WATER WARS AND OTHER SHENANIGANS

I am on a nonstop quest to stuff as many madcap adventures into this summer as I possibly can.  This sentiment twists my recent visit to Vermont and New York to see my brother's family and to connect with my newest cousin and his family.  (Yes, DNA connectivity has finally sorted out a lifetime of wondering why I have no cousins -- turns out that I do.)

My visit includes not one but two days of being with my cousin Peter, and I am able to meet his daughter and her family, which means that I spend some extended time with pre-teens (Peter's grandchildren) outside of school  ... and I don't shrivel up nor melt like the Wicked Witch of the West!  I will have to be sure to tell this to my coworkers and former students, although I doubt any of them will believe it.

The time I spend with family and visiting different sides of Lake Champlain and kayaking and swimming and riding the ferries and sightseeing and eating and sipping wine ... This is all wonderful, fabulous, outstanding!  However, my brother and his wife make a huge error in judgment, a fickle move, a decision so ridiculous that it's almost like my brother didn't grow up with me and has forgotten what a bonehead I am.

He leaves me in charge of his children.

To be completely fair and honest, his children do not need supervision whatsoever.  They are an almost-teen and a teenager, and they are intelligent, rational, polite young men.  But, I am, after all, a middle school teacher.  I believe that means that I also hold an honorary degree in Shenanigans.  My brother is also a middle school teacher, but he teaches eighth grade, a far more serious grade.  I used to teach eighth grade; I remember it well, the whole "prep the students for high school" spiel.  I've also taught sixth grade, which involved a lot of snot-wiping and reminders that farts are not weapons and should be used conservatively when in the classroom.

Seventh grade?  Well, that's an entirely different animal, and I am a masterful animal trainer.

My brother and his wife very innocently ask me if I would mind very much if they were to go to the nearby sporting goods store to check out kayaks.

Mind?!  Dude, I live for this kind of an opportunity.

My bro and his wife are barely out of the driveway, probably not even to the end of their short street, when I gather the boys from whatever video game or TV show might hold their interest.  Before you go accusing me of being insane, yes, I do know that self-engaged teenagers (like sleeping babies) should be left well-enough alone.

I also know that shenanigans don't just happen by themselves.

I set up a small inflatable pool that is filled with water, then add water pistols, bubbles, and water balloons.  I feel like Master Kan from the old television series, Kung Fu.  "When you can snatch the water weapons from my hands, it will be time for Water Wars."  The good news is that the boys are completely game to be party to my bad behavior and ill-honed supervisory skills.  The bad news is that they've already changed out of their swim wear and into their clean clothes.

What starts as organized play turns into all-out warfare, including large-scale water guns and the hose with its high-powered spray nozzle.  Within minutes, water balloons are being rapidly thrown from a huge plastic bowl (which also turns into a water weapon), guns are spewing, hose is spraying, pool is splashing, we are screaming with laughter, and the boys and I are soaked right down to my nephew's new sneakers.  (Ooops.)

This is true war.  We battle and skirmish several times over the next hour until the yard is saturated and most of the water has left the inflatable pool.  I figure that my brother and his wife should be home soon, so we madly pick up all of the busted balloons, and I instruct the boys to dry off, change clothes, and bring me everything wet that they're wearing, including skivvies.  I lay everything out of my car (it's a heat index of over 100, so my black car is like an oven), set the sneakers to drain and start drying out, and begin wiping down the kitchen (where we'd been filling water balloons earlier).

We almost make it.  We are about ten minutes from finishing everything and making it look as if nothing (except all the puddles) is amiss when the boys' parents walk in the door.  We are sooooo busted.  We are also sooooo happy.  (They're happy, too, because they bought two new kayaks at an amazing sale price.)

Later on my youngest nephew tells his mother that he has a sore bump on the side of his head that is producing a bit of a lump.  "I got hit with a water balloon," he laments.

