked "difficult" and it's the summit trail. 

It's only a bit of a quick climb through the woods over ruts and rocks and roots, and the elevation isn't pitched too sharply, so my trusty Clark's sandals and I take to the trail. It turns out to be so worth it. At the top it is only me and an older couple. They've hiked up to celebrate their fifty-fourth wedding anniversary. They take the bench, and I stand in awe of the view. We are looking out over Wachusett Reservoir with the smoky image of Mount Wachusett sixteen or so miles off.

After that, I feel pretty invincible, so I hike all the way down to the pond, which is a silly idea in the afternoon sun and heat with nothing but an uphill climb to get back to the visitor center. This is when I have my Robert Frost Moment. I come upon two paths that diverge right there at the woods; one is well-established and one is less-traveled. I now have two choices: Do I hike back up the steeper, groomed path through the shady but buggy woods? Or, do I go for the grassy, meandering, full-sun path that rises a little more gently back to even ground?

Of course, I decide to go field-bombing. I swerve off to the left, just me and some butterflies and some haying grass, and start the trek back to even ground. About halfway up, though, the sun really is too much, so I find a connecting path and walk the last hundred yards in the shade. Technically, I took the path less-traveled, but I kind of worked my way back to civilization before I keeled over from heat stroke.

I will wander back there again, though. I realize as I'm leaving that I missed a part of the garden. I also didn't spend a lot of time perusing every little placard. I'm more of a looker than a learner when I encounter museums and places with lots to see. I'd rather take in all the visuals than synthesize information. (Explains why my nephews and I zoomed through the National Gallery of Art in D.C. -- gotta see everything!) In the end, I might veer off the beaten path, but I'll make sure every detail gets a perusal, and, if I miss something, it's just another reason to return.

IT'S JUST AROUND THE CORNER

It has been hot this summer. Wonderfully, fabulously hot! The last few steaming days were lower humidity, so the heat has been pure enjoyment, even at 97 degrees. 

Not every day has been perfect, though. Nearly so, but not completely. 

The one day and evening that I need to be outside (local Drum Corps show for the nephews), it pours and pours for hours. We've also had a couple of crisp nights with temperatures in the fifties. For the most part, though, this summer has been perfect.

Until a hike in the woods.

It starts out innocently enough. Warm temperature, occasional breezes, almost completely empty trails through the woods. We encounter fairy houses hidden in offshoot trails, we trek over wooden walkways and mini-bridges, and there is enough water still running through the very low river. 

But, then -- we spot something. It's just one thing at first. An anomaly, right? Except, it's fresh, still soft and not brittle. And another. And another yet. 

Autumn leaves. Freshly turned foliage. On the way home, we spot entire bushes already half-turned to fall colors.

Oh, Summer! How could you? You fickle and callous season. Pretending you want to roast us inside of our own skins and then you pull this -- this nasty trick of October right here at the start of August.

I suppose it was bound to happen. After all, I did see a joke post about putting up a Christmas tree now that August is here, and I thought, "You know, that's a dang fine idea!" (I probably shouldn't mention that my downstairs neighbor keeps her tree up and lit all year long.) Those of us who jump from July Fourth to Advent with zero regard to Labor Day, Halloween, Veterans' Day, and Thanksgiving are the ones who are causing all of this. So, I apologize.

I am sorry that I had thoughts of the holidays. I'm sorry that I watched Christmas in July on every sappy movie channel available on my TV service. I guess it's my fault that the leaves are starting to turn. I do believe that we have a couple more weeks of swimming before the snow falls, so I promise not to take out my snowshoes and admire them or make sure my ice skates (both figure and hockey) are sharpened.

Watch out, though. I swear to you, I saw it in the woods today. Autumn is just around the corner. FYI.

NO SUCH THING AS THE SILVER LINE

I ride the subway, or, as we call it here around Boston, The T. I don't ride it every day, but I ride it enough to know my way around. Much like the city streets of Boston, the T often makes zero sense.

Last year my friend and I were in a T station when we encountered a Texas mom and her teen daughter. They were in a suburb (Chestnut Hill) to check out Boston College and had come into the city easily enough on the Green Line. However, they stood dumbfounded at the map trying to get back to the campus in Chestnut Hill. 

