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.

 

BEST DAY KAYAKING

 I have friends who like to kayak and some who do not. One of my friends says that she won't do any sport with a "k" in it. She'll walk, but she won't hike, she won't bike, and won't skate, she won't ski, and she especially won't kayak because it has two k's in it.

I am sitting on my porch chugging iced coffee when a neighbor joins me, also chugging iced coffee. We talk (which does have a k in it) and decide to take a kayak trip up to New Hampshire for the day. It's an impromptu decision, but it's a successful one. We go the back roads to avoid the beach traffic, which by noon when we leave is completely backed up for about thirty miles. The drive is lovely along some back roads and by deserted Covid-19-closed fair grounds.

When we get to the lake, it's probably close to two o'clock by the time we are ready to put in. We paddle past some boat slips and immediately run into the marine patrol. Ooops. I guess that means we need to be all legal and stuff. As soon as we make sure we are kosher with our equipment, the marine patrol leaves the water and we are free to misbehave. 

We paddle past a small dam and around a couple of beaches. There are rocks and branches along the shore with occasional breaks for private sandy spots, but there's no real place for us to pull over and jump into the water, so we keep the oars in and row on. 

Something catches our eye from afar, so we paddle on over to a weighted pot of plastic yellow flowers sitting on a rock. This is because the rock is in the regular marine lane (no one cares if kayakers and canoers hit rocks and dump over, apparently) and someone wanted to be sure no one would fly over it with a boat or jet ski. 

After a while we paddle by a very small sandy area where someone has set up two chairs in the woods. No one is around, so we moor the boats to tree branches and take a quick swim. Good thing we moved on because the next door neighbors have wandered down to their little beach and they would probably tell on us because, let's face it, we're interlopers. But, a quick recovery happens when we play with their dog on the dock from the kayaks.

In our adventure, we pass a heron standing on a rock (for real, not a pretend potted heron), a family of ducks, and a loon. The loon is fishing near us and decides to come a little closer when the jet skis encroach on its feeding area. All of a sudden about ten feet behind my kayaking pal, the loon poops up and poses for pictures.

Coming around the bend I notice two jet skis constantly going back and forth in front of a lake house with a private beach. Turns out there's a woman about my age buck-naked walking around her yard and hanging up towels on a clothes line. Well, I guess that's one way to dry off completely.

We finish up the entire lake in under three hours, take another swim at the real beach (no sneaking around this time), then head out for dinner despite the fact that we are filthy and sweaty and sunscreen-smelling, have forgotten deodorant, and our hair has seen better days. We don't care, though, because it is just another "Best Day Ever" in a series of best days.

PISS OFF, JULY

Bye, bye, July 2020. Hello, August 2020! What horrors do you have planned for us? All I ask is that you hit us quickly and get it over with. Sound like a plan?

The best thing about July (Was there a best thing other than surviving it?) is that it's my birthday month. Well, as I age into eternity and reflect back on my own shit-show of a life,perhaps that doesn't make it "best thing" status, either. Okay, let me try this: The BEST thing about July being my birthday month is FREE STUFF.

I get coupons for discounts on appliances from Home Depot (I am a renter and don't need to supply my own appliances, but thanks, just the same), free nail polish from CVS (I forget about the coupon -- oops), a free beverage from Dunkins (I hope to use it before they close all of them due to bankruptcy), $5 off at DSW (can't buy much with that), and $10 to spend at Bob's Store. Yes, It's wonderful to have a birthday. Apparently in most cases I have to spend money to get my "free" stuff.

I head to Bob's Store first, which isn't Bob's Store anymore. It's now Sports Direct/Bob's. I walk in, expecting the usual Bob's experience: expensive merchandise and general order of the store. What I get instead is semi-order and a sense of discomfort. This doesn't look like Bob's. Things are moved around. Things look ... dirty. Kind of unkempt. Like a warehouse instead of a store.

I wander toward the back to footwear. I head to a rack of women's sandals, which is near the employee area. A bulky man in a black store t-shirt comes out, stands right next to me, and pretends to be looking at women's sandals. Uhhhh. Dude. So, I move to the left and look at another part of the rack of sandals because he is making me uncomfortable. He moves to his left and does the same. Creep. I back up and look at sneakers. He backs up and looks at sneakers. Women's sneakers.

From the time I enter the store to the time I hit the sandal rack has been exactly ninety seconds. How in the name of all things sane did the store decide in ninety seconds that the elderly-looking chick checking out shoes is a shoplifter? I don't even have a pocketbook with me. I'm wearing shorts and a summer shirt. Where am I going to hide this stolen merchandise? Or is he just some kind of pervert?

I decide that I don't want my $10 "gift" after all and head toward the exit. On my way I pass a display of purple Avia sneakers on sale for $19.98 This is when I know for sure that Bob's Store doesn't exist anymore because their sale price would be $40. I find my size, try them on, and notice that my size is the ONLY box not marked on sale. I bring my size plus another size to the register, where the girl tries to charge me full price and must hand-subtract the amount to make it come out correctly. BOOM. I walk out with sneakers for $9.98. So THERE, Mr. T-Shirt Creeper! I guess I DID rip off your store.

Next I go to DSW. I am hoping to get some earrings at a good discount with the $5 coupon. I walk in expecting my regular DSW experience only to find that the store looks like a filthy, disorganized warehouse. Kind of dirty and kind of unkempt. There are no displays of jewelry. There are no pocketbooks. There is no wall of fancy party shoes. Everything looks like a giant Wal-Mart shoe section.

I immediately head to the clearance shoes to discover that "One person per aisle ONLY" signs are everywhere. Of course, the ONLY other person IN the store is standing IN the aisle of MY sized shoes. Well, fuck this shit. I turn around to check the clearance wall. I'll buy a pocketbook or some socks on sale. Uhhhh . . . except the wall is nearly empty. There is one pocketbook, some shawls, and ten pairs of earrings facing the wrong direction like the sales associate who put them there didn't even give a shit.

Okay, so up at the front they have wallets and stuff. I'll go look there since the lady standing in the size 8 section is just looking, not touching anything, not trying anything on, not even moving.  At the front they have (wait for it, wait for it, wait for it) ... TOYS. Yes, toys. Kids' toys. Cars and games and plastic things. Toys. T-O-Y-S. In DSW. Where the wallets should be.

I see some Burt's Bees hand lotion, grab the two sizes, and take them to the counter. "How much are these?" I ask. The small one is $12.99. The large one is $7.99. That's right. Don't ask questions! This isn't math class.

I buy the large one, give her the $5 GIFT coupon, go to hand her $3, and she screams so loudly that the woman in clearance can hear her. "WE DON'T TAKE CASH!" I am forced to charge $2.99 for my "free gift" at DSW, which, by the way, will be the very LAST time that I shop at DSW because it's filthy, has stupid rules, and the clerk is a loudmouth.

I have other possible places on my list to stop: my free nail polish at CVS (which I eventually forget about), a great discount coupon from the daily Michael's Craft Store email, Joann Fabrics... But I am so disconcerted from my two shopping experiences that I get on the highway and head home.

Piss off, July, and piss off, birthday freebies. I'm damn glad August is here. August, all I ask is no more "free" gifts and get your shit together. We've pretty much had enough of 2020 at this point.