MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 2

I'm plotting my way to Syracuse, New York (Upstate), from north of Boston, Massachusetts (Merrimack Valley), via Plattsburgh, New York (North Country). I've already discounted multiple simple and lower-stress ways to accomplish this, but, with me at the helm, nothing is ever easy. Nothing.

I finally make some decisions. Since I always stop by Quechee Gorge, I find it on the map. Route 4. Looks tame enough. Now that I have my first destination, I need a theme (other than Crazy Old Woman Takes On Backroads of Vermont and New York State for Sheer Idiocy). I decide to do a mini-tour of covered bridges. Some of the better ones are just too far off of my radar, but there are plenty along the way if I just stick to a plan. 

I can hear some of you laughing hysterically already at the "stick to a plan" bull-tooky. It's okay. Trust me - I deserve your mockery, as you will learn over the next few blogs.

My end-point-for-today's destination, the first leg of the journey: University of Vermont's Morgan Horse Farm in Middlebury. I do some research on hotels and discover that, despite being a college town, Middlebury isn't really a place that accommodates tourists and students and families. Oh, it loves having people come through and spend money, but apparently Middlebury doesn't encourage anyone actually spending any extended time there unless you Air BnB or do the local inns. Despite that, I do book the one chain hotel after researching the place. Now I have point A (Quechee) and Point B (Middlebury) in place.

In between Points A and B, I make a list of covered bridges (four) within easy road access, and some other things to squeeze in: trading post, statues, odd sculptures, a small museum/shop, some scenic views, an art museum, and the Morgan horses. I hope to do most of these on Day 1 and spill them into the morning of Day 2 before I continue toward my relatives, which is Point C.

Next, I make a loose plan for travel from Point B to Point C. This includes anything left from Day 1, plus: a modern bridge, an old stone fort, Champ (our Loch Ness monster), a school house, a chasm (another gorge), and my favorite farm stand store.

I also do something that most people think is stupid -- I make sure I have directions printed out, just in case. Remember last week's blog when I mentioned that my car has 93,000 miles on it, and to hold that thought? Well, when I say I have some rudimentary maps printed out, I'd like you to hold that thought, as well.

I pack my suitcase with clothes and toiletries, a backpack with electronics and camera, snacks for the two-day trip, and a cooler. The car has recently been serviced, the tires are inflated properly (I have an electronic air machine if needed), and the car is gassed up. 

The only thing left to do is to totally screw up this entire adventure.

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 1

Bad decisions make good stories, and I now have the tee shirt to prove it.

My nephews march with Spartans Drum Corps and tour all over the eastern United States before the culminating championships in Indianapolis mid-August. Unfortunately, their closest show to me this season is in Syracuse, NY. So, me being me, I start planning a trip out to Syracuse, with a plan to take in what I like to refer to as "roadside oddities" on my way. If I plan it right, I can even stop in Cooperstown to tour the Baseball Hall of Fame.

I plan three different routes just for fun: I-90 (through NY, this is a given), route 2 Mohawk Trail in Massachusetts, or route 9 across southern Vermont through Bennington. There are too many possibilities, and I want to see everything. Route 9 is a no-go because, if I pass through Bennington, then I also need to see part of the Mohawk Trail and vice versa. So, both 2 and 9 are ruled out simply because of the high distraction value. 

That leaves route 90, a rather tame initial journey where the most exciting thing is the speed trap crossing over Massachusetts into New York state. But, there are multiple side trips to see roadside attractions across New York. This is a huge draw.

However, my sister-in-law is also planning a solo drive to Syracuse because her husband, one of my crazy-arse brothers, has been volunteering on the corps' food truck -- feeding something like 300,000 kids and staff (okay, maybe 200) three meals a day and basically not sleeping for six straight weeks -- and his tenure is up with the Syracuse show. My brother and his family live in the North Country of New York, a little over an hour south of Montreal.

I have a brilliant idea! I'll take the backroads and scenic byways to my sister-in-law, and we can drive to 'Cuse together. Even crazier . . . she agrees to this evil plan of mine.

Me being me, I start planning with the roadside oddities. What can I see and do that is totally whacked? Again, route 2 and route 9 compete for my attention, but, again, I discount both because it would mean at least one extra day of travel. There's simply too much to see, so that needs to be a separate trip or done in a Winnebago. I start plotting routes 30 or 100 or 7 through Vermont. They're all winners, but some of the directions involve north-south deviations to traverse the Green Mountains. My car has 93,000 miles on it. Is this my brightest idea? (Hold that thought.)