You see, Boston actually has four different Green Lines: B, C, D, and E; and D has a northern nook and a southern branch. Worse, all four lines connect in the middle for several stations, and you have to get to the train with your letter on it. 

Worst of all possibilities, because it does go from bad to worse to worst, part of the Green Line operates through the streets with single carriages, meaning riders are literal sardines around the Museum of Fine Arts (the E Line) and Boston University (not ever in the entire world to be mistaken for Boston College -- the Bean Pot Hockey Gods spit on you for such infractions). This whole sardine routine makes the T resemble an overcrowded Bangladesh Festival Train. 

Getting back to our Boston College tourists, even more complicated: Chestnut Hill T-stops (by name) are on both the Green Line B and the Green Line D routes. 

We here in Boston understand the T. 

For example, the Silver Line doesn't truly exist. Oh, sure, there are buses at the airport that operate as "The Silver Line," but I swear to you, they just circle the airport in a Mobius loop like the old folk song Charlie on the MTA (its pre-MBTA title). Do not ever be tricked into boarding anything that says Silver Line -- you will disappear into another dimension and may never be seen nor heard from again.

Summertime Boston is a hopping place. I am meeting my son in the city, so I take the T in (Orange Line -- the only one that actually makes sense) and hoof it from Haymarket. The train is not that crowded even though Boston itself is wall-to-wall people. We have a grand old time, end up at Kelly's in Medford (for you out-of-towners, it's a pretty famous local chain). After we are done in the area there, known as Station Landing, we trek on over the skybridge to Wellington Station. My son will go south back to Boston, and I will go north a few stations back to my car.

It is no small (or even large) lie to say the T gets loaded with people sitting, standing, shoving, and clutching. Yes, the T has multiple color codes, multiple stations, and even multiple branches of the same lines. However, for a Saturday night around 9:00 p.m., the trains should all be hopping and jumping and jiving.

But, this . . . This is my surreal subway ride. I thought maybe I'd finally made it into Final Destination. No one. Not one damn soul. Nobody. Sure, being on a nearly-deserted subway carriage with one or two tough-looking  people is far more dangerous and frightening, but this was nearly next-level psychosis.

I guess the moral of this story is: You can't get there from here; sometimes you can't even get from here to there; if you ride the Green Line, remember what train letter you are on; there is no such thing as The Silver Line. Take that to heart, and you'll be fine.

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

Plants hate me. 

That's not entirely accurate. Like any idiot, I can grow Pothos and aloe plants. They only need to be watered every one to two weeks. These plants can and should be allowed to dry out. Good thing because I am a terrible plant mamma.

For Christmas, however, I received the gift of a miniature herb garden. To say that I have been terrified to open the box might be an understatement. After all, every year I buy a lush basil plant only to have it wither and die, despite my best intentions. I have since decided that my yearly basil plant will be for Caprese salads and not much else. Once it has been properly plucked, then it has served its $6 purpose.

Sure enough, I finally decide that it's time to start those herbs. Dagnabbit, I am determined to grow something other than mold. I carefully follow the directions. Of course, I have way too many seeds and just dump a bunch into the small containers, but, hey, at least I'm trying.

I am careful not to over-water. These things are not my usual hands-off style. I keep them facing the sun. I put them on a bed of foil to catch any excess water so they don't dry out too much, just in case. I move them around and rotate their sun activity from my porch.

And, now? Well, folks, now I'm in real trouble because the dang herbs are growing. Not all of them. The rosemary has decided to commit suicide. But, the others? Sprouts of green!

I'm scared. I need to re-pot the plants soon. I need to get fresh soil and bigger containers. I need to pay more attention. I need . . . I need . . . I need a plant nanny!

For now, everything seems to be alive and thriving. A few days from now may have a different outcome, but, I have to admit, it's rather heartwarming to see that it has been two whole weeks and I haven't killed off anything (except poor, dearly departed rosemary) yet, including the basil.

If you see my name and face on any Wanted posters at the garden stores, though, you'll know things went south quickly.

WRAPS AND BRACES

I am falling apart. Fighting it, but falling apart, just the same.

This morning I wake up with calf cramps. Seriously. It feels like I've run a 5K or perhaps restarted judo classes. When I try to stand up on those sore calves after sleeping (yes, sleeping), my right knee gives out. It feels like something is caught under the kneecap and is driving itself further into my leg with knife-like precision.