"Yes, you did," I say, "but that's not what caused the lump.  Your brother hit you in the side of the head with a bowl full of water when you ran and slipped right into the pool and did a swam dive in all of your clothes."  Oh, yeah, he says, smiling.

I suppose this makes me a bit of a Cat in the Hat when it comes to my nanny skills.  I do have my limitations, though.  When we see my (new) cousins again at the end of my visit, I behave myself (for the most part).  It's a little early in our new-found relationship for me to be corrupting them, but I am reasonably certain that the next time we get together, there may be water balloons or something equally sinister.

I'm sure they'll understand.  We are family, after all.

STALKING THE HERON

A friend and I are out kayaking on a local pond.  This pond is actually the size of a lake, so there's a lot of acreage to cover, even more so since the water specialists treated the overgrown plant life a few weeks ago.  The pond is sort of out in the woods, and I say "sort of" because it seems like it's secluded, but it is surrounded on all sides by residential homes, busy side streets, and two major interstate routes.

The wildlife that lives here apparently never got the memos about pond status nor proximity to the hubbub of human life.  The pond is loaded with fish that jump out of the water, turtles that sun themselves on rocks and branches, dragonflies that land at will, a cacophony of songbirds, possible beavers (though their dam/den looks a little less active this season), and at least one heron.  The best thing about the pond is that swimming is prohibited, which means its pristine silence and nearly glass-like surface are rarely interrupted by (in)humanity.

My friend has never been kayaking on this pond before, so I tell her about the heron that I've seen on occasional visits.  Maybe we'll see it; maybe we won't.  Instead, we go on a turtle hunt.  I'm not sure this is the best idea in open kayaks since a couple of the snapping turtles I've seen wandering around the pond have shells the size of large pizzas.  Those snappers could probably take a toe or two off if they happened into our water crafts.

Venturing into one of the half-dozen coves, we finally spot two turtles sunning themselves and are also treated to a show of fish jumping out of the water, grabbing water bugs and attempting to snack on the dragonflies that skim the surface.

(Heron in flight on right side, halfway up about 1/4 from edge)

Suddenly, I spot the heron.  This surprises me because usually I hear it before I see it.

Okay, to be honest, the first time I heard the heron's call, very close to me when I kayaked near the water's edge, I was a bit frightened.  There are trails deep into the woods around the pond, and it may not be the smartest thing for a lone kayaker to be out that far into the coves and away from spotters in case of a disaster (not unheard of -- this pond is infamous for the death of at least one person in recent history) or worse.  I mean, the pond is near several getaway routes for insane stalkers (and is very close to the scene of a drive-by body dumping).  The first time I heard the heron near me, my immediate reaction was, "Holy crap, can I out-paddle a crazy person swimming toward me, and will I be able to beat someone's brains in with this plastic paddle?"

All for naught.  No insane stalkers.  It was just a heron, who didn't seem remotely put out by my presence but made it known by its throaty protest that I was in its personal space.

Today, though, the heron doesn't let us get as close, but it also doesn't make a sound.  It simply cranes its neck then takes a short flight around the bend to the next cove.  My friend and I don't get good enough pictures, so we carefully and slowly and near-silently paddle-drift around the corner after the heron.  When it sees us again, it casually flies low to the water and lands in a tuft of trees between the pond's edge and the road.

I am grappling with a new waterproof camera, so I zoom in with my viewfinder, which I later discover is not the camera's most reliable feature.  I get close to the heron again, and still the bird is totally disinterested.  For the third time, the fabulous heron takes flight, this time up and around back from the very first cove.  My friend gets decent pictures and videos; I do not.

After this last flight we decide to leave the poor heron alone.  Even though we never get close and we never hear its call, we also recognize that maybe, just maybe, stalking the heron might be considered bizarre ... or invasive ... or mean ... or insane.

And, dagnabbit, it may well be illegal.

