ROCK IT LIKE A HURRICANE

The hurricane skirted by our coast recently. It brought with it waves, excitement, daring, stupidity, and tragedy.

We live in the Merrimack Valley, which means that the mighty Merrimack River is our major waterway. It empties into the Atlantic Ocean in a channel that is known for its treacherous undertow. This means that people who jump off the jetty to swim often get pulled out or under, only to wash up as bloated corpses days or even weeks later. Seriously. They slip in the water without a care in the world and then get swallowed up into oblivion.

I've boated through the channel on a good day, which means everyone except the captain lies down on the bottom of the boat for balance and safety. Every time we hit a swell (they're continuous), the boat goes perpendicular, and we are "standing" and watching the boats behind us attempt the same maneuvers. It's an experience not for the faint of heart. We lived through it and no one got tossed overboard. 

Do boats go through there every day? Sure. Are there calm days? Sure. The problem is that the ocean up this way can look deceptively placid even when it's aiming to murder you.

Rip tides are a frequent event up here. Not frequent enough to keep us out of the ocean, but frequent enough that every summer a few people get caught in the rip currents and either have to get rescued (if they're lucky) or have to be recovered (if they're not). Sometimes the rip tides can be spotted from the beach -- an area suddenly looks flat, or waves crash on the shore all except in one place where they just . . . don't. 

In all the times that I've been to the beach, once (and only once) have I been involved in a rogue wave situation, and my friend and I were lucky because it only involved us chasing our chairs and our flip-flops into waist-deep water as it receded. Thinking back on it now, though, we probably should've called it a wash and let the stuff go with the major undertow that sucked the beach dry after the wave crested.

But, like the coastal water babies we are, we can't resist hurricane-induced surf.

We head out to the beach and notice that the waves just keep coming in and coming in, right on top of and with each other. It's fascinating to watch and even better to hear because the roar doesn't stop for a breath; it keeps sounding like an unhinged alarm clock. There are two surfers in wet suits (dumb to attempt surfing this but smart to be suited up) and one who just walks into the ocean wearing shorts and a t-shirt. We see them go into the water, but we don't see them come out for a very long time. Finally, about twelve minutes goes by and one of the wet-suited surfers reappears near the shoreline. My only worry is that if we can't see them, rescuers can't, either. 

After a while, we head toward the inner areas, places that are still windy and choppy, but are marshes or small bays or coves, more protected from the wide open stretches of beach. There are two windsurfers taking full advantage of the steady, strong breeze. They are smart -- they're staying along the edge of the water, along a parking lot, a residential street, and houses. In other words, they are both protected and visible. And they are flying. Literally. Maybe four to six stories in height.

It is pretty cool to watch and not nearly as nerve-wracking as watching the surfers disappear into the Atlantic Ocean.

Later, when the hurricane makes its closest pass, the news stations report on swimmers drowning (people in the violent surf who probably shouldn't have attempted the thrill) and at least one boater lost at sea after passing through that turbulent (on a good day) channel. None of these people had any business being in or on the water in such conditions, but we all misjudge (sudden rip tides and rogue waves and sharks and jellyfish). 

After all, it's not like the hurricane actually hit us, right? Wrong. 

The sea is its own master. It can turn on its wrath with the rapidity of Poseidon punishing Odysseus. The ocean doles out waves and excitement and daring that often make great photo ops, but it also indiscriminately punishes stupidity and delivers tragedy. It demands and deserves respect and will always exact revenge in the face of hubris. If you're lucky enough to be its witness, the camera is a better option than a wetsuit, swimsuit, or life jacket. Just as long as you rock it like a hurricane and don't roll it like bloated roadkill.

SCENIC NON-VISTAS

Eastern New Hampshire's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are sharply different.

I am galivanting around the Lake Winnipesaukee area for a few days. The weather is iffy, but the rain mostly holds off for me to take a few side trips in the mountains. For a couple of years now, I've been itching to drive over toward Alton Bay and check out the two "scenic overlooks" that Google Maps claims are worth stopping to see. After all, they have "camera" icons marking them.

I've been to the Mount Washington valley. I've also seen the views from Whiteface in Lake Placid. I've been to the top of Pack Monadnock, Bradbury Mountain, and even Mount Agamenticus -- smaller mountains, but still with worthy views..  I've seen the hundred-mile view in southern Vermont. There's a hike in Simsbury, Connecticut, that's also worthy, especially if you climb the stairs of the Heublein Tower once you reach the top. There are great views from the Poet's Seat tower in Greenfield. When I lived in Southern New Hampshire, we could easily see mountains just driving around our small town. I'm also a bit spoiled because very little compares to the middle of Lake Champlain with the Green Mountains on one side and the Adirondacks on the other, wrapping people up in a complete circle of beauty. The ghostly image of Mount Rainier from the Seattle Space Needle was pretty dang cool, too. 

I start my misadventure in Meredith, NH, where there are some sculptures around town. The views are battling with the passing storms, providing some dramatic cloud cover. I snap a few pictures, then head back toward Gilford, where there is a thick, heavy, dark gray cloud hanging over the entire area, and I make it out of there just as the rain lets go. I'm on my way now, heading east toward Maine, with my GPS locked and loaded for "scenic view" number one.

The first thing that I notice is that the view is more of a hill than a mountain, and it's so overgrown that there really isn't much to see. I give it a "meh" rating and hope stop number two is more impressive. This second scenic overlook has just me and a dump truck driver, who is in desperate need of a cigarette. I jockey for position along the weedy and bush-laden guardrail and away from any ash and fire potential. If I stand just so, at a certain angle, I can almost sort of maybe make out part of the lake and some small mountains. Mount Major is behind me and under the road I'm on, so I'm still looking back toward the same view that I had in Meredith, just from a different angle.

Disappointment is the day's buzz word. The weather is iffy, anyway, but I am truly surprised that these two overlooks have been . . . overlooked for upkeep. If I hadn't grown up around here and been trekking to the White Mountains pretty much all of my life, I suppose I wouldn't bother coming back. Certainly nothing to see here. Even the Madison Boulder is more impressive than this view. Okay, to be honest, the Madison Boulder is damn impressive on its own, but that's a story for another day.

I don't know. I guess Alton's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are a couple of mountains apart. I'm still glad I made the trip, but I doubt I'd go route 11 ever again if I can avoid it. It's interesting and it's scenic in a backroad New England kind of way, but, if you're looking for photo ops and expansive views, don't get tricked by the signs.

SUMMER WINDS DOWN

As usual, the weather for the last two weeks of my summer break are "iffy" - at best. So, when a sunny, warm day rolls around, I try to take advantage of it. It's Saturday, the second to last Saturday before the complex's pool closes. With the air temperature reaching the mid-80's, I grab my towel and a book and head to the lounge chairs, expecting a weekend-sized crowd to be there.

No crowd. Not a single soul other than the lifeguard.

I am there for about fifteen minutes when one of the regulars shows up. He immediately grabs the same two lounge chairs I always see him using on the opposite side of the pool. He flings towels over them, puts in a Dunkins order on his phone, and promptly disappears. Apparently, he is high-hosey-ing those chairs, just in case.

Just in case of what, exactly, I'm not certain. I am still the only person here.

I usually read for a while, swim for a bit, then read some more. I decide to hit the water only to discover that the heater has been turned off. The water is a cool (and I do mean cool) 74 degrees. That is pretty close to the temperature of the ocean water. A quick cool-off is needed, but then I'm right back out again.

I hang around reading for another half hour. By this time, Chair Claiming Man still has not shown back up. The empty loungers have been warming two towels for over an hour. Even more interesting, I continue to be the only person poolside. As I'm leaving, I hear a family unloading their car on their way to the pool (good luck -- it's pretty chilly), and I pass a neighbor on her way to the lounger chairs. At least the lifeguard won't be bored while waiting for Dunkins DoLittle to make his reappearance.

I know exactly when the weather will return to Summer Mode, with perfect days in the 90s: The first two weeks that I am back in school, suffering through mindless professional development, useless meetings, and lunches with at least one person who was supposed to be transferred elsewhere . . . but wasn't. (I'm way too old and jaded to be diplomatic, so I'll have to eat at my desk instead of the lunch room because ain't nobody got time for her shit.)

Maybe I'll bring a towel to work with me and claim a few chairs for myself. Perhaps I can escape reality through the same portal my pool-mate did. It will appear that I am there (at work), but I will be somewhere far more interesting. It will be like pulling a magic trick at lunch: I'm there, but in an alternate dimension, perhaps back in Summer, where the weather is way too warm and the water is way too cold.

SUMMER SHENANIGANS CONTINUE

My siblings and I like shenanigans. We are always getting into some kind of adventure or, as often happens, trouble, but it keeps us spry. It's the kind of stuff we pulled as youngsters. 

Of course, we aren't as daring as we once were, like suffering lacerations and a broken nose while on roller skates (the old four-wheel type) tied via long rope to my sister's bike. Or trying to throw another toddler out the second-story window at church nursery school one Sunday morning. Or building giant snow horses instead of snowmen so we could scale the icy things to play on them. Or taking our downhill skis through the very hilly and tree-filled backwoods around our property -- amazing that we didn't smash our helmet-less skulls.

Now, we are into tamer pursuits, for the most part. We did replace skiing through the woods with sledding at supersonic speeds past stumps, trees, and boulders (still helmet-less), and playing snowball baseball by swinging shovels full-tilt. 

We still have a smidgen of daredevil in us.

When my sister and I take in an easy hike to Cascade Falls, we don't expect much. We have had exactly two days of rain in the last three or four weeks. Imagine our surprise when there is actually water running over the rocks. This is where normal people would snap some pictures and stay on the trail.

We are far, far from normal people.

Instead, we go off-roading. After all, we are both wearing sensible shoes. We take to balancing on the rocky and jutting surfaces as if we are the Flying Wallendas (and, a couple of times, we almost become them).We tiptoe over crags, jump over small water features, and climb up small rock faces, all in the name of shenanigans.

We do get some artistic photos. My sister leads the trail, for the most part, so I get a lot of pictures of her rear-end. We work our way along the rocks and through small paths made by others who ventures off the trails as did we until we reconnect with the trails we are supposed to be on. (Don't panic! We were both Girl Scouts, and I was an Assistant GS Leader to two different troops. We only stepped where others had and did not damage any wildlife.)

Surprisingly, we end up on the family-friendly trail after crossing a bridge. We are greeted with Ruby the Rock Snake, a human-created sculpture of rocks laid along the trail to extend Ruby's length, and a concrete block game of hopscotch. Naturally, we dive right in to both activities and are pleased that we are still able to hop and scotch with the best of them.

I'm sorry to see Summer winding down, but that just means a whole bunch of new shenanigans once the season changes. 

STOPPING TO SMELL THE (REAL) ROSES

I'm notorious for stopping in random towns and random places when I'm out driving around because, to be completely honest, I despise the highway. Traveling by interstate may get you where you're going a lot faster, but the scenery is blasé, to be polite. Monotonous. Repetitive. The view from I-95 in Maine is often the same as it is in Connecticut, North Carolina, and Florida: Trees! Some houses! An occasional cow! Pretty standard stuff.

So, I like to wander off the overly-beaten path. Oftentimes, I get lost. (I get lost a lot, actually.) Sometimes my travels lead somewhere unexpected, like finding an old schoolhouse in the middle of being lost in Vermont, or having a quiet lunch by myself while being lost along the edge of a vineyard in New York. 

Perhaps, it even means passing by a sign pointing to a place I didn't realize existed in its location. This is how I stumble onto New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill.

I knew there was a botanic garden in Massachusetts, but I thought it was closer to Boston. Instead, it's tucked into the middle of the state, much closer to Worcester (but not too close). It's off a backroad, but an easily accessible backroad, and there's no hectic city traffic to confuse my nonexistent sense of direction. After passing the sign a half dozen times in the last month or so, I decide that a hazy summer afternoon of temperatures in the high seventies means that it's time to stop and, quite literally, smell the roses.

And smell the other flowers, and the plants, and the trees, and the rocks, and the statues. Well, I do not smell the sculptures because that might be too weird, but the place is a treasure trove of vision, smells, and serenity. I'm wearing my comfy and sturdy flipflops, so I at first stick to things that say "easy walk." Then, I see "moderate" and decide, yeah, I can do that, too. There is one trail marked "difficult" and it's the summit trail. 

It's only a bit of a quick climb through the woods over ruts and rocks and roots, and the elevation isn't pitched too sharply, so my trusty Clark's sandals and I take to the trail. It turns out to be so worth it. At the top it is only me and an older couple. They've hiked up to celebrate their fifty-fourth wedding anniversary. They take the bench, and I stand in awe of the view. We are looking out over Wachusett Reservoir with the smoky image of Mount Wachusett sixteen or so miles off.

After that, I feel pretty invincible, so I hike all the way down to the pond, which is a silly idea in the afternoon sun and heat with nothing but an uphill climb to get back to the visitor center. This is when I have my Robert Frost Moment. I come upon two paths that diverge right there at the woods; one is well-established and one is less-traveled. I now have two choices: Do I hike back up the steeper, groomed path through the shady but buggy woods? Or, do I go for the grassy, meandering, full-sun path that rises a little more gently back to even ground?

Of course, I decide to go field-bombing. I swerve off to the left, just me and some butterflies and some haying grass, and start the trek back to even ground. About halfway up, though, the sun really is too much, so I find a connecting path and walk the last hundred yards in the shade. Technically, I took the path less-traveled, but I kind of worked my way back to civilization before I keeled over from heat stroke.

I will wander back there again, though. I realize as I'm leaving that I missed a part of the garden. I also didn't spend a lot of time perusing every little placard. I'm more of a looker than a learner when I encounter museums and places with lots to see. I'd rather take in all the visuals than synthesize information. (Explains why my nephews and I zoomed through the National Gallery of Art in D.C. -- gotta see everything!) In the end, I might veer off the beaten path, but I'll make sure every detail gets a perusal, and, if I miss something, it's just another reason to return.

IT'S JUST AROUND THE CORNER

It has been hot this summer. Wonderfully, fabulously hot! The last few steaming days were lower humidity, so the heat has been pure enjoyment, even at 97 degrees. 

Not every day has been perfect, though. Nearly so, but not completely. 

The one day and evening that I need to be outside (local Drum Corps show for the nephews), it pours and pours for hours. We've also had a couple of crisp nights with temperatures in the fifties. For the most part, though, this summer has been perfect.

Until a hike in the woods.

It starts out innocently enough. Warm temperature, occasional breezes, almost completely empty trails through the woods. We encounter fairy houses hidden in offshoot trails, we trek over wooden walkways and mini-bridges, and there is enough water still running through the very low river. 

But, then -- we spot something. It's just one thing at first. An anomaly, right? Except, it's fresh, still soft and not brittle. And another. And another yet. 

Autumn leaves. Freshly turned foliage. On the way home, we spot entire bushes already half-turned to fall colors.

Oh, Summer! How could you? You fickle and callous season. Pretending you want to roast us inside of our own skins and then you pull this -- this nasty trick of October right here at the start of August.

I suppose it was bound to happen. After all, I did see a joke post about putting up a Christmas tree now that August is here, and I thought, "You know, that's a dang fine idea!" (I probably shouldn't mention that my downstairs neighbor keeps her tree up and lit all year long.) Those of us who jump from July Fourth to Advent with zero regard to Labor Day, Halloween, Veterans' Day, and Thanksgiving are the ones who are causing all of this. So, I apologize.

I am sorry that I had thoughts of the holidays. I'm sorry that I watched Christmas in July on every sappy movie channel available on my TV service. I guess it's my fault that the leaves are starting to turn. I do believe that we have a couple more weeks of swimming before the snow falls, so I promise not to take out my snowshoes and admire them or make sure my ice skates (both figure and hockey) are sharpened.

Watch out, though. I swear to you, I saw it in the woods today. Autumn is just around the corner. FYI.

NO SUCH THING AS THE SILVER LINE

I ride the subway, or, as we call it here around Boston, The T. I don't ride it every day, but I ride it enough to know my way around. Much like the city streets of Boston, the T often makes zero sense.

Last year my friend and I were in a T station when we encountered a Texas mom and her teen daughter. They were in a suburb (Chestnut Hill) to check out Boston College and had come into the city easily enough on the Green Line. However, they stood dumbfounded at the map trying to get back to the campus in Chestnut Hill. 

You see, Boston actually has four different Green Lines: B, C, D, and E; and D has a northern nook and a southern branch. Worse, all four lines connect in the middle for several stations, and you have to get to the train with your letter on it. 

Worst of all possibilities, because it does go from bad to worse to worst, part of the Green Line operates through the streets with single carriages, meaning riders are literal sardines around the Museum of Fine Arts (the E Line) and Boston University (not ever in the entire world to be mistaken for Boston College -- the Bean Pot Hockey Gods spit on you for such infractions). This whole sardine routine makes the T resemble an overcrowded Bangladesh Festival Train. 

Getting back to our Boston College tourists, even more complicated: Chestnut Hill T-stops (by name) are on both the Green Line B and the Green Line D routes. 

We here in Boston understand the T. 

For example, the Silver Line doesn't truly exist. Oh, sure, there are buses at the airport that operate as "The Silver Line," but I swear to you, they just circle the airport in a Mobius loop like the old folk song Charlie on the MTA (its pre-MBTA title). Do not ever be tricked into boarding anything that says Silver Line -- you will disappear into another dimension and may never be seen nor heard from again.

Summertime Boston is a hopping place. I am meeting my son in the city, so I take the T in (Orange Line -- the only one that actually makes sense) and hoof it from Haymarket. The train is not that crowded even though Boston itself is wall-to-wall people. We have a grand old time, end up at Kelly's in Medford (for you out-of-towners, it's a pretty famous local chain). After we are done in the area there, known as Station Landing, we trek on over the skybridge to Wellington Station. My son will go south back to Boston, and I will go north a few stations back to my car.

It is no small (or even large) lie to say the T gets loaded with people sitting, standing, shoving, and clutching. Yes, the T has multiple color codes, multiple stations, and even multiple branches of the same lines. However, for a Saturday night around 9:00 p.m., the trains should all be hopping and jumping and jiving.

But, this . . . This is my surreal subway ride. I thought maybe I'd finally made it into Final Destination. No one. Not one damn soul. Nobody. Sure, being on a nearly-deserted subway carriage with one or two tough-looking  people is far more dangerous and frightening, but this was nearly next-level psychosis.

I guess the moral of this story is: You can't get there from here; sometimes you can't even get from here to there; if you ride the Green Line, remember what train letter you are on; there is no such thing as The Silver Line. Take that to heart, and you'll be fine.

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

Plants hate me. 

That's not entirely accurate. Like any idiot, I can grow Pothos and aloe plants. They only need to be watered every one to two weeks. These plants can and should be allowed to dry out. Good thing because I am a terrible plant mamma.

For Christmas, however, I received the gift of a miniature herb garden. To say that I have been terrified to open the box might be an understatement. After all, every year I buy a lush basil plant only to have it wither and die, despite my best intentions. I have since decided that my yearly basil plant will be for Caprese salads and not much else. Once it has been properly plucked, then it has served its $6 purpose.

Sure enough, I finally decide that it's time to start those herbs. Dagnabbit, I am determined to grow something other than mold. I carefully follow the directions. Of course, I have way too many seeds and just dump a bunch into the small containers, but, hey, at least I'm trying.

I am careful not to over-water. These things are not my usual hands-off style. I keep them facing the sun. I put them on a bed of foil to catch any excess water so they don't dry out too much, just in case. I move them around and rotate their sun activity from my porch.

And, now? Well, folks, now I'm in real trouble because the dang herbs are growing. Not all of them. The rosemary has decided to commit suicide. But, the others? Sprouts of green!

I'm scared. I need to re-pot the plants soon. I need to get fresh soil and bigger containers. I need to pay more attention. I need . . . I need . . . I need a plant nanny!

For now, everything seems to be alive and thriving. A few days from now may have a different outcome, but, I have to admit, it's rather heartwarming to see that it has been two whole weeks and I haven't killed off anything (except poor, dearly departed rosemary) yet, including the basil.

If you see my name and face on any Wanted posters at the garden stores, though, you'll know things went south quickly.

WRAPS AND BRACES

I am falling apart. Fighting it, but falling apart, just the same.

This morning I wake up with calf cramps. Seriously. It feels like I've run a 5K or perhaps restarted judo classes. When I try to stand up on those sore calves after sleeping (yes, sleeping), my right knee gives out. It feels like something is caught under the kneecap and is driving itself further into my leg with knife-like precision.

From sleeping.

I think back: What on earth did I do yesterday to cause such overnight stress? Let's see, I took my car for a check-up and sat in a chair playing Sudoku on my phone. Then, I went to the grocery store for the dozen items I needed and walked behind a cart for about twenty minutes. After that, I did some light housework -- you know - washing dishes and whisking pudding in a bowl. Super strenuous activities like that. Oh, don't forget that I worked on some writing for a while, interrupted for a short time to watch Jeopardy. Extended ass-sitting, as it were.

It's absolutely insulting the amount of sheer complaining my body engages in from doing absolutely nothing. Nothing, as in not a damn thing. That kind of nothing.

What is worse is that I have a treasure trove of wraps and braces just for occasions like this. Of course, these battle remnants came from real-life situations, for the most part. Let's see, I have in my arsenal:

Ace bandage (universal sign of an oowie); one blue wrist wrap (small); two pink wrist wraps with thumb holes; a wrist wrap with a complete thumb-stabilization brace; an elbow wrap from doing something to a tendon while I slept holding my granddaughter's hand -- an injury that took four months to mend; two ankle support wraps from pulling my Achilles tendons (both of them) during a particularly vacuum-ous mudhole during the Muddy Princess 5K Mud Run a few years back (I hurt myself but saved the sneakers); a heavy-duty ankle brace. 

I also have bouts of hip bursitis and my feet often give out (one from a serious cut that damaged nerves and other pretty things when I was a teenager, and the other from an Austin bunionectomy). Sometimes while teaching at school, there will be loud pops or snaps that scare the children. It's okay, I assure them. It's just my back or my hip or my knee or my elbow or . . . 

Life is grand, folks. It's all fun and games until you need wraps and braces just to get out of bed.

WEEK #2 OF THE ESCAPE

Week #2 of the Summer of My Brain Regeneration sees me back at the dentist, where I will be spending more time this summer because aging jaws and teeth need more maintenance than infants and cost more than a year at college. This week's foray into the dental chair clocks in a 2 hours and 15 minutes. Thankfully, I had hit the ladies' room before sitting in the chair. 

Hoping that the temporary crowns (multiple, yes, indeed) hold and the jaw infection is cleared up, I spend the next day shopping (not buying much) and out to lunch then back for a quick swim at my friend's pool. My editorial commentary on shopping is simply: I miss the Christmas Tree Shop. My friend and I go to Ocean State Job Lot, and, I have to be honest, their prices for the crap they're attempting to sell? Ridiculous. Highway robbery. A crappy, cheap, already busted beach chair for $45? I don't think so, folks. I did buy some bath soap and a bathing suit for my granddaughter, but that was pure luck on my part.

I promised myself to get outside every day, get out and do something, but I spend one day at home working on a few projects. I do walk down to the Amazon hub to pick up a package, so I guess that counts. The next day I do a half-stay-home and half-get-out day by running errands in the morning and cooking several meals (prep) and making ice cream (seven flavors, but I guess I'm not a chocolate peanut butter ice cream girl, although it is delicious -- just not my personal favorite) in the afternoon.

Independence Day brings an annual zoo trip followed by lunch. I like fireworks, but not up close. I end the night with the lights out and watch the NY over-the-Hudson fireworks because Boston simply cannot even begin to compete with NY on that front. I still hate the Yankees, though. Nothing personal -- It's a Red Sox thing.

Also this week I hit the complex's pool a couple of times, although right now it's as cold as the ocean water. My hope is that I tan my legs enough that my varicose veins won't be so prominent because, like my aging jaw, aging legs aren't anything to joke about.

I only check my work email twice. I also tell myself that opening a new tissue box for my home use in no way, shape, or form will steal tissues from my students in September, especially since I paid for the tissues myself and September is still weeks away. 

In conclusion, Week #2 seems to be much better for my mental state. Of course, the forecast for the next week is iffy, and planning anything remains problematic. I'm hoping for some good stuff next week -- It will be the first week of the summer that doesn't have anything (doctors, dentists, other appointments) planned in stone. While I find this lack of direction both daunting and compelling, I hope to have something exciting to cap off my daily "get out of the house" activities. Suggestions welcome!

CHASING SUMMER

I am trying to do something meaningful and/or entertaining every day this summer.

I am inspired by my retired friend who says that she makes it a point to leave her house at least once a day. I think this is spectacular advice, for the most part. After several challenging years at school (thanks, Pandemic, for putting that roller coaster into motion), I need a mental break this summer. I am trying desperately to hold off on my own retirement for financial reasons, but it has been decades since I came this close to walking off a job.

So, this is my summer of Temporary Freedom, or, as I like to call it, My Stay of Execution.

For the first seven days out of school, I take my friend's advice and get out of the house every day. I hit every compass direction: I go south; I go west; I go north; I go east. I put adventure into every day. Finally, on day #8, I decide I should tear my living space apart. In addition to ramping up the fun factor in my life, I am equally determined to reduce the clutter factor. Of course, it certainly helps that day #8 has crappy weather -- starts out rainy then just stays blah all day long. 

I don't know if I'm chasing happiness or sanity, but I'm hoping to catch both as the summer flies by. 

AVIATION EDUCATION AT SQUANTUM

First day after the end of the school year + first Saturday without rain since Spring arrived in March + First Day of Summer = Time to be outside!

I find myself at Squantum Point Park, the site of a 2,700-foot long former runway for a Naval station. No buildings are there, but the place is quietly impressive. The paved path leads straight through wildflowers and low trees, breaking open  where the Neponset River meets Dorchester Bay in Quincy. There are impressive views of the Boston skyline and the famous Boston gas tank. 

Its aviation history, however, is even more impressive.

In 1910, it hosted the first international flight competition in the USA. Harriet Quimby, the first female in the US to receive her pilot's license in 1911 and fly across the English Channel in 1912, lost her life off of Squantum Point when she and her passenger were ejected (fell out of) the airplane after losing control in front of spectators on July 1st in that same year, 1912. In 1917, the US Navy began training pilots there. Later, around 1944, even British Royal Navy pilots trained there, a time that saw BRN pilots and crew surviving a mid-air collision that sent them into the water.

The air strip was closed in 1953 due to its proximity to Logan Airport, creating air traffic nightmares, and, in 1960, it was labeled an abandoned airport. When redevelopment started in the Marina Bay area of Quincy, the area was also considered for development. In 2001, the park opened, featuring a portion of the old air strip.

There are stone markers telling the history, including a shout-out to Amelia Earhart, who helped fund and start what was then known as Dennison Airport at Squantum Point in 1927. She also assisted with its early operations, and she participated in the first official flight at the new air strip.

I'm impressed by the park's history. I truly had no idea that Quincy has such an important place in aviation history. I end up spending an hour or so of my First Official Day Off for the School Year along with the First Non-Rainy Saturday out of the last fourteen,  and the First Official Day of Summer soaking up some sun and some education. 

TWO-WORD PHRASE

What is the most reviled two-word phrase in the English language?

Nuclear bomb? Tax audit? You're fired? No food? Wrong size? Dead end? Prenuptial agreement? Custody dispute? You're guilty? You fail? Pull over? Lane change? Too expensive? Babysitter cancelled? Account's empty? Phone's lost? No internet? Battery's dead? Hiatal hernia? Stomach cramps? Sutures stat? Bread's moldy? 

Nope.

The most reviled two-word phrase is: Staff Meeting.

To anyone who has never been forced to sit through one of these boredom-challenging events, a Staff Meeting happens when someone could have, at the very least, sent the required information out by email or via carrier pigeon. At the very most, it could have happened around the water cooler with far more current and precise information passing around like an adult version of Office Telephone. 

This most recent Staff Meeting could have (and should have) been a memo. There is a completely off-topic presenter who has obviously been placed before us as the Dummy Prize -- run the clock out so no one can ask questions about the real issues. That's fine. We spend the time texting each other bad movie suggestions and drawing faces on photos we take of various items around the room. (I am the Master of the Screaming Charging Station Outlets.) 

What's funny is that sometimes these Staff Meetings are meant to quell rumors, but backfire and actually start the rumors.  We have staff moving all over the place -- to new rooms, to new grades, to new schools, and some out the door. But, we aren't supposed to "know" this nor "talk about" this because, hey, it's smoke and mirrors. It's literally Screaming Outlets.

I'm kind of over it all. I have a couple of years left, and I just recently let my high school license expire. That means I am now only certified to teach grades 5-9 (so, I guess I could still teach freshmen, legally). But, with all the changes going on, and, with two weeks left of the school year, I start packing, rearranging, and tossing twenty-five-plus years' of stuff.

First, I bring home all of my plants so I can set up my porch. Then, I give away two of my six bookshelves, which leads me to pack up the four bookcases I am keeping. This encourages me to give away 200 or so (out of my 600+) reading novels that I'm ready to part with (including my own kids' Goosebumps books). After that, I take all of my "secretive" files to the shredder. This is followed by the tech department coming in to measure for new electronic boards because the useless Eno board will be moving to the back of my room over the bulletin board, so the posters and projects need to be taken down. I organize my desk. I pull apart my closets and dump my old grade eight curriculum (I haven't taught it in twenty years) and my old small-group math materials (also twenty years gone). I put extra plastic "in" boxes into the Teacher's Room. I repack and put away my games and class toys. I take home a metal shelving unit. I move my desk three times in one afternoon until I am happy with its placement even though the area of the room is known as the Blue Tooth Black Hole of Death. I empty out the file cabinets of student work. My room quite literally echoes.

In other words, it appears that I'm leaving.

People start whispering. I assume they're talking about all the staffing conundrums we are facing for 2025-2026, the "information" that "was" (wasn't) shared at the Staff Meeting. I ignore the whispers because I am two weeks from closing up shop for the year. I am sequestered in my room all day every day, and I don't have any idea what is being said outside my four poster-less walls.

Finally, a few bold souls come to my room when I'm in there alone, tearing the place apart, and they close the door. "Are you leaving?"

What? Yeah, in two years.

"Oh. It looks like you're leaving."

No, I'm heaving . . . all this useless stuff.

This goes on and on. Even my Team Leader finally asks me. "Are you leaving?" 

Not yet. But, I am prepared to go at any given moment.

I didn't realize it then, but I do realize it now. I hold that power.  I hold the power to say, "I'm done, and I'm leaving right now." I have one foot out the door and jets on my heels. I may not be leaving . . . yet . . . but I can taste it, smell it, hear it, feel it, see it.

So, being the brat I am, to some I simply say, "Could be. Maybe so. One never knows."

This statement seems to have hang-time. It has repercussions. It has legs. It's an ear-worm. And, even better:

It could have been a freaking Staff Meeting. 

MILDEW AND MENTAL HEALTH

It's remarkably difficult to avoid talking about the rain. It's all the rage around here, and by "rage" I mean that we are all raging that it is raining on another weekend. Friday it pours several times, and we are surrounded by thunderstorms and flash flood warnings all day long. 

By some grace of Mother Nature, high school graduation in the district where I teach seems to avoid the evening rain. A massive wall of thunderstorms miles and miles wide barrels east then turns north, circumventing the small town where chairs have been set up on the field and an audience gathers in the metal stands. 

A true recipe for disaster should the Thunder Gods deem it to be so.

It's one thing to plan a weekend of umbrellas. It's quite another to set ourselves up to be human lightning rods. To be honest, this Weekend Wash-Out routine is getting stale, although it does cultivate a certain appreciation for the good weather days should we ever get to enjoy any of them. Of course, it also cultivates mold and mildew, but I digress.

At least all of this rain is good for the flowers and the trees and the lawns and the weeds. Not so much for our morale, but, at this point of the school year, morale is in the tank, anyway. Perhaps that's why it's raining every weekend -- so those of us who are miserable at work can be equally miserable when we're not at work. 

The seniors make their getaway, though, and they do it under cloudy skies without the storms. Western Massachusetts and New Hampshire are getting drenched, but our students are like the Weather Whisperers. If we can just harness that and sprinkle it on Saturdays, we might make it through summer with some of our sanity intact.

THE CRAP-SHOOT OF DENTAL REPAIR

At my age, medical and dental issues are basically a crap-shoot: Ya win some; ya lose some. However, I would be grateful if the universe stopped kicking my ass for just a half a second.

By pure coincidence, a random x-ray for something else reveals that I need a root canal. Now. Like, yesterday. I had zero idea. No pain, no twinges, no changes in tooth strength. This is how I find myself in the endodontist chair for the second time in my life.  

My first root canal, performed decades ago, led to a massive infection in my upper jaw, necessitating surgery, and then I lost the tooth, anyway, much to the ire of my parents who had to pay for it all. Needless to say, I'm not holding out much hope for this tooth, either. But, I'm willing to give it the old-lady try. After all, it would be kind of cool to have a couple of my own teeth still inside my skull when the Big Ride is done.

The endodontist snaps a couple of x-rays and shows me an even better image of what's going on. He can't believe I'm not in pain. He taps a metal implement against the tooth in question and one next to it. "Doesn't this hurt?" No, Doc, I swear that I am now and hope to remain pain-free.

I tilt back in the dental chair for sixty minutes, trying to keep my mouth open. Only once do I raise my hand to let Doc know I can feel what you're doing there, partner. Several drops of Novocaine go into the open tooth area (Root? Canal? Root canal?), and we're quickly back in business.

When this first appointment is over, I try to stand from the dental chair only to discover that my neck has atrophied. I quite literally cannot put my chin down. I look like a carcass that has just been released from the gallows after hanging. Just perfect. My jaw might be on the road to recovery, but I seem to have suffered a spinal dislocation.

I'm soon sent on my way to the pharmacy, where the internet provider has crashed, so I wait. Can I come back later? they ask me. No. I am here now. Please, for the love of all things sane, GET ME SOME MEDS. While the pharmacy waits for the internet to come back online after a massive outage, I shop for the ibuprofen that I also need. Eventually, my medications and I make our way home.

I am thrilled to discover that I've grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen without a child-resistant cap. Finally, something is easy to open. I'm so excited because, honestly, between my jaw and my neck, I'm ready for some smooth sailing. I open the container without any karate needed. Everything is going along so well, until --

Until I encounter the foil seal.

This damn piece of anti-human engineering will not yield. I pick at every edge, pull on every tab, but nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to open this packet.

Except a steak knife.

I find an older steak knife, one I don't care about if I were to snap off the blade. The weapon is clean and it is sharp. I take aim, pull my wrist back to strike, and I attack that ibuprofen bottle like I'm Norman Bates with a shower curtain.

Minutes later, I am able to begin my antibiotics plus ibuprofen regimen. I do have to go back tomorrow for root canal day #2. I am already anticipating having my neck twisted like I've been to the gallows, and I might even have some pain.

It's okay. I'm old. Pain means I'm still alive. After all, this whole exercise is basically a crap-shoot. I'll let you know how the dice play out.

ONE MORE POST ABOUT SPRING

One more post about Spring 

Because

It's all my fault

The rain, the cold, the winter jackets

All

My

Fault

It reached eighty degrees last week

Not once but

Twice 

So I brought home some of my

Work aloe plants

Thinking maybe they would like to

Decorate the porch

Then the sun disappeared and the

Warmth disappeared and the

Temperature plummeted and

Snow threatened and

Now I have aloe plants all over my

Kitchen counter

Because

It's

All

My

Fault

That Spring refuses to stay

SPRING: THE SEASON THAT DOESN'T LOVE US

Pollen time!

Many places in New England are emerging from Mud Season. Now, we enter the dreaded Pollen Season.

So far, Pollen Season hasn't been too horrendous. We don't have the caterpillars peeing and pooping all over our cars, and we can actually go two or three days (rather than hours) without our vehicles turning into complete green dust-mobiles. I do, however, have my monthly car wash membership, just in case.

The worst part about Pollen Season is the sneezing. Yes, the unexpected, inevitable blasting nasal expectorants that come upon us with zero warning. This, of course, is compounded by things like Mother's Day or Teacher Appreciation Day, when "indoor" pollen arrives in the form of flowers. We do looooove flowers, but our noses don't feel the same way.

Cold season? We have warnings for our sneezes. Our nostrils leak, and we usually say "huuuuhhhh huuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh" before letting loose a snot-infested string of sneezes. If there's smoke around, like a campfire or a barbecue, we can sense the smoke tickling our sinuses, giving us at least enough time to turn away from humanity.

Pollen? Forget it. All bets are off. (I just sneezed uncontrollably and without warning by sitting here typing this and having my windows open to the outside world of Spring.)

So, apologies in advance. If you're chatting with someone from New England and that person's face freezes for the slightest millisecond, you won't even have time to back up. Before you even have a chance to register their facial tic, at least one explosive sneeze will be charging your way.

Don't panic, though: No germs. No diseases. No plague. But, there will be green . . . pollen, that is. 

We do love Spring; It simply doesn't love us back.

SPRING RAIN STRIKES AGAIN

Here we go again. 

Another Spring with hot, sunny days during the week and cold, dreary, rainy days on the weekend. I had to turn on my heat twice already in the last fifteen hours. I mean, just for a few minutes, but still.

It doesn't help that I'm fighting off a persistent viral infection. Nothing major. It's more of an annoying mosquito than killer bee. But it sure would feel good to sit on the porch and soak up some sun.

Not today.

Sure, I've been to the beach already . . . to stop and take pictures while the Arctic wind beat against my entire winter-clothed body. I'm ready, though. The beach chairs are in the car.

So is my kayak. I love my kayak, but the thing is a royal pain to haul around. It breaks in half, so it's transportable via sedan, