IT AIN’T OVER ‘TIL IT’S OVER

Merry Christmas weekend to all.

Nothing personal, but I am relieved it’s over. 2020 has been a major clusterfuck since March, and I fully expected 2020 to ruin the holidays. I am thrilled to admit that, so far, anyway, Christmas 2020 has come off without a glitch. 

Apparently, I haven’t been paying attention. I am the Christmas ostrich with my head in the melting snow because I had zero idea that the new state restrictions of furthering our collective house arrest started Saturday, December 26th.

I’m healthy (for now), I have food in my house (for now), I went to the bank so I have ready cash available (for now), my car is still running (for now), and I have a job (for now).

On the flip side, I cannot visit my family in neighboring states. I cannot visit my family in North Carolina. I cannot run into the store for supplies without risking my life either by waiting in line in the freezing weather or by ignorant people who don’t know masks go over their snot-runny noses. I mean, at least if we’re going to play along, let’s do it with gusto.

Much as I enjoyed Christmas 2020, it looks like 2021 is gearing up to be instant replay. Hang on to your stocking caps, folks.

BUBBA THE BLIZZARD

Oh, my God! OH, MY GOD! It’s gonna snow! IT’S GONNA SNOW!!!!! Buy milk and bread and eggs and wipe out the entire store, and, hey, because it’s still Covid-19, don’t forget to hoard the toilet paper, too!

Let’s be honest. Fifteen inches of snow is impressive. But, a blizzard? Armageddon? Biggest storm of the century? Please. This is a standard snowstorm here in New England. What are you people even talking about? We could shovel and clear fifteen inches of snow in our sleep, and most of us probably have.

By the way, who started naming these winter storms? Blizzard Bubba, or whatever the freak they called it. Do NOT name our snowstorms for us. We are not weenies who need names on our storms to validate them.

Listen up: When winter comes, it snows. When snow comes, it sticks to the ground. When snow sticks to the ground, it accumulates. When there is a storm, there is usually wind. When there is wind and snow, sometimes people lose power.

THESE CONDITIONS DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT EQUAL TERROR.

Here are five pointers for predicting the weather in New England:

1. Don’t.

2. Please don’t.

3. Just don’t.

4. Do not.

5. Tape your mouth shut.

 

STAMPING MY WHEELS OVER CHRISTMAS

Things have been crazy for the upcoming holiday season. Every year I say I’ll be ready, and every year I’m not.  I make it to the final second then berate myself for never quite doing it right. I promise that next year will be better . . . and it isn’t.

I’m not sending many cards this year (sorry, folks), but I decided that I should probably get some Christmas stamps. I had a dozen left over from last Christmas, so I wanted to get a sheet or two more. Turns out, so does everyone else! No Christmas stamps to be found anywhere. (Remind me to do what I did last year: Buy Christmas stamps AFTER Christmas when the late-arriving USPS holiday stash finally arrives.)

I have the choice of flags. Yes, flags.

For crying out loud, haven’t you got anything else? I’m begging the woman – please. Please go look. Do you have Scooby-Do? (No.) Artistic  anything? (No.) Flowers? (No.) Children? (No.) So, what have you got? (Flags. I told you. FLAGS.)

What about those, I say, pointing to a bulletin board behind me. Oh, let me check, she says.

And just like that, my few Christmas cards are going out with Hot Wheels stamps. That’s, right, Hot Wheels. Like MatchboX, but faster.

Happy Advent #3 and merry almost Christmas. Vrooooom vroooooooooom!

2020 HOLIDAY PREAMBLE

 

I’m trying.

Truly, I am.

2020 is just such a motherfucker.

The tree is up, though it took days and required assistance to decorate.

I actually hung a small wreath on the door.

I decorated the front porch with lights.

I made a list.

(I haven’t checked it twice.)

I washed the Christmas mugs and plates.

I lit the Advent candle.

I’m even bracing for the second snowstorm of the season.

(The first one interrupted Halloween.)

But, 2020.

Holy Hell.

As Christmas approaches, I can’t hold back the anxiety of January.

Yes, the approaching January.

The reality that 2021 will be a vapid continuation of this shit show.

Smile – laugh – be cheery.

Pretend – imagine – believe.

Deny – deny – deny.

2020 is just such a motherfucker.

Truly I am.

I’m trying.

 

THANKSGIVING 2020: CRISIS AVERTED -- SORT OF

Thanksgiving Morning:

Ah, all I have to do today is bake pumpkin bread and corn muffins. Life is good.  My daughter, who lives next door, is doing ALL of the heavy lifting this year. She baked pies last night and today is cooking the turkey, all twenty-one pounds of it. This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever—

(Mom? Uh, Mommy? My, ummm, my oven is on fire.)

Fire?

(Well, it’s sparking. We shut it off, but it’s still doing it. We’re going to unplug it now. We called a fireman friend for advice.)

