CLEANSING MY CHILDHOOD PALATE IN PURGATORY

For a while when I was young my family lived in the woods. Not Jeremiah Johnson style; more like a big house in the middle of a forest that someone decided might slowly but surely turn into a decent and somewhat secluded neighborhood. Eventually it began to turn into organized house lots, each with an acre or more of land forming a semi-development, but for some time (until it wasn't) our street was a dead-end to nowhere. Our house sat dead-center on three acres of almost entirely trees set on a small hill with an extraordinarily tiny pond which could best be described as a bog hole.

The one constant were the boulders. 

Some of the boulders were huge; some of them just seemed huge because I was so young. I loved climbing them, finding footholds and pulling myself up, even if there were an easier, more practical way to do so on another face of the rock. I guess it could be called early freestyle rock climbing, the most dangerous of which would result in a broken arm or a fat lip for the less capable or the more daring amongst us.

We created trails through the woods, over and around rocks and trees, connecting houses on our plot of land at the end of the street. We used the rocks and boulders as forts, houses, horses, cars, dinosaur parks . . . anything our minds could imagine, those rocks could be. 

When I moved to a more civilized neighborhood in a different state, it was nice to still see rocks and boulders in the nearby state forests, but, alas, the only rocks in my actual yard were from a well-constructed and very suburbanized stone wall covered with prickly rosebushes. I turned into a suburban teenager and went about my suburban coming-of-age and did my suburban camping thing and grew into a suburban adult. The "rock-iest" thing about my life turned into my behavior.

Two things I have always been -- a bit of a loner, and terribly restless. If I am stuck living in the same place for too long, I'll rearrange rooms and furniture and change out curtains and bedspreads until I can pretend I'm somewhere else. Periodically I need to get in my car and go off on my own for hours or a day or longer. People say, "Oh, if I'd known you were going, I would've gone with you." I understand this; I also understand that's precisely why they did not know and I didn't tell them.

I am off on one of these all-day selfish misadventures when I decide to stop at a place about an hour from my house - a place with a name like so many others in this country: Purgatory Chasm. I have no idea what to expect other than my Google investigation: short trails, seemingly harmless gradients, relatively safe online reviews, and only $5 to park. I figure it's a family-type hike through some tame and uneventful trails.

But, when I get there, I see that one of the trails, maybe a third of a mile long or so, goes right through the chasm. The chasm itself is maybe seventy feet at its deepest, but it's kind of impressive to be right here in my stomping area, under my nose and totally off my radar for my entire life. Best of all, though, it's loaded with boulders and I can climb through, over, around, above, under, between -- any and every damn preposition -- those rocks.

A woman with older kids catches my wide eyes and slight grin. She sidles up to me and says, "First time here?" I nod soundlessly. "Impressive, isn't it? And worth the five bucks!" 

I spend the next ninety minutes climbing through the chasm then up and over it, then back down into it, only once worried because the arrows to the trail indicate that I am supposed to slip my fat arse into a crevice and shimmy my way through for about fifteen feet. Instead, I opt to crab-walk down a rock face, both my hands and feet engaged in keeping myself from smashing over the edge, kind of like my childhood but on a small dose of steroids.

I honestly didn't know how much I missed being a little kid in the big woods with some sizeable rocks to climb until I came to Purgatory Chasm and became a big kid with some bigger rocks to climb. I am no serious "rock climber", though. I'm not hanging on any of those seventy-foot sidewalls or attempting any free-climbs to defy my own mortality, but, damn, this is so fun.

When I reach the end, which is back at the beginning of the chasm, a guy about my age comes by to start his trek and says, "Good climb?" I nod. The he says, "You okay?" Yes, I tell him, explaining that the ninety-degree weather and climbing along the top ridge in the direct sun just make me look like a wet mongrel. 

There are more trails, and I'll be back again on a day when it's not scorching hot and try them out, although, if I know me, it will be frightfully tough to pull me off the boulders below to take any scenic path along the upper rim. After all, I grew up in the dead-center of the wooded lot surrounded by trees and boulders. Once that spark is reignited, I'm not so sure a tame trail without challenge will provide the same thrill.

IT'S NOT THE HEAT; IT'S THE HUMIDITY

It's no secret that we are in the throes of a massive heatwave here on the Eastern Seaboard and beyond, and, by beyond, I mean that the extreme heat is causing airport runways to melt and lift from the ground in England. Out here we are merely suffering in the dregs of mid-to-high 90's day after day after day. 

Those of you from the arid Southwest might be saying, "Yeah, big deal. That's like winter for us." Well, this is when we get to remind people: It's not the HEAT; it's the f*****g HUMIDITY." There is nothing worse than sweat on top of sweat -- sweat from the heat, and sweat from the air moisture that immediately bonds to your skin the very moment you step outside.

Imagine an inescapable steaming swamp crawling slowly over every part of your body. All air conditioning will do is literally freeze the sweat into your pores. The moment you step back outside. It's like the fires of Hell and Damnation.