MAD-CAP FRANCONIA SPEED-VACATION: ALL SUMMER IN A DAY

For some reason still unbeknownst to me, I decide to do a day-trip speed vacation to the western side of the White Mountains.  Usually I go to the eastern side or to the Green Mountains or to the Adirondacks or up to Maine.  But I have not been up to Franconia in about two decades, so it's time.  What have I been missing, I wonder?

It starts with three days of unblemished weather being predicted for New England.  This is a first for the summer as up to this point we have had rain (sometimes hours of downpours) every other day.  I make a list of things to do on the western side of the mountain range, mostly of things I have not done before, and I come up with these: The Basin ("ten minute hike to scenic swimming hole"), Boise Rock (boulder with weird overhang where a guy killed and skinned his horse during a blizzard then hunkered under the outcropping inside the hide to save his own life), Profile Lake (where the Old Man in the Mountain used to be but fell down years ago) to kayak (been here, haven't kayaked here), Flume Gorge (touristy), Lost River Gorge (also touristy), Hobo Railroad (a lot of hype for a simple train ride), and the Polar Caves (which I've done several times but they're kind of interesting).

The Basin is not a ten minute hike from the parking lot; it is more like sixty seconds. It isn't a swimming hole as much as it is a glorified, water-filled pot hole.  Worth a trip but only because it's free.  Boise Rock is literally on the highway.  It's a brief turn-off from the highway, park the car, snap some pictures, and move along, but the legend behind it is creepy enough.  When I arrived at 8:25 a.m., it was deserted and impressive and, yes, eerie and haunting.   Two bucket list items down in less than twenty minutes.

I pop back into my car and head north for Profile Lake with the plan to put the kayak in for maybe forty-five minutes (I even have a change of clothes in case I get too wet while paddling).  Apparently I have forgotten that Profile Lake is about 1/10th the size of the pond in my town where I kayak for fun.  I size "the lake" up (or down) and decide that kayaking here is not worth the thirty minutes it might take to row row row my boat around its perimeter.  I drive on by and continue to the long-gone site of the Old Man, say some brief words of wisdom, then head for the Flume.

The gorge itself is awe-inspiring.  The walls stretch high, and the water is active even though it is well past spring thaw.  There are a couple of wooden bridges along the path, and I speed-walk my way through.  Today is not the day to learn about the flora; today is a day to take pictures and move along.  There's one part of the trail that is downhill and rather unexciting just past Liberty Gorge (part of the Flume system), and I'm the only one around, so I jog through with my camera banging up against my rib cage.

Next stop is Lost River Gorge, which has super-skinny parts of its boardwalk trail, and it also has a series of caves that I almost attempt then think better of it when I hear people in the caves complaining of darkness and harrowing turns.  I am wearing sunglasses; this is not proper cave-wear.  The series of waterfalls and the amazing sound, though, make for spectacular pictures and decent videos.  There's even a suspension bridge to cross for (mild) adventurers who opt through the additional forest path.

I don't know why I decide to ride the Hobo Railroad, but I eat my lunch in the parking lot, buy a ticket for the eighty-minute ride, and have a relaxing trip on the train.  I am seriously disappointed that there's no real scenery to be had.  We cross a few dry river beds and some tarred roads, stop at a golf course, then head back the same way.  Yawn.  It is a nice break, but I feel the clock ticking away.  If you have little kids, maybe this is for you, but the Hobo Railroad should be renamed the NoGo Railroad.  Don't.  Just don't.

Because I've sped through most of my day, I still have enough daylight to go through the Polar Caves. This is the only part of my trip that will be a true repeat performance.  WHY I choose to go through these caves, especially alone, is beyond me because I am wickedly claustrophobic.  I just avoided those caves at Lost River two hours prior, so I don't know what makes me think this is a smart idea.

I change out of my sunglasses so I can partially see in the caves.  I only avoid two of the caves, one because I would have to squish my entire body (and face) against two sheer cliff walls for about thirty feet before making a tiny hairpin turn to get to the ladder leading out of the cave, and I would die of a heart attack or panic-spurred self-asphyxiation  halfway through.  The other one I avoid because it's the last one and I'm pretty much exhausted by now.  I do, however, trade off the two caves for a ninety-step climb to the Raven's Perch near the top of the sheer rock face above all the caves.

I am glad I go through the Polar Caves, though, because in the second to last cave I catch up to a family with four adolescent boys.  As I come around the corner, just as I am bending down to squeeze through a particularly tight section of the cave, one of the boys near the front whines, "Mom!  Jack FARTED!"  The mom, who realizes that now we are all stuck inside the cave with Jack's gas, looks back at me and makes a face of absolute embarrassment.

I smile back at her.  "I'm a middle school teacher," I assure her, "and I'm immune to adolescent boy farts.  Don't worry about me!"

With this excellent ending to my madcap speed vacation, I am back to my car, on the road, and complete my entire mission in eleven hours, door-to-door.  The best part of it all is that I now feel no great need nor desire to ever do that again.

WATER WARS, BIRTHDAY FUN, AND OTHER FOURTH OF JULY NEAR-DISASTERS

Fourth of July is also my birthday.  This actually sucks because everyone has better plans than hanging out eating birthday cake, and also I hate loud noises.  However, I am reasonably patriotic (in a Revolutionary way), so I guess it works out in the end.

This year two of my three kids and their significant others are able to make it (#3 lives many, many states away), and it's a scorcher weather-wise, so I decide to make our lives easy: chili dogs, corn muffins, various other munchies, and then chocolate pudding pie with whipped cream, and angel food cake (store-bought) with strawberries and whipped topping.  Oh, and of course, there's beer and a huge batch of sangria.

Even better than food, we have Water Wars.

First, though, let me admit that the kiddie pool is an epic failure because it won't blow up without an electric pump, which I do not have.  That is the only true logistical bummer to the day.  I do, however, have bubbles, water pistols and guns, and a cache of water balloons.

The water balloons are a challenge because, frankly, they're old.  I've had them for years in a plastic bag because I originally purchased something like 1,000 of them, and I still have 300 (or so) left.  My kitchen faucet is some fancy-schmancy thing, so I have to fill up the balloons in the bathroom.  This turns out to be hysterical because about 15% of the balloons are faulty and break while I am filling them or they let loose mostly-full from the spigot and fly around the small room.  Every time a balloon lets loose, the mirror, counter, floor, walls, and I get soaked.

For some reason, I find this wildly entertaining.

The balloon saga does not end in the filling comedy, either.  I make sure that everyone has a dozen fully-loaded water balloons at their disposal.  We intend to start with balloon games (like balloon toss, target practice...), but it rapidly turns into all-out warfare.  My daughter, who has a strong if errant arm, lobs a water balloon at my head, but I duck.  This maneuver in addition to her strong-armed aim, sends the balloon sailing over the fence behind me and into the neighbor's driveway, where the balloon promptly smacks into a car.

Suddenly, Water Wars becomes Hide-and-Seek as we all run for cover when the car alarm blares.  Oh, shit!  We are in trouble!!!!!!  My second thought is, Oh crap, I hope they're not away for the week, leaving us all to suffer through the alarm for days on end (not the first time that has happened in this neighborhood).  About forty-five seconds into the gawd-awful noise, the blaring ceases, and we continue with Water Wars, progressing to the water guns.

Once we are all reasonably cooled down, we start blowing bubbles like little kids because very little in the world is better than bubbles.  The day goes smoothly (except for apologizing to the neighbor when he goes to get something out of his car), and the kiddos are released from Mom's Birthday Custody in time to enjoy other Independence Day festivities.

I, on the other hand, must force myself to look away from the leftover, unfilled water balloons.  It's tempting, so tempting, to fill up a bunch more and go crazy dive-bombing them all over the driveway, but, at the risk of re-alarming the neighbors, I think I'll finish up the sangria and call it a successful day.