FREAKS AND PEAKS: AN ISLAND ADVENTURE

The summer misadventures continue with a trip to Peaks Island, which is off the coast of Portland, Maine.  When I say "off the coast," I am quite serious as the island is visible from Portland, and Portland is visible from the island.  It's a fifteen-minute ferry ride from dock to dock.

I am on the ferry with one of my brothers and his family.  My bro and his boys are going to bike the island and go exploring.  His wife and I are going to walk partway around the island, meet them for lunch, then trek back to the dock area and perhaps grab an ice cream or a beer ... or both.  Once the bicycling explorers take off, my SIL and I start down the road with me sharing points of interest:  bike rental place (not today), golf cart rental place (too long a line), umbrella cover museum (no idea but I'm reasonably certain I'll find out eventually), school, fire department, etc.

As we are walking down the street attempting to chat, a family suddenly appears next to us: mom, dad, toddler, and shrieking infant in a stroller, and when I say "shrieking," I think the poor baby is being stabbed.  Apparently it does this a lot because mom and dad seem completely unaware that there are tourists and renters and homeowners and construction workers and rescue personnel all rushing to the sidewalk to assist in whatever heinous crime is happening right there in River City ... er ... Peaks Island.  But no, nothing is amiss, lah-dee-dah, the parents just let the infant howl in extreme distress, talking over it loudly as if they haven't a care in the world.

SIL and I decide to cross the road and walk on the other sidewalk.  Ah, semi-relief.  Until, of course, the family also crosses the street.  We try to walk a little faster.  They also start walking and wheeling a little faster.  Holy crap on a Creamsicle.  We hesitate, stop walking, allow the family to pass, and wait a decent amount of time until the decibels of the howling reach a level acceptable to ears (somewhere just above standing next to a jet engine).

We continue walking, finally losing sight and sound of the family.  There's a corner coming up with two ways to go: right up the tarred road or left down a dirt path toward the ocean.  As we come around the bend, there is the family, happily standing as if anticipating our arrival.  (Cue creepy music here.)  SIL and I decide to turn down the dirt path.  Surely the family won't want to push the heavy stroller of bawling flesh over such moguls and through such a dusty avenue.

Not even ten feet into our escape route, I turn to my SIL and whisper, "They're following us, aren't they?"  She cautiously glances back and then says almost incredulously, "Yes.  Yes, they are."

By the time we reach City Point, a scenic vista at the end of the dirt path, the family has managed to catch up to us.  SIL generously offers to take a family picture for them with their cell phone, then we continue toward our destination: an old dance hall style building with polished wood floors inside and a remarkable view outside, a white camp-like structure perched on its own peninsula.  The family stops us by calling out, "Do you know any place we can have a picnic lunch?"

My SIL points to the distant building, our ultimate destination, and says, "Over there are some picnic tables."

Argh!  That's MY lunch spot!  No screaming babies!  NO SCREAMING BABIES!

"Or right here," I say with a huge smile.  "Look how flat these large rocks are.  You could sit riiiiiiiiight heeeeeeeeeere."  I see they're debating the three-quarter-mile stroll to my lunch spot on the peninsula.  The baby winds up again, and I know it's only a matter of time before one of us (me or a parent) ends up being pitched into the water over bad parenting skills.

Before you judge me, please remember that this baby has been screeching now for close to thirty minutes that we have heard -- who knows how long up to that point.  I don't care if it's colic, hunger, wet diaper, or mere frustration -- a small infant shouldn't be straining its vocal chords or be in distress for that length of time without some form of human interaction.  That's my opinion, and I'm sticking to it.

Suddenly, I perk up.  I have a brilliant, self-preserving idea.  "I believe we just passed a school a little ways back.  That might be a wonderful place to have lunch with kids."  Sweet smile, batting eyelashes, bright eyes like it's the best idea since the discovery of popcorn.  Meanwhile, I am concentrating all of my brain power on mind control:  Go to the school.  Go to the school.  Go to the school...

"Oh, yes!"  the parents exclaim in unison, "the school!  We really don't walk that far to ..." and they point off in the distance to my lunch spot, "... there."

As soon as the family entourage turns, we are off like shots down another dirt path and away from Freak Family.  We meet up with my brother and nephews and have a fabulous, relaxing, quiet lunch.  Well, except for the kid on the rocks in the water telling his dad that he is going to have diarrhea and constantly sticking his hands down the backside of his bathing suit.  That's awkward, but it isn't a couple of parents ignoring a screaming baby, so diarrhea is actually an acceptable alternative, especially since it will belong to someone else.