I have three brilliant ideas during this Heat Wave of Horror, all of which I decide to accomplish in one day.

First, I decide to go kayaking. This is a brilliant idea because I usually splash water on myself both accidentally and on purpose, and today is a good day to get splashed. Problem #1 is that I must haul the kayak, which breaks into two pieces, to and from the water. Though it's not far, it is damn hot. Problem #2 is that the sun is blisteringly scorching and I can only tolerate about an hour of paddling in the morning when the temperature at 9:00 a.m. is already hovering at 85 degrees. Problem #3 is that the water, usually refreshing, is somewhere around 90 degrees itself and feels more like bath water.

My second brilliant idea is to go swimming at my friend's pool. I have a perfectly dandy pool here where I live, but it's more fun hanging out with my friend. The water is a relaxing 87 degrees, and even my water-intolerant friend (yes, she has a pool but despises being wet -- just one reason why I love her) spends time soaking and floating around. Problem #1 is that I am not supposed to be out in the sun too long, and I've already maxed out sun time kayaking. Problem #2 is that I have to drive home damp and clammy and be back in the hideous heat of midday. Both are problems that I choose to ignore.

My third and final brilliant idea for today is to mix up a frozen margarita and sit on the porch reading. Problem #1 is that it's almost too hot to be outside, so I bring a spray bottle full of water and complete with a mini fan on top. Problem #2 is that I only have enough alcohol/mix to brew up one margarita.

All in all, heat aside, of course, it is a successful day. As a matter of fact, it's like a three-day vacation all in one singular day: Kayak - Pool - Margarita. However, and I'll be completely transparent here: 

DO NOT GO OUTSIDE FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER. 

If you ignore this advice and do go outside, expect immediate spontaneous combustion. It's a real thing, and you should be worried about it. It is the heat, and it is the humidity together. If I see a little puddle surrounding some ashes in the street, I'll know that you didn't listen, and, like the heat . . . I'll just wave.

TEMPTATION, THEY NAME IS FICTION

I know that I should be ashamed of myself, but I'm not.

I don't have any shelf space left in my apartment, and yet I am purchasing more books that I don't need. I have a Kindle full, and I do mean full, of books to read, so why on earth would I buy nine more books?

Well, remember last week when I complained about the Burlington Mall being a wasteland? This is where it all starts to go wrong, yet again. 

I need to go to Michael's Craft Store, Target, and CVS. I could go to New Hampshire, where I know the stores are large, clean, and well-stocked. But instead, I saunter back over to Burlington. It saves me from getting on the highway, and, truth be told, as I bypass the highway entrance ramp, an ambulance and firetruck scream by and head that very way. Also, the three stores I need are apparently all in the same strip mall (along with Panera and Total Wine, but I will not be distracted today).

I have a lovely drive, stuck in construction traffic and postal mail delivery traffic, but it's a wonderful summer day here in New England following an evening of not-so-wonderful weather, so my car windows are wide open and the air conditioner is on (don't judge me). 

I only need a couple of things at Michael's, mainly a basket or two. I search the tiny store, finally ask someone, and am somewhat shocked to learn they don't carry baskets. Say, what? I feel like I should contact the corporate office and ask them if an idiot runs this store. Instead, I leave dejected. I also leave my broken and empty cart in an aisle somewhere between the paltry ribbon display and the bridal display that has no bridal stuff.

I head into Target, which is about one-eighth the size of a normal Target. I actually find what I am looking for - one, count 'em, one basket that fits what I need. And, it's on sale! I find a couple of other things I need, actually shocked that there is stock worth perusing in such a compact space.

My trip to CVS consists of me walking in circles while a "40% off one item" coupon burns a hole in my pocket. There's nothing worth buying, and the lines are too long, anyway. So much for that coupon. 

I feel semi-successful. But, I am also feeling a little cheated, like I should've done more. I know the Used Book Superstore is on my way home, and it's on my side of the busy road. I have been tempted several times before, and I've even spent a substantial amount of money at the store, but I've kept myself out of there for months.

Not so today. (Didn't I say earlier that I wouldn't be distracted? I lied.) I pull right into the parking lot and enter the Used Book Superstore like a damn boss.

I spend a little time with the sale stuff, then I mosey over to fiction, my weakness. I attack those rows and rows and rows of shelves jam-packed with books before heading to the two carts of 99-cent books. I have to hit the westerns, too, and while checking out some Old West tales, I notice there's another room off to the side. It's a small room, maybe the size of a kid's bedroom, but it has stacks and stacks of more 99-cent books.

I am both proud and ashamed to admit that I bought nine books, one of which is three-in-one so technically eleven books, and three Christmas gifts. I spent just over $30. I know, I know; the very last thing I need is another book. However, after braving the wilds of Burlington's dying consumer industry, I figured I deserved a treat. 

Seriously, though, the books are probably healthier treats for me than ice cream. That's where I was leaning next until I ran out of cash at the book store. I guess that makes this more than an impulse stop: it's nutrition and mental health all packed into one.

That's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it.

Y'ALL TO THE MALL

I recently went to the Burlington Mall.

To anyone and everyone who doesn't live on the North Shore of Massachusetts, you will have no idea what I'm talking about, but the Burlington Mall was, in its hey-day, the place to shop. It had so many anchor stores, small stores, shop carts, and eateries (from candy shops to the infamous food court), that you could get lost there for hours and never pass the same way twice.

Now, though, it's a near-empty wasteland. Turn the wrong corner and there's a good chance you'll be mugged, raped, or murdered, and no one will find you for weeks. Except for the food court and various restaurants, the place is a morgue. Apparently, consumerism died here and mummified itself. 

So, when I have occasion to go meet family at the Pheasant Lane Mall in New Hampshire, I'm completely skeptical and a bit leery of entering the building without mace and a whistle. The Pheasant Lane Mall was supposed to rival the Burlington Mall, except that soon after it opened, it was deemed structurally unsound. I decided I didn't want to be squished by a girder while trying on bathing suits in JC Penney, so I never went there. The only time I'd set foot inside that mall was to meet a friend in a restaurant there.  Quick in; quick out.

The Pheasant Lane Mall has been open since July of 1986, and, since it hasn't collapsed yet, I think it's probably okay to go walk around inside of it. Besides, it's probably a ghost town like its North Shore counterpart, right?

Thankfully -- wrong.

The Pheasant Lane Mall is thriving. People are shopping, stores are open, and, except for the super-creepy family bathrooms, the place feels relatively safe. There are no empty hallways, no boarded up entrances, and there are still a few anchor stores. I don't even worry about being abducted while walking across the parking lot -- a fate I felt certain of when at the Burlington Mall.

I meet my brother, his wife, and their youngest at a pizza place, then we hoof it through the mall. My nephew hits several stores then we gather in the tiny mall arcade (which is, thankfully, deserted) and play a few games before other people wander in. 

We don't even get to half of the stuff that's there in the mall. It's such a polar opposite to the Burlington Mall that I am equally shell-shocked albeit from sensory overload rather than sheer terror for my life.

Of course, the mall's continued success could be because it is in tax-free New Hampshire and mere spitting distance from the wonderful state of Taxachusetts. But it's a bit off the beaten trail, so I am fascinated by its bustling success on a Tuesday after a long holiday weekend. 

The good news is that I would definitely go there again and would not feel frightened like Mariel Hemingway in the movie Lipstick. The bad news is that I now feel compelled to spend tax-free dollars in a mall that has long-since outlasted any structural concerns and has spit in the face of economic disaster and online shopping.

If only Burlington Mall could get their shit together, the world might be a happier place.

BUSINESS AS USUAL

Teachers get the summers off, for the most part. Yes, many of us still work over the summer. I will be working for a few days week after next. Unpaid days, mind you. You may be jealous that teachers "have the summers off," but these are unpaid weeks, so shut you pi holes. (Get it? Pi? If not, go back to school and don't you dare blame a teacher.)

So it is damn ironic that my first week of freedom comes with a forced incarceration due to my apartment complex re-paving the multiple lots at my end of the development. Those of us who reside here are forced to jockey for other spaces with people who actually deserve those spaces, all so that this three-day project can occur. One day to resurface, one day to tar, and one day to paint stripes.

Sounds reasonable in theory.

Except that this takes place over and around a weekend and also a rain delay. It ends up being a week-long project:

Thursday: Move your cars; fight the rightful owners for spots; try and park 100 extra cars around the complex.

Friday: Resurfacing; Good luck finding another space but you can park on the chunky surface later . . . if you dare.

Saturday and Sunday: Park anywhere, but remember -- come Monday morning, your car is towed if you don't have a different space! Hope for a place to park; general mayhem; possible shootings and riots.

Monday: Everybody move your cars -- oh, wait; it's raining. Sorry for the inconvenience and sorry for not telling you in advance and so sorry for all the unnecessary fist-a-cuffs over spaces last evening and this morning.

Tuesday: Move your cars, damnit! The tarring company is here. Mayday! Mayday!

Wednesday: Be very quiet. We are painting lines and everything is wet and fragile. Don't touch anything; don't look at anything; don't even breathe near the new spaces.

By Wednesday night, cars are allowed back, and it's marvelous. We have lovely new tar and lovely fresh lines and I have no further reason to park like a doofus. The only problem is the complex didn't also resurface the only road into the back lot, and that road really needs to be resurfaced. I'm not sure why they didn't do so. Does this mean . . . more mayhem later this summer?

The worst part is that the landscapers had just come in the week before to reseed areas along the roadway and now that hard work is all ruined from people pulling up over the curbs and parking in the freshly re-done grass. 

It's okay, though. Having a forced semi-incarceration over the first full week of summer break actually helped me. I cleaned out two closets and rearranged my bedroom and read probably six books. Now all I have to do is get through the holiday weekend, and then hopefully my real summer vacation can get into full swing. Except I have a couple of work days coming up . . . 

Never mind. Business as usual. Carry on!