By now, I've put way too much time into this. I could've hopped into the car and used the day I've already spent plotting this out rather than actually . . . well . . . plotting this out. I mean, really. Just get in my car, hop on 93 to 89, jump the Grand Isle ferry, and get 'er done. 

But, anyone who knows me also understands this is not how I operate. I get easily bored on the highway. People drive like idiots, and there's not too much to see for 80% of the drive. Plus, my foot and butt get tired just sitting there driving. It's like a really stressful plane trip without benefit of free drinks and snacks and bathroom.

You'll have to wait until next week's blog for more of the story, but, I promise you, it's epic. I did make it home mostly safely and mostly intact, no thanks to my own stupidity. But, as the tee shirt says, bad decisions make good stories. My friends, I trust it will be worth the wait.

PREPPING FOR THE ARTISTIC APOCALYPSE

It's that time of year again: Time when I truly believe I might find a spare moment to be creative.

I have a mish-mash of projects either half-finished or thoughtfully un-started -- fabric waiting to be cut out and sewn; yarn waiting to be knitted into rectangles; glue sticks waiting to hot-glue something together. 

Truth be told, I'm not remotely talented when it comes to hands-on creativity. Oh, I can write you a poem, story, or essay at a moment's notice. What do you need?  A report? With or without citations? Flash fiction? Limerick? The sad part about my particular talent is that AI has come along and blown it all to Neptune. What takes me months to do, AI can create in a millisecond.

No matter. I'm prepped and ready for the Artistic Apocalypse. 

You need cray-pas? I got you. Colored pencil that turn to water colors? Check. Oil paints? Acrylic paints? Fabric paints? Yes, yes, and yes. Drawing pencils? Charcoal pencils? Calligraphy pens? You don't even have to ask.

Back in college, I had to take a drawing class to fulfill a fine arts elective. It was 101-level, meaning we were all supposed to suck at it. But, much to our mutual horror, we had an art major in our class because, like us, Drawing 101 fit into his schedule as a fine arts credit. We all felt like pathetic failures.

Hope does spring eternal.

Last summer I reorganized all of my random supplies. This summer perhaps I should attempt to use them. If not, then I'll do what I did with half the excess craft stuff from last summer's clean out: I'll donate it. 

What's that you ask? What happened to the other half of the excess craft stuff from last summer? Don't look in my closet at school. You just might find that I pretend to do crafts at work, too.

Like I said, when that artistic apocalypse hits, whether I'm at home or in class, I'm ready.

CAPTURING THE (DAIRY) QUEEN

I am massively depressed about the massive ice cream recall. So, I decide that I will make my own ice cream, hopefully free of extraneous additives and other poisons that caused the massive mess in the first place. 

Recently, my brother-in-law churned out some fabulous vanilla ice cream using an electric ice cream maker. It was so easy that I thought maybe I'd get myself an ice cream maker.

Then, reality hit.

I don't need that much ice cream in the house at any given moment because I will convince myself that I must eat up all of the ice cream in order to save the masses from possible ice cream induced brain-freeze and ice cream related cooties. But, the ice cream process itself does seem rather interesting. So, I do what any lazy person might do: I scour the internet in search of easy ice cream recipes.

I find one that sounds simple enough: heavy cream + sugar + vanilla + salt = shake for 5 minutes in a mason jar, then freeze for four hours.

I have one mason jar with an airtight seal lid. So, all I really need is a cup of heavy cream to give this a whirl. I go to the store and discover only a quart size of heavy cream. Anything smaller is light cream or whipping cream or half and half. If the recipe calls for one cup of heavy cream, then technically I can experiment with this four times. 

This sounds like a wonderful, devious, fattening plan!

I assemble the ingredients into the mason jar, secure the lid, and start shaking the contents rather carefully so I don't drop it. Let me tell you, five minutes is a rather long time to be shaking a mason jar. I switch off from arm to arm, putz around the apartment while I do this, empty the dishwasher, change out the toilet paper roll, put away the new roll of aluminum foil, and just plain doubt myself that this is even going to work. 

I give the shaking one more minute for extra measure, just in case I didn't thicken the mixture enough (but not too much as it might solidify into a butter-like substance). To be honest, my expectations are reasonably low. However, when I open the cover of the jar, a substance like soft-serve vanilla ice cream is in the jar. I add some chocolate chips to it and put the whole jar in the freezer. 

Hmmmmmm. I wonder if I can make a chocolate version? Back to the internet go I.

Unfortunately, all the recipes involve melting things down or special-ordering stuff. Whatever. I've never met a science experiment that didn't have some element of failure attached to it, so why start now. I don't have any more mason jars, but I do have those plastic disposable soup containers.

I mix together a second batch, but this time I generously add chocolate syrup. The top goes back on, and I start rocking and rolling that stuff for five to six minutes. When I peek inside prior to the freezing portion of this exercise, I see light brown ice cream about the consistency of soft serve. This looks promising. 

Four hours later, the ice cream is pretty much frozen solid. I taste the vanilla chocolate chip, then I try the chocolate. Remember, my expectations are not lofty here.

Holy. Dairy. Queen. I think I might be on to something. 

Another recipe suggests that this shake-an-ice-cream technique will work with evaporated milk. I put that on my shopping list. I call my sister to tell her that she and her husband are bad influences in the dessert department, and, while expounding on the benefits of non-store-bought frozen deliciousness, I wonder out loud how it might work with some coffee added.

I may have created my own Frankenstein on this one. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I have some ice cream to polish off and some bigger-waisted clothing to order.

GO "FOURTH" AND READ!

A lot of stores are open for business on the Fourth of July. That doesn't surprise me anymore. 

There used to be these things in Massachusetts called The Blue Laws that prevented people from doing anything except going to church and mowing their lawns on Sunday . . . unless you forgot to fill the gas can on Saturday. Then, you weren't mowing your lawn on Sunday. These Blue Laws also extended to state and federal holidays. In other words, nobody except police and firemen and hospital staff worked when the Blue Laws were in effect.

What does surprise me about stores being open on Independence Day is that now stores are posting their holiday hours as "Open normal business hours." I mean, seriously. How many people are going to be out shopping on the Fourth of July for anything other than burgers and beer?

This is my mindset when I decide to go to the Used Book Superstore on July 4th. 

I tried this same trip last Independence Day. That time, I got within two-tenths of a mile and had to turn back because the road was closed for a parade. Bad planning on my part. This year, I wise up. I am not going over until three o'clock, after the parade-goers have packed it in and taken off. That gives me two hours to turn in old books and then buy more. This way of thinking means that anyone who had parked in the big lot for the parade will be long gone, and most sane people will be at barbecues and pool parties or in the ER after blowing their fingers off with M-80's.

I mosey on down with my grocery bag full of books to sell, pull into the parking lot of the bookstore, and . . . hesitate. Every single parking spot (except for a couple of the handicapped spots) is occupied. I have to park in an adjacent lot. I also notice two other people bringing books in to sell, and I mean bags full of books. 

I wait in line to get my return-books credit and am pleased to add twenty dollars to my account. I grab a carriage and begin to maneuver through the wide aisles and quickly realize that having a cart is a truly stupid idea.

This place is mobbed.

I have never seen so many people in this store, leading to multiple conversations about writing and publishing, and strangers sharing author recommendations with each other. The check-out line looks like Christmas mall shopping. It's so packed that I only buy myself a couple of books and decide to carry over a balance for next time. 

When it's my turn at the register, I say to the clerk, "I'm so glad you're open today, but I thought maybe it would be dead in here on the holiday."

"Me, too," she says with a small grin. "This is quite a surprise."

As I sit in my car, prepping to head home and checking my text messages that I ignored inside the store, I notice two people unloading boxes and boxes and more boxes of books to donate and/or sell. Some people may be at parties that are popping, but the real magic is popping right here in the bookstore.

FIRST SUMMER BEACH WALK

So far we've had a couple of hot, hot, HOT days. 

This means that if I try and get near a beach, I've got to leave absolutely no later than nine o'clock in the morning to get a spot in a lot or on the sand. The water is still way too cold for most sane people to go in. Of course, most of us who live in New England are not sane. The water temperature has been fluctuating between 61 and 63 degrees, and, after sitting on a hot beach in the direct sun, the water could be fifty degrees and we would be going into it in some capacity.

The main problem with my favorite beach is that it disappears at high tide. I can sit on a rock and wait for the waves to subside (not a bad day, either), or I can look at the tide chart and figure out when the beach will be wide open for low tide. Another problem is the fact that my super-sun-sensitive skin cannot be in the cloudless weather for extended periods of time. This is why it's better for me to go to the beach alone rather than insist my cohorts leave after two hours or so. 

Finally, a day arrives that is warm and sunny, and it happens to be a day when low tide occurs around 9:30 a.m. This means that I can get a good two-plus mile beach walk in well before the beach disappears. It almost seems silly to drive forty minutes from home to the coast for a walk, but those who have been to the ocean will completely understand my logic. So, I pack my beach bag (never truly unpacked) quickly and jump in my car.