After lunch The boys head off on their bikes in search of old WWII turrets and towers, and SIL and I mosey back toward town.  I stop to take pictures of flowery bushes and rowboat planters and decorated nautical ship wheels and an antique bike in a tree and the umbrella cover museum (which will be open in exactly five minutes) and interesting houses and colorful front doors, when suddenly I hear voices.

Oh, dearest God, it's that family.  

That family is strolling down the street in front of us almost two hours after we've managed to dump them back at City Point.  We are far enough behind them that we can no longer tell if the infant is crying, but it almost seems quiet.  Perhaps, I'm just speculating here because I cannot see the front of the carriage, perhaps they left the child behind at the school.  I'm not judging them; I'm just speculating.

We decide to let them get ahead of us, wait a few minutes for the museum to open, then lose ourselves in the tiny room filled with other curiosity seekers.  Turns out the museum is actually a crazy little shop with an quirky docent who intends to hold us all captive until we have been lulled into some kind of boredom coma, forcing us all to buy stupid stuff we don't need.  I take a couple of pictures of her umbrella covers, which, it turns out, are not the actual tops of umbrellas as I had hoped, but are those small cigar-shaped carrying cases.  Honestly, and I apologize to the docent if she is reading this, it looks like a bunch of fabric condoms tacked to the wall, and I find it disturbingly hilarious. Having been held captive by crazy docents before (opera house museum, little red schoolhouse...), I understand that my only escape is to be impolite and push my way back outside while Umbrella Cover Woman is giving her monotonous speech.

Once we rendezvous with the gents, we grab homemade ice cream, do a little shopping,  then queue up to stand in line for the ferry back to the mainland.  Although I don't immediately see the stroller family, we do end up surrounded by two parents with five children, all on bikes, all ignoring the rules to get off their bikes, all screaming for some reason: One fell off the bike, one is tired and wants to lay down in the street, one wants to run people over, and one, who isn't crying, has yet to discover (which she will shortly) that her back tire is completely and totally flat.  The little buggah running over people with his bike is named Calvin, as everyone on the dock gets to hear being shrieked over and over and over and over and over and over again, probably three hundred times, as we all wait somewhat impatiently (and some very rudely) for the ferry.

Once we are safely aboard, we wave goodbye to Peaks Island and hello to Portland (because we can still see both clearly from everywhere), and grab a spot up the stairs where strollers and bikes cannot go and blissfully, thankfully, and mercifully, the fifteen-minute ride back is quiet, relaxing, and breathtakingly beautiful.

FLASHY CARS AND FLASHY BATHROOM ANTICS

Years ago my father, acting on one of his few truly parental leanings, took the family to the Larz Anderson Auto Museum, which houses the oldest car collection in the United States.  The museum is located in the city of Brookline, within spitting distance to Boston's medical hub and Fenway Park.  I remember two things about the museum: former director of the Boston Pops Arthur Fiedler's firefighters' helmet collection and an Alfa Romeo.

I am reasonably certain that Fiedler's collection is probably housed at the Boston Fire Museum now (another outing for my bucket list), but I am hoping to spy that Alfa Romeo again.  I remember it was a 1925 car, possibly a Roadster but more likely a Spider, and was either red with a white interior, or, I seem to recall, white with a red interior.  It was at the time and still remains from my childhood memory, the best looking damn car I had ever seen.

Which begs the question, why has it taken me so long to get back to the museum?  Afraid of bursting the bubble on one of the few positive childhood family memories?  Probably.

Anyway, I add the Larz Anderson Auto Museum to my list of things I will do this summer.  It seems like every time I try to go, though, something happens.  I either have another commitment or else the museum isn't open for some reason.  Finally, after the museum is closed on Saturday for some a private event, I decide to drive down there on Sunday.  I check the schedule and nothing major is planned at the museum for Sunday - no closings, no special events, just a regular day.

I am reasonably adept at getting around in Boston.  I can usually find my way via landmarks if I don't actually know the roads, but I end up being heralded through Boston a different way.  I am used to going through Kenmore Square and past Fenway to get to Brookline, but this time I circumvent Fenway and come out deep in the medical area.  I'm familiar with this part of town, so I comfortably follow both Waze and my GPS to Brookline, arriving just in time to find ...

... no place to park at the museum.