From sleeping.

I think back: What on earth did I do yesterday to cause such overnight stress? Let's see, I took my car for a check-up and sat in a chair playing Sudoku on my phone. Then, I went to the grocery store for the dozen items I needed and walked behind a cart for about twenty minutes. After that, I did some light housework -- you know - washing dishes and whisking pudding in a bowl. Super strenuous activities like that. Oh, don't forget that I worked on some writing for a while, interrupted for a short time to watch Jeopardy. Extended ass-sitting, as it were.

It's absolutely insulting the amount of sheer complaining my body engages in from doing absolutely nothing. Nothing, as in not a damn thing. That kind of nothing.

What is worse is that I have a treasure trove of wraps and braces just for occasions like this. Of course, these battle remnants came from real-life situations, for the most part. Let's see, I have in my arsenal:

Ace bandage (universal sign of an oowie); one blue wrist wrap (small); two pink wrist wraps with thumb holes; a wrist wrap with a complete thumb-stabilization brace; an elbow wrap from doing something to a tendon while I slept holding my granddaughter's hand -- an injury that took four months to mend; two ankle support wraps from pulling my Achilles tendons (both of them) during a particularly vacuum-ous mudhole during the Muddy Princess 5K Mud Run a few years back (I hurt myself but saved the sneakers); a heavy-duty ankle brace. 

I also have bouts of hip bursitis and my feet often give out (one from a serious cut that damaged nerves and other pretty things when I was a teenager, and the other from an Austin bunionectomy). Sometimes while teaching at school, there will be loud pops or snaps that scare the children. It's okay, I assure them. It's just my back or my hip or my knee or my elbow or . . . 

Life is grand, folks. It's all fun and games until you need wraps and braces just to get out of bed.

WEEK #2 OF THE ESCAPE

Week #2 of the Summer of My Brain Regeneration sees me back at the dentist, where I will be spending more time this summer because aging jaws and teeth need more maintenance than infants and cost more than a year at college. This week's foray into the dental chair clocks in a 2 hours and 15 minutes. Thankfully, I had hit the ladies' room before sitting in the chair. 

Hoping that the temporary crowns (multiple, yes, indeed) hold and the jaw infection is cleared up, I spend the next day shopping (not buying much) and out to lunch then back for a quick swim at my friend's pool. My editorial commentary on shopping is simply: I miss the Christmas Tree Shop. My friend and I go to Ocean State Job Lot, and, I have to be honest, their prices for the crap they're attempting to sell? Ridiculous. Highway robbery. A crappy, cheap, already busted beach chair for $45? I don't think so, folks. I did buy some bath soap and a bathing suit for my granddaughter, but that was pure luck on my part.

I promised myself to get outside every day, get out and do something, but I spend one day at home working on a few projects. I do walk down to the Amazon hub to pick up a package, so I guess that counts. The next day I do a half-stay-home and half-get-out day by running errands in the morning and cooking several meals (prep) and making ice cream (seven flavors, but I guess I'm not a chocolate peanut butter ice cream girl, although it is delicious -- just not my personal favorite) in the afternoon.

Independence Day brings an annual zoo trip followed by lunch. I like fireworks, but not up close. I end the night with the lights out and watch the NY over-the-Hudson fireworks because Boston simply cannot even begin to compete with NY on that front. I still hate the Yankees, though. Nothing personal -- It's a Red Sox thing.

Also this week I hit the complex's pool a couple of times, although right now it's as cold as the ocean water. My hope is that I tan my legs enough that my varicose veins won't be so prominent because, like my aging jaw, aging legs aren't anything to joke about.

I only check my work email twice. I also tell myself that opening a new tissue box for my home use in no way, shape, or form will steal tissues from my students in September, especially since I paid for the tissues myself and September is still weeks away. 

In conclusion, Week #2 seems to be much better for my mental state. Of course, the forecast for the next week is iffy, and planning anything remains problematic. I'm hoping for some good stuff next week -- It will be the first week of the summer that doesn't have anything (doctors, dentists, other appointments) planned in stone. While I find this lack of direction both daunting and compelling, I hope to have something exciting to cap off my daily "get out of the house" activities. Suggestions welcome!