The beauty of my favorite beach is that car-to-waves is less than thirty seconds and requires zero hot sand. Parking is three dollars per hour, and I gladly pay my nine-dollar fee, though I will probably only be there for about two hours. The time buffer allows for walking to the bath house, if I so desire.

I walk for an hour, read for an hour, and go into the water up to my knees. I am tempted to jump in, but I've settled my chair in the black-and-white checkered flag area. This is the surfers' zone and, even though no one is really surfing today, there are several lifeguards patrolling who will keep us out of the water on the beach's south end.

When I'm ready to leave, I am surprised to find that there are some parking spots open, probably because it's a weekday and many school systems are still in session. I head south on route 1, watching the traffic begin its predictable back-up as the day's heat climbs. I am home shortly after noon, sun-kissed and sand-toed from the walk, less than ten dollars lighter, with a renewed serenity and my first real dose of summer beach life.

SPOTTY WI-FI FLOOR PLAN

It's the most wonderful tiiiiiiime of the yeeeeear! School is done. 

I've said it before, and I'll say it again:  Teachers do NOT get paid for the summer (nor any "vacation" breaks, nor holidays, nor snow days); teachers are per diem employees. If teachers didn't have a summer break, there would be no more teachers because we would all be in the mental institutions.

Before I leave, I have to make a map of my room for the custodial and painting staff, which is normally easy-peasy because I have not changed my classroom footprint in years. However, I am already in the only room that has spotty wi-fi, also known as The Bluetooth Room From Hell. In February, our district decides it's a super-dee-duper time to update our network.

Now, the wi-fi situation is even worse. I get calls from the office: Why didn't you send your attendance? I did send the attendance. The software says so. I can see it right in front of me. It has already been submitted. 

Oh, but wait! It looks like I'm on the wi-fi. My tabs work. I can bring up Google and other sites, but, apparently, I am not connected. At least, not to the district's network. I don't know whose network I am on, but I'm not on theirs. This happens multiple times a day. If I move from one classroom to another, I "lose" network connectivity. Unless I stand in the windowsill all day, I don't have internet access for the full day, and I never know when I'm off the network because, hey, I'm still connected . . . somewhere.

The final full Friday of school, I cannot sleep, so I haul my butt to school. I am the very first car in the combined middle-high school lot. I arrive at o-dark-forty, park my car, and get into the building. The kiddos will be watching the final installment of a curriculum-based movie and having the final quiz on it. (Yessir, we don't just sit and watch movies. I make them pay attention and earn points for it. I even told them if their neighbors start to doze off, give them a little virtual pinch because this is worth big money.) 

While the students are occupied, I quietly sit at my desk in the far right corner and rearrange drawers, and get files ready to put away because the very moment they finish the quiz, I will be posting their final, unquestionable, solid-in-bedrock term four and year-end grades. No amount of emails, phone calls, nor district complaints can save anyone now. The moment the grades are finalized, I formally submit them through my spotty wi-fi connection along with those infamous conduct and effort comments. 

We. Are. Done. Here.

Except that now comes the hard part. Before I create a room map, I have to find a new space for my desk, somewhere in the room where I might possibly be able to maintain wi-fi connectivity to our district website more consistently than once or twice every hour. Eliminating the rest of the lyrics, let's just say I had a very brief Lil Jon moment: To the window; to the wall.

I start moving stuff across the room. First, the bookcases, still full of books. The file cabinet, three drawers full of files. Two tall file cabinets don't move much but still need to scooch a bit. Thirty desks with chairs need to be put into play, as well. The desktop cannot move because it is attached to what used to be an interactive board and is now just a glorified overhead projector for showing movies and videos and the daily agenda. Finally, the desk to the far left corner. Inch by slow inch, that loaded desk is going to move if it takes me all afternoon.

Hours later, long past the time that just about all of my colleagues have left, I have my desk in the new location, the bookcases where they need to be, the files all organized, the closets packed with loose textbooks, thirty desks are in group formations, and I have made sure that I seem to have district network Bluetooth working. I'll draw the map on Monday, when I'm sure this will be the final layout. 

I gather up the one lone teacher still in the building, and we walk out together, somewhat wilted but completely triumphant. She gets in her car first and tears out of the lot like her weekend is on fire, which it is at this point. I take a moment to get my phone up and running, check and see if anyone loves me, and make sure the air conditioning is coming on in the car (since it is broken inside the building).

I glance around and realize that I'm right back where I started, eleven-and-a-half hours later, alone in the parking lot. It may have been a long day, but it is a day like today that staves of the mental institution I mentioned earlier.