Apparently the website is incorrect, and there is indeed a lawn event going on.  I park along the street about a quarter of a mile away, walk past the community gardens, and discover that there is (pleasant surprise) no extra charge to drool over a hundred or more BMW's, which I do before entering the museum itself.  I am not big into BMW's.  Sorry, folks, but they're pretty standard, run-of-the-mill to me.  One poor guy stands next to his BMW, trying to get the attention of judges by whining about how only a few of this particular model were manufactured in this particular color ... yadda yadda yadda.  Good luck, Bro, because your car looks like about fifty others on the lawn.

Finally, I make my way into the museum itself.  A woman in a flowery dress rushes up to me and orders me to be careful and "Do NOT reach over the ropes or you will set off ALARMS!"  Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity may recall how I set off alarms (three of them) at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts when taking a class of miscreants through, a trek that somehow included a painting worth millions balancing on my scalp.  No worries today, lady; I'm not touching ANYTHING.  However, many people (mostly with kids) do reach over the ropes and touch the cars.  I keep trying to run away from them so that I don't get blamed for any alarms this time.

I stop by the ladies' room and discover that the one-seater is right in front of a window with a flimsy see-through curtain that leads out to the lawn.  Oh well.  Maybe if I leave the light off, no one will see my hindquarters as I pull down my pants and sit on the toilet.  I wave at people outside just to be polite, finish my business, wash my hands, and promptly head back to see what's happening around the halls of the building (now that I have flashed everyone from the loo).

The car collection is impressive.  It's not a huge museum, by any standards, but the cars include antiques, classics, kids' pedal cars, an old soapbox derby car, very old cars in various states of disrepair, old-fashioned bicycles, and the preserved tack room with antique saddles (the museum is an old carriage house).  Alas, there is no Alfa Romeo of memory there, as it was presumably on loan at the time.  I do, however, gravitate strongly to the 1937 Packard Super Eight limo and a nifty looking 1946 MG TC.

On my way out I decide I should probably hit the ladies' room one more time because I'm going home a different way and just might meander longer than the GPS suggests.  Again, I leave the light turned off and let daylight streaming through the flimsy curtain guide my way.  When I stop to wash my hands, I notice that someone has removed her bra and left it unceremoniously on the counter by the sink.  My mind reels with the possibilities:  Flashing the crowd from the window?  Trying to enhance the possibilities of riding in one of the BMW's by letting the girls bounce free?  Change of clothes including underthings?  I admit that I am stymied.  I have no idea how or why a random bra ends up in a mostly-see-through bathroom, but it clearly doesn't belong in the display of The Golden Age of Cars.

Safely on my way (and yes, still wearing my own damn bra), I make a mental note of my next possible adventure:  Fiedler's helmets are nowhere to be found, so I'll go on a wild goose chase for those very soon.

A QUICK SUMMER ASSESSMENT

I probably shouldn't say this because I'm cursing myself, but I'm going to say it, anyway: My summer shenanigans have been relatively successful.

I know, I know; there are still a few weeks left for disaster to strike.  However, other than the two nails in my car's rear driver's side tire, life has been good.  I have not stayed sedentary for longer than two and a half days, and even then it is mandatory as I wait to have the car repaired and serviced with its regularly scheduled maintenance.

Don't be jealous.  My adventurous lifestyle is less from wanderlust than it is from avoidance.

You see, I have a list of things to do: clean the basement out, go through years of paperwork, organize all of the family photographs (that I somehow inherited from both grandmothers), do some creative writing, read some books to clear off those overly crowded shelves, clean out the kitchen cabinets for cleansing and purging, go through my clothes for donating, and on and on and on.

About the only thing on this list that I have semi-accomplished is the book reading, but even that has been an epic failure because instead of weaning out the books I already have, I add four more trips to various bookstores and add about a dozen new books.  Oh, and I also discover Kindle (which I have been fighting tooth and nail).  Kindle is great except that I keep reaching down to turn the pages.

This is not to say that summer has itself been an epic failure.  On the contrary!  This summer has been, and continues to be, seriously epic.  After avoiding sharks on the Cape, my daughter co-pilots with me to see a concert (Barenaked Ladies with Hootie and the Blowfish), then I crash her significant other's family's resort vacation up north on the Big Lake.  I survive my first Uber ride (with a driver who can't tell left from right) and am treated to a piano serenade while at dinner (from The Rolling Stones to Dave Brubeck ... kind of like surreal elevator music but in a restaurant).