Fireman? We’re on fire?

(No, just the heating element in the oven.  But, uh, the turkey just went in and . . . )

I have a small Alice-Brady-in-the-wall-four-feet-off-the-floor oven. I am not even sure a twenty-one pound turkey will fit into my oven, and I’m willing to bet I cannot lift it in and out of the oven to baste it because the stove is against the outside wall, which means I cannot reach in with both arms to lug the damn bird across the kitchen.

But Thanksgiving is now in triage. We must save Thanksgiving. We transfer the turkey to my house, change it into a smaller turkey pan so it fits into the smaller over, then realize the vented cover will not fit. We wrap the top of the turkey with foil and breathe collective sighs of relief.

Except now my oven is in use, and all I have left at my fingertips is a small toaster oven. Very small. I can cram the cornbread in, but there is no way I can pull off the pumpkin bread. We can supplement with crescent rolls after the turkey is out, though.

At the first turkey basting, I try to baste the giant bird without taking it out of the oven, which works until I attempt to replace the foil. I reach in a little too far and too high and catch the back of my left ring finger on the upper heating element in my oven. Apparently, heating elements are not our friends today. I slam the oven door shut and look at the half-inch hole in my finger, and I say “hole” because I have a chunk missing from my finger, and the burned area is pure white like ash. I have seen red burns, even purple ones. I’ve never seen a white burn with a chunk of flesh missing.

Now we have gone from turkey triage to finger triage. Cold water is fine except anyone who has ever burned himself will attest to the fact that once the burn leaves cold water, the pain is intense. So I run my wet finger from the kitchen faucet to the bathroom faucet and, while holding my hand in the bathroom sink under cold water, I rummage around under the sink with my right hand trying to find the medical cream and band-aids.

Meanwhile, the cornbread is in the toaster oven, and I almost forget about it because the timer is also for basting the turkey. The cornbread and my finger are saved, and then hours later, like magic: PERFECT TURKEY. This plus rolls and cornbread and squash and carrots and mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce, and green bean casserole = DISASTER AVERTED. Of course, it makes a great, if not completely typical story because what would Thanksgiving 2020 be without an oven fire, a burnt finger, and magnificent success!

I HATE SHOPPING BUT I NEED STUFF

 

I despise shopping. I especially detest shopping on weekends along with every schmoe in the world. However, my new work hours make getting anywhere after school impossible. So, Saturday morning finds me trying to beat the weekend crowds to two places: Home Depot and Michaels.

All I need at Home Depot are lightbulbs. Yes, lightbulbs. I probably could buy them at the local hardware store, but if I go to Home Depot, I can spend more money on stuff I don’t need. And, I do. I buy batteries for Christmas toys (like the barking/singing stuffed dog and the walking penguin), and I buy battery-operated lights to put outside on the porch, like I really need to do that since I am inside and the lights are outside. But, hey, I just bought batteries, so why not, right?

As for Michaels, the only things I really need are those small “fairy” lights for some mini trees. I get there early because Home Depot self-checkout goes faster than I expect and I beat the crowds. There is a woman pacing back and forth outside Michaels, obviously distressed that she cannot get inside. I laugh at her, thinking perhaps she is an anxious crafter. I am wrong. Turns out that she is an employee who is dangerously close to being late for work. After she is let in, I watch the door, waiting another ten minutes for the store to officially unlock.

Turns out I am not the only one watching for the opening of doors. At exactly 8:58, a dozen people joust for first place in the socially-distant but impatient waiting game. Still sitting in my car, I don’t get it. This isn’t a fire sale; it’s the tail end of a sale that’s been going on all week. I don’t imagine many things will be left on the sale shelves. No matter. I am after “fairy” lights. Except, I also see the lights with snowmen, and Santa, and mini trucks with Christmas trees in the beds. These are all battery operated lights. And, what do you know, I just bought a crap-load of batteries.

I buy way too much at Michaels, way more excess stuff than I do at Home Depot. I could probably overbuy anywhere: auto supply store, paint store, computer store … you put me there, I’ll find something to buy, which is shockingly against all of my principles. Remember: I despise shopping.

The only problem is that shopping doesn’t detest me back.

 

FEELING FRUITY

 I am exhausted. Truly exhausted. Say what you want about teachers (just don’t say anything within my earshot), but we are working our asses off. The shortest workday I’ve had has been twelve hours, and my weekends don’t fare much better. Sixteen hours a day is my current average.

 Self-care time, right?

 Unfortunately, self-care time is at the expense of sleep because the school work still needs to get done, prepped, scheduled, and executed. Weighing my sanity against sleep, sleep usually loses. So why … why would I buy fruit at the store knowing damn well I will never have time to eat it because I am sitting rooms away from the kitchen, chained to computers (plural – you read that correctly).