I do stop this week to do some work for school.  I'm not crazy - I know what I take time to do now will come back to bless me the final week of summer break.  The janitorial staff has already waxed my room and is prepping to wax the long hallway.  I beg and cajole and talk myself past the machines so I can do a quick hit-and-run for important texts that are locked into my classroom closet, and I spend hours in the library semi-working and joking around with my cohort and the summer technology staff.  After two days of school prep, I'm antsy-in-the-pantsy and ready for adventures.

I see more beach time in my future, another trip to Maine, brothers and their families coming to town, and maybe (just maybe) I can squeeze one more crazy, partially-planned trip into the time remaining.  In the meantime, my basement, kitchen, bookshelves, photo albums, and all the rest can just wait.

That's right, chores: Take a chill-pill and get a hold of yourselves.  Don't crowd me, to-do list!  Seriously.  I mean, what do you all think autumn is for?  Other than more madcap adventures, that is.

GREAT TIME, GREAT TORNADO, AND GREAT WHITE

Sidelined!  Damnation, I've been sidelined!

Last week in the midst of my misadventures, somehow I managed to get not one but two nails embedded into the same tire.  This is not just idiocy on my part, it's talent.  I don't know how nor where nor when, but I suspect it happened at the Decordova Museum since I didn't like it much.

That's right.  I said it: I did not like the Decordova Museum.

The Decordova Museum is like the Institute of Contemporary Art's lame cousin (and anyone who has read my blog might recall that I detest the ICA).  Never have I seen so much amazing, available space wasted so blatantly.  After suffering through the ridiculous admittance fee, I was done with the museum itself in about a millisecond, so I drove around the dirt parking lot to see if there might be other paths with other sculptures to see because the stuff outside the museum far exceeds the crap inside of it.  That's probably where the nails came into play, the little metal bastards.

But I digress, sort of.  The nails in my tire...

The day after the Decordova debacle, I am due in Chatham.  Luckily, I am only driving as far as Medford, which isn't too far, so I ignore the low tire message.  Okay, I don't totally ignore it; I pump up my tires with a super-powered, hand-operated air pump that I keep in my trunk.  You see, my tires have sent this to me this message before, and they've only been a few PSI below their required levels.  So, yes, I drive to and from Medford and ignore my car's warning system.

My friend drives us down to Chatham so we can spend the day with other friends who live about a half mile from the beach.  The only fly in this story is that we are visiting three days post-tornado.  Well, we think it's "a" tornado -- turns out to be three tornadoes.   But, again, I digress a bit.

On our way through Chatham, we drive right over the swath of street that the tornado crossed.    How do we know?  We know because huge trees are ripped out of the ground, street signs are twisted and tossed on the roadside and on top of bushes, and there is a path of torn ground on either side of the tarred street.

I have had the unfortunate displeasure of experiencing two microbursts that cut through about five miles of property each, both of which passed over my house and took out two giant trees about twenty feet from where I was hunkered down in my home.  One microburst took the first tall maple tree; a second one a couple of years later took out the other tall maple tree.  Thank you very much, but that would be a big, fat NO to tornadoes after living through that shit.  So, looking at the damage here from what the weather people label F1, I kind of poop myself for you people in the Midwest with your F3 and F4 and, god forbid, F5 monsters.

Our friends' property is unscathed except for their car.  They happened to be driving and took cover in a parking lot, where roof shingles from a nearby building smacked the car's hood, scraping and denting it like it was a toy.  This damage came from the indirect hit of the tornado, from them being in between two  touchdowns.  Yup, the tornado came along on the ground, lost its footing around the parking lot vicinity, then touched down again.  Indeed, luck was with them ... except for the (shit on the) shingles.

Later, after surveying the damage and hearing the tale, we head to the beach for a walk.  I'm not really feeling the ocean kayaking nor too much swimming (beyond my knees) at this point because I consider myself lucky: my tires didn't go flat yet, my friends survived the tornado, and we are having a nice visit without the need to sight-see any more tornado damage.  Honestly, I'm not sure I should press my good luck any further.

Besides, there's a huge sign warning swimmers and boaters about the great white sharks in the area.  I am feeling like I've had enough adventure for one day, and I would very much like to return home with as many limbs as those with which I arrived in Chatham.  I still have to limp my tire-weary car home later in the evening, and I'll need at least one foot and one arm to do so.  Better to not risk it.

Of course, now that I've made it home safe and sound and had the nails removed from my tire (I had to replace it, it was that damaged ... yay, me), and I've had a few days to recover while sidelined, I think I'm ready for another adventure.  If no one minds, though, I'll do so without further car issues and certainly would appreciate Mother Nature's cooperation and mercy.