 I have this idea that fruit will help me to stay healthy. Sleep would actually do that, but fruit is easier to manage and far more plentiful. Anyway, I end up with a perfectly fine batch of browning bananas plus a pint of absolutely lovely blueberries. I must decide: throw out the fruit or throw out a couple of hours of work.

 Thank goodness I choose to sacrifice work.

 Even the warm, summery temperatures don’t deter me. I get up early on a Sunday morning, ignore my school laptop, and bake banana muffins and banana bread from scratch. This actually makes me happier than I thought. Oh, sure, it catches up to me Sunday night when I am falling asleep at the computer, but I have banana bread to keep me company.

 On Thursday I come home from work after a day of only two meetings plus live (meaning teaching kids at school and at home all at the same time) classes all day. Should I be prepping for the next day? Should I be posting grades? Should I be fielding emails? Of course I should, but I’m not. I am baking lemon blueberry muffins and bread.

 The only bad results of my baking self-care workshops are these: I lose time doing school stuff, I lose sleep, and I eat way too much melted butter. Truth be told, though, I really do feel better.  Exhausted . . . but fruitier.

WEATHER OR NOT . . . SIXTY DEGREES OF SEPARATION

 Last weekend we are under a thick blanket of early snow, sub-freezing temperatures,

and leaves still falling off the trees and collecting on the snow-crusted ground. Seven days later we are outside in short sleeves and shorts enjoying sunny temperatures in the mid-seventies. 

This scenario is why people who live in New England laugh at weenies who claim "drastic temperature changes make (them) sick." Like people who fly from Florida to anywhere in the North and then claim their sudden onset of pneumonia is because of the sixty-degree temperature change in mere hours. Suck it up, Buttercup. We often do this on a daily basis.

That's right. We have mastered the art of blasting the heat in the morning and countering it by blasting the air conditioners in the afternoon. I never take the ac unit out until whatever weekend is closest to Halloween. Not going to lie -- two of the three ac unit are still sitting directly under the windows in which they had been resting since May, and I briefly considered tossing at least one of them right back into the window around noontime today.

The New England weather is its own kind of psychopath. We never know what it's going to be. We can have snow in May and October, and it can be nearly one hundred degrees in early April. It's crazy . . . crazy wonderful. If I had to wake up every day to the same damn weather, be it hot or cold, I'd be out of my bloody mind in no time.

Suffice it to say that the Christmas decorations did not come out today. It seemed too much like Californian weather to put out Santa's sleigh, which is how I know I'll never survive if I am forced to retire somewhere perpetually "pleasant." I'm far, far too ornery for that shit.

Besides, the NE weather, like me, can go from hot to cold and right back again faster than Reagan's head spins in The ExorcistI. Except for the sudden spewing eruption of pea soup, that seems reasonably fitting to me.

HALLMARK STRIKES AGAIN!

 Well, it’s official. Hallmark channel says it’s Christmas.

 Not going to lie: I’m a sucker for a decent romance movie. I have no real preference on movie genres, so, to be frank, I’m a sucker for any kind of movie. I don’t go to the movie theater, though. I like movies on my own terms with free food, excellent beverages, and no line at the bathroom.

Hallmark isn’t the only Christmas movie channel. Lifetime has deviated from their typical slasher-hacker genre to the holiday season, as well, and there are others. However, if I’m going to turn on mindlessly sappy entertainment with no concerns about missing chunks of the plot to do real-world things (like shower or eat dinner or grade papers), Hallmark is my go-to. With the exception of one Hallmark movie I’ve watched, the current relationship always loses out to the rekindled or brand new relationship. Go figure! Honestly, I didn’t know there were that many people in the world willing to settle for idiots in the first place, but what do I know.

Anyway, the best way to plan my movie watching spree is to check the television listings. I can usually do this with my naked eyes because the channel listings on the TV are large. I can also use my distance glasses for clarity, but even my reading glasses will work across the room.

 In other words, I can see the damn listings.

Last weekend I turned on the television, hoping to plan my channel-hopping Christmas movie watching (yes, I get three different Hallmark channels on my telly). I browsed through the on-set guide without my glasses.

All of a sudden, the listing was gobblygook.

I strained my eyes to see the title of the movie, but apparently my vision was having none of it. Fearing the onset of a migraine (blurred vision is a common symptom), I quickly reached for the first set of glasses and came up with the readers. Okay, so these are excellent for up-close but sometimes blur a little at a distance, but they’re still functional.

Still nothing but letter jumbles. What. The. Hell.

I scrambled around to find my distance glasses, also known as my driving glasses, also known to my students as my “Oh, NOW I can see you” glasses. These glasses would solve my problem and tell me exactly what movie title it was that I could not decipher. I gallantly placed my distance glasses on my nose, looked across the room, and read:

dekhckhkcvgkufghewhjdoqiwjeohbkwhebcdkx

Turns out my panic was for naught. Hallmark had messed up their own line-up and written two different Christmas movie titles in the same time slot for the same channel. Part of me was relieved that I wasn’t having a stroke, but the other part was totally enraged. How could I possibly be expected to plan my viewing if I had no idea the title of the movie playing at that time?

Oh, wait. Never mind. I’ll watch anything Christmas-related because I know how it ends. Happily. And ever after, at that, gobblygook be damned.

CONTEMPORARY FOOD ART

My friend and her fiance know how to cook. Actually, I suspect that it's mostly her fiance who cooks. The meals always look amazing, but I have developed this strange fetish about turning their culinary beauty into sick-looking pieces of contemporary art.

First and foremost, I am not a huge fan of what some people consider "contemporary" art, and this is coming from someone who much prefers modern looking thing: furniture, dishes, silverware, decorations... A few years ago I decided to visit the Institute of Contemporary Art (ICA) and discovered that many artists (not all, but far more than one would ever suspect) pass off absolute bullshit as "contemporary" art: a chair stuck to a wall, a ream of paper glued together piece by piece, magic marker lines on a canvas that a kindergartener could've done better. Sorry if you're a contemporary artist, but I'll be honest enough to tell you that you probably suck.

And I suck, too, which is why I am so fascinated with turning my friend's food into art.

I'll be honest enough, too, to admit that my art career started with weather radar images, particularly thunderstorm imagery, and my art sucks, too. My art is improving, though, because I am using a stylus now, so I'm not embellishing free-hand on my phone any longer. The food is a fabulous medium as long as I stick to pictures and don't actually try dragging my hands through any of it, although that has distinct possibilities, as well.

I'm waiting to be discovered. If my friend's fiance continues to cook and post pictures for my entertainment, I may have enough fodder for my own show at the ICA. If that happens and I get my own exhibition, I'll invite all of my friends and I'll hire my friend's fiance to cater the event. Imagine that! People could watch the artist and muse working live!

Oh, well. An artist can dream, right? In the meantime, I hope those two don't mind my thoughtless and completely tacky renditions of their otherwise fabulous meals. Maybe someday we'll all be famous together!

THUNDERBIRDS . . . AGAIN!

I don’t watch network TV anymore. Actually, considering what a TV junkie I used to be, I don’t watch much of anything anymore. I cut the cord with cable TV about eighteen months ago and have been a semi-dedicated Sling TV viewer ever since. I have access to Hulu and Netflix and some other apps. (I downloaded PBS so I could watch Poldark because, holy smokes, have you seen Aiden Turner in that show?)

I am completely happy that network television is failing. I’ve had a serious burr up my butt since Jericho was cancelled (even though we and thousands of our closest friends express-sent tons, and I do mean tons, of peanuts to the CBS headquarters in NY and LA and managed to save a second season).  I’ve even been skipping Wicked Tuna and Pillow Talk and my other reality TV binges, have not watched a single Hallmark movie, and have gone days without turning on the television at all.

This morning for some reason, though, I decide to see what’s on the telly. I skip past my usual favorites and head on down the list of obscure Sling TV channels. I am passing the grid-view listings at record pace when my fingers suddenly come to a dead standstill.

My God. For real? Are my eyes truly seeing this? It cannot be. It must be some terrible remake. There is no way on this wonderful Earth that Sling TV could possibly be privy to this. And yet … I turn to the channel it states, click on, and …

It’s the original Thunderbirds.

As I type this blog entry, I am suffering from déjà vu because I seriously think this scenario has played out before. But, I cannot help myself. I am entranced and watch the show. It’s full of intrigue and clever writing and sass and mystery and suspense and humor. I actually laugh out loud at the plot line at a point where it is supposed to be funny, not because it’s cheesy bad.

Best of all, it has MARIONETTES. That’s right. This is a doll show.

That being said, the show was one of the best animated series to ever hit the airwaves. It’s all about a guy and his five sons who live on an island, I think, with a rich London agent lady and her strange manservant, and each of the sons is responsible for a different Thunderbird specialty air/space machine.  The animator (or marionator?) later worked on Bond films and two Superman flicks, so this is no small-potatoes outfit. He is also quoted as calling the 2004 remake “a load of crap.”

Regardless, watching this show has been a wonderful throwback to some of my youngest, fondest memories. The show ran for one year, 1965-1966. It’s absolutely campiness at its finest, and I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone with a television. But, you won’t get it if you only watch network TV – another reason right there why I hope the Big 3 fail.

THE BRITISH AREN'T STAYING AT THIS HOTEL

I’ve always wanted to spend the night at a hotel in Boston, overlooking the skyline, but considered it an extravagant pipe-dream. After all, I live a mere train ride away from the city, and I’m in and out of Boston multiple times a month for mere entertainment purposes.

However, my daughter’s wedding (small and Covid-safe, thank you very much) entailed a chance to stay overnight at the Revere Hotel. The Revere is a shout-out to Paul Revere’s much touted and largely thwarted ride from Boston to … as far as he made it … warning the colonists that “The British (were) coming!” A block away from Boston Common, I suppose it’s a rightly fitting moniker for the hotel.

The décor of the twenty-four story hotel is all 1775/1776 Americana, and I freaking loved it. The rooms are all Revolutionary artsy and there’s a life-sized art deco metal sculpture of Revere on his horse in the lobby sitting area that is the absolute coolest thing I’ve ever seen in a hotel. Even the spotless rooms bore eclectic touches – artistic lamps, paintings, sculptures, etc.

The small after-party took place on the seventh floor roof-top deck that looks down and out to the city and up to the rest of the hotel. We didn’t have the typical tourist’s skyline view of Boston, so out-of-towners might’ve been disappointed not to be immediately facing the Pru and the Hancock Tower, but those of us who truly love our city knew exactly what we were looking over.

In the morning I hoofed it about two minutes to the Arlington T then rode the nearly empty subway to North Station and caught the early train home (an hour early … thank goodness I decided to buy the ticket before getting breakfast) and ended up walking through a car show near my house.

The funny thing was when a woman in Boston asked me about a particular T line service, I must’ve looked like the native I am because I immediately responded with, “Well, you can get as far as Haymarket, but the orange line isn’t running to Oak Grove from North Station because they’re redoing that stop, so get off at Haymarket if you’re heading any further.”

Holy crap, where did that come from? And now I have to wonder, did I call it Haymahkit? Sometimes when I’m in the city, I forget that the alphabet has an “R” in it unless the word actually starts with R. Hmmmm, does that make it the Reveeyah Hotel?

I often do Boston “like a tourist,” and I suppose I am one since I don’t actually live within city limits. Now my wish to stay in Boston as if I really am a tourist has been realized. I guess the only thing left is to take a Duck Tour. Yup, I’ve never done that, either. Tourist trip re-do, here I come!

BINDER CLIP FOOTBALL

How do you keep entertained at a Mexican restaurant when there is only one server for the entire restaurant?

This is a serious question. Folks, you never know when you might have to survive in the Mexican Restaurant Wild. Oh, sure, you could drink margaritas (of course, we do), but that’s not enough. It might be a half hour before the server returns to your table. Maybe even forty-five minutes.

Binder Clip.

That’s right. You heard me. You need to bring along a mini-binder clip.

I find one randomly stuck inside my sweatshirt pocket. I must’ve put it there from work or something. Anyway, I put the binder clip on the table and immediately start flicking it like that plastic frog game, the one where you squish down the frog’s butt-end and it leaps across the table.

The Binder Clip Football Game keeps us entertained the whole time we are there, about ninety minutes, having a few drinks while waiting for TAKE-OUT food. Yes, we are waiting for a TAKE-OUT order.  The best part is that we entertain those around us, too. The binder clip sails across our table, on to the floor, over the booth backs, into the far window, past the register, into our cleavage, across our shoulders, into our foreheads, into the tortilla chips . . .

Honestly, it’s cheap and satisfying entertainment. When we go to leave, a woman three booths away says, “You two sounded like you were having so much fun!”

Should we tell her? Who would believe us? Will people judge us when we admit it? Oh, what the hell.

“Yes, we were. We were playing with a binder clip.”

The expression on the woman’s face? Priceless. The hour-plus of enjoyment we got from the game? Also priceless, but, even better, memorable.

WAL-MART WONDERLAND

 I haven’t been to Wal-Mart in months. I’m not a Wal-Mart shopper to start with, and not in any snobby kind of way. I’m seriously not a fan of the general shopping experience, anyway, but I am especially averse to crowded spaces where people push and clog up aisles for no seemingly logical reason and generally make themselves obnoxious. In other words, I prefer not to be inside a warehouse with people of questionable sanity, many of whom are wearing pajamas.

So, when a friend asks if I’d like to go to Wal-Mart, I figure, hey, why not, I haven’t been in months (perhaps longer). We are only searching for a few list items, so it shouldn’t be too torturous. We circle the inside of the store a couple of times trying to locate the things we need. At one point a woman asks if I know where the wrapping paper is. I don’t, but I send her in the direction of school supplies and hope for the best.

After finding some of the things we need and not finding others, we end up in the pet section. My friend needs kitty litter and cat treats (yes, for her cat – we are the sane ones shopping in W-ville). Suddenly, a quick but strange movement catches my eye. I look up to the end of the pet food aisle where there is a large sign for a particular brand of animal chow.

Squatting on the sign high above the oblivious shoppers, a bird has landed. The pet food sign, of all places, proving that there really is intelligent life in Wal-Mart. Of course, that intelligent life would be a bird, but it restores my faith in Wal-Mart.

Best of all (yes, even better than the pet food mascot), we don’t see anyone wearing their pajamas as we weave our way into a check-out lane . . . directly behind the woman I ran into earlier.

“Did you find the wrapping paper?” I ask.

“Exactly where you said it might be!”

“Oh,” I say, “thank goodness. And thank you for thinking I might look smart enough to know. That really means a lot.”

She nodded knowingly. These are the little treasures of Wal-Mart, little nuggets of alternate reality that Wal-Mart may not be the portal to the complete and utter failure of humanity (or the bird population) as we know it.

KING'S BEACH AND SUICIDE POETRY

 I don’t usually go to the North Shore beaches around here. I used to. When I was a kid we spent a lot of time at Crane’s Beach (it may officially be Crane Beach, but that’s not what we’ve ever called it) and Wingaersheek Beach, which is actually on the Annisquam River. I’ve been to Singing Beach a few times, West Beach in Beverly, and some small beach in Rockport. I’ve even hit Salem Willows once or twice, and have walked the Palmer Cove area when I was a grad student at Salem State.

As a teen I partied on some giant rock in Magnolia or Manchester-By-the-Sea or someplace around there. I just remember that it was a bitch to climb up that rock and even worse coming down, especially at high tide. In my teens I fluctuated between Salisbury Beach in northeastern Massachusetts, and my weekend jaunts to the South Shore: Wollaston Beach and the infamous Nantasket Beach, where I made myself a staple (along with a core group of various North and South Shore friends) at Jimmy’s Irish II Pub/Bar (with walk-throughs of Paragon Park back in its heyday).

I’d never been to Nahant until last year when a friend took me there a few times. I grew up with that whole “Lynn, Lynn, the City of Sin, you never come out the way you went in” crap. So going to Lynn on my last day of freedom before returning full-on to school (for the first time in six months) wasn’t even on my radar. My friend and I intended to go to Revere Beach (another place I’ve never been, believe it or not).

Instead, we ended up at King’s Beach in Lynn. Yes, that Lynn.

Oh, I’ve been to Lynn plenty of times. My brother used to march in and direct the drumline for a couple of DCI (Drum Corps International) regiments, and they’d always play the Lynn Manning Bowl (and it always freaking poured rain, like buckets and buckets for the whole time we’d be there). I’m not going to lie – I had zero knowledge that there was such a lovely stretch of beaches in Lynn.

We parked along Lynn Shore Drive for free (FREE … it’s like a beach miracle), made our way to the sand in about ninety seconds, set up our chairs, and noticed way out in the water there is a large rocky island. Upon researching quickly via Google, we discovered the place is called Egg Rock. There are many creepy and cool things about Egg Rock. For example:

Ø  In 1832, more than 150 people witnessed a sea serpent cavorting between the beach in Nahant and Egg Rock.

Ø  The first lighthouse on Egg Rock began operation in 1856 after a terrible schooner accident in 1843.

Ø  The lighthouse keeper’s big dog Milo could fetch birds and other items set out for him by fishermen over a mile from the island, and Milo rescued several children.

Ø  One of the lighthouse keepers was awarded 85 cents for a rescue.

Ø  In 1922 during a move of part of the lighthouse dwelling, a cable snapped and the building hung precariously over the edge. Several workers inside had to break and escape out windows while hanging over the ocean.

Ø  The lighthouse was destroyed in 1927 and the state took it over as a bird sanctuary.

The strangest fact about Egg Rock, however, is that madwoman poet Sylvia Plath wrote a poem about it called “Suicide off Egg Rock,” a poem that appeared in her book The Bell Jar (about her time in an insane asylum). I read The Bell Jar when I was fourteen. I wasn’t impressed.

What does impress me is Egg Rock itself and this beautiful beach here in Lynn, tucked away with barely a soul here, with free parking and seagulls and plovers and steady but restful waves.

Okay, I’m still partial to my New Hampshire beaches: The Wall and Jenness and Wallis Sands. I may continue to recite the old rhyme about Lynn, Lynn, the City of Sin. Truth is, I wouldn’t mind heading back to King’s Beach for another day, before school, after school, whenever. I mean, for real: If it’s good enough for Sylvia Plath’s sanity, it’s certainly good enough for mine.

HYBRID POETRY

 

Hybrid year, this hybrid year.

Do you like this hybrid year?

I do not like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

Will you hybrid here and there?

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

Will you try in-person teach

While those home you also reach?

I will teach both home and live

(I don’t know if I’ll survive).

I will hybrid here and there.

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

Will the bathrooms be yours, too,

Monitoring those in queue?

Yes, I’ll watch the toilets, too,

For the kids who pee and pooh.

I will teach both home and live

(I don’t know if I’ll survive).

I will hybrid here and there.

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

Will you walk kids in and out?

Hall and lunch and never shout?

In and out and ‘round the hall,

I will watch them, one and all.

Yes, I’ll watch the toilets, too,

For the kids who pee and pooh.

I will teach both home and live

(I don’t know if I’ll survive).

I will hybrid here and there.

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

Will you make sure hands are washed?

Will those Covid germs get squashed?

I will fight those germs, you bet,

Watching little hands get wet.

In and out and ‘round the hall,

I will watch them, one and all.

Yes, I’ll watch the toilets, too,

For the kids who pee and pooh.

I will teach both home and live

(I don’t know if I’ll survive).

I will hybrid here and there.

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

Will you sanitize the desks?

While performing arabesques?

In a tutu, do you mean?

Wipe ‘em down like Mr. Clean!

I will fight those germs, you bet,

Watching little hands get wet.

In and out and ‘round the hall,

I will watch them, one and all.

Yes, I’ll watch the toilets, too,

For the kids who pee and pooh.

I will teach both home and live

(I don’t know if I’ll survive).

I will hybrid here and there.

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

When the children puke and bleed,

Will you see to every need?

Though I’m not a legal nurse,

No one here will need a hearse.

I will keep them safe and sound

Fighting Covid germs around.

I will fight those germs, you bet,

Watching little hands get wet.

In and out and ‘round the hall,

I will watch them, one and all.

Yes, I’ll watch the toilets, too,

For the kids who pee and pooh.

I will teach both home and live

(I don’t know if I’ll survive).

I will hybrid here and there.

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

We may find more jobs for you,

Even ones you cannot do.

You are super, you are great!

You can carry thrice your weight!

 

Flex those brain cells. Never frown.

Teaching! Covid! Wear you down.

If you’re sick, just teach from bed.

No one cares if you’re near-dead.

 

Hybrid model’s here to stay.

Teach it! Teach it every day.

Work your fingers to the bone.

Lucky you – you’re not alone.

 

If you take a closer look

Here’s the part of Seuss’s book

That I say, “I like this much,”

Other things that may sound such.

I cannot believe my eyes.

I don’t have those words so wise.

If I make it through the day,

Here is what I have to say:

Though I’m not a legal nurse,

No one here will need a hearse.

I will keep them safe and sound

Fighting Covid germs around.

I will fight those germs, you bet,

Watching little hands get wet.

In and out and ‘round the hall,

I will watch them, one and all.

Yes, I’ll watch the toilets, too,

For the kids who pee and pooh.

I will teach both home and live

(I don’t know if I’ll survive).

I will hybrid here and there.

I will hybrid anywhere!

I don’t like this hybrid year.

It’s one gigantic pain in rear!

 

 

 

IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE WEATHER . . .

Look, kids, I understand that you think it is fall. But, it’s not. It’s still summer until mid-late September. Furthermore, I understand and share your angst about 2020 and wishing it to speed up and be over already. I get it.

However, it’s September 6^th, okay? The sixth.  06. Any way it is written, it’s still NOT fall.

So, what’s with the snow blowers and the pumpkins?

Home Depot, it’s okay to have Halloween displays out. That makes sense. But, really. Fresh pumpkins with fifty-five days (and counting) to go? With summer still raging on? With green leaves still securely on the trees?

I certainly don’t expect pools to be on the sidewalk out front, but, I have to be honest with you, I wasn’t expecting this. So bear with me if I have a tough time not so much with the pumpkins, but with the snow blowers for certain. That’s just a slap in the head, if you ask me.

Enjoy the dog days of summer and prep for second summer when it arrives after the fake first fall. After all, this is New England. If you don’t like the weather . . .

IT'S OVER

 

Summer's over.

I am depressed because I spent most of this summer wrapping up the remote school year and prepping for whatever might come this fall. I attended cyber meetings, answered emails, created documents, planned for three different possible school models, lost sleep, drank too much, ate too much, and worried myself into super-anxiety and sleepless stretches that lasted for weeks.

All for naught.

Nobody listens anyway. Nobody cares. I'm back to being the same pariah I've always been: somebody's overpaid babysitter.

So, please excuse me if I decide that the beach is more important than planning, or answering those after-hour emails, or updating my website because the link broke, or attending meetings that go well-beyond my contract hours. Please forgive me if I prefer not to bring the pandemic home to my family, friends, and neighbors. Please understand that my constant hand-washing and spraying of sanitizer isn't truly a direct reflection on my students or coworkers.

Totally wasted summer. If anyone really wants to reach me, follow the seagulls. I'm sure they'll laugh at you just as hard as they laughed at me last week when they knew, as do I, that it's over.

LAKE CHARGOGGAGOGGMANCHAUGGAGOGGCHAUBUNAGUNGAMAUGG

 For the past couple of years, I have been teaching an additional intervention class. In prepping for this class, I run across an article on a nearby Nipmuc Native American family of storytellers and singers who live in southern Massachusetts. In tying the article to my planned curriculum, I also find out that they live and practice their performances on Lake Webster.

You may have heard of Lake Webster. Sure you have. It’s the lake with the longest place name in the United States: Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg.

The lake, covering nearly 1,500 acres, hovers near the Connecticut border, so it’s over an hour’s drive from my house, but it has been on my bucket list to visit for a couple of years. This summer I decide it’s time to see it for myself.

I have two destinations in mind: the pizzeria with a lakeside patio and the bookstore. I bring along a co-pilot because, hey, eating pizza and drinking beer is no fun alone, and because she’s a tremendously good sport.

At the bookstore I find a 1936 edition of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, not my favorite book by far, but Hawthorne and I share a birthday, so I feel compelled to buy it. Only problem is, there isn’t a price on the book. The owner of the shop looks it up and tells me that it might cost anywhere from $6 to $900. Thanks for narrowing that down for me, dearie. $8 lighter and one old book heavier, I trot out of the store with my treasure.

We stop in at the gift store one shop over, but I don’t really need a sign that says, “Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg” (even though I kind of want it). I snap a picture and call it a win.

We attempt to find the park that is on the map and on the internet, but it doesn’t exist. That’s fine because we accidentally and a little bit on purpose end up right at the pizzeria. Other than two men drinking beer, we are the only people there and have the entire patio deck to ourselves. We eat pizza and sip cold beer and try the Electric Frozen Lemonade, spending time enjoying our small view of the enormous lake, which is surprisingly quiet on a beautiful day.

I’ll probably go back someday, maybe to explore the whole lake, but today is just about the touch-and-go; I came, I saw, I conquered, I left happier because of it. I may be able to say it, but I still can’t spell it, so maybe someday when I truly have mastered the lake, if that day ever comes, I can master the 45 letters of its name, as well: Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg

I MAY BE SWEET, BUT I DO LOVE SOUR

 The Summer of 2020 will probably go down as one of the worst best, or best worst, summers of all time. While I am unable to do my usual excursions, I have been doing a crap-load of reading (30 books since April) and writing (blogs, work-related, and some manuscripts) and socially-distant mini-gatherings with friends and relatives.

I have also been taking random day trips. Some of these trips have specific destinations in mind (freshest seafood in Boston, seeing the grand-nieces, kayaking somewhere new). Some have zero destinations, and turn into themed excursions. Some of these trips are quick and restful, some are long and recharging, but all are fun and exhausting because my brain gets to stop its constant wheel-turning about COVID-19.

After a wonderfully roundabout day that includes everything from grist mills to candy stores to visiting my first-ever neighborhood to a famous Cambridge cemetery, we settle into gazing over the Mystic River. Of course, my mind goes to the “How many bodies have been floating in the Mystic and how many more are anchored to never surface?” (These are the things we consider around here between the Mystic and the Neponset Rivers and the crime era of the 70’s.) Finally, we decide that if we don’t go to dinner, we are going to doze off because our adventures are, more than anything else, mentally relaxing.

We get to the restaurant/bar, and I debate between two beers I’ve never tried: one citrus, one sour. When the waiter arrives, I order the sour. From behind the taps about ten feet away I hear someone suck in a huge breathe and yell, “Ohhhhhhh, sweetie, you’re gonna wanna try that one first.” He shakes his head.

Listen, I grew up on sour gum: sour orange, sour strawberry, and sour apple. I used to drink Canada Dry bitter lemon straight from the bottle. I’ve had lemon-eating contests with friends. I used to drink whiskey sours (before whiskey and I had a falling out).

I know what I’m doing.

But, I allow the bartender to bring me a sample. He plunks it down on the bar, his huge, military tatted arms pushing it across to me. His face has a tight-lipped grin off to one side and his eyebrows are raised in a “here goes another sucker” expression.

Before I even try it, I know this: The beer comes in smaller size, and it’s listed as “tart.” I inhale before I try. Not going to lie, even the scent has a bite to it. I try it. It’s sour, all right, but what I don’t expect is the kick at the end. Maybe the bartender is right. I try some more, then the last of it. Huh. It’s not half bad. As a matter of fact, I’m kind of into it. I don’t think I could down a six-pack of it, but it’s more of a sour cocktail than a beer.

The bartender comes back. “Whaddaya think?” He is totally expecting me to change my order to a Michelob Ultra. I can see it in his face.

“I’m man enough for it. Let’s do this.”

There’s nothing better, nothing at all, than topping a sweet day with something refreshingly sour. Plus, it complements the Kentucky BBQ wings and German pretzel that we order. My drink definitely cost more than my friend’s, so I owe her the next time we go out. If there’s anyone out there who either wants more hair on his chest or more kick in her step, order the Petrus Passionfruit Ale.

Of course, it goes a lot better with a random mystery tour day finished with a world-class view from atop a hill where a bunch of famous dead people are buried, but that’s totally a story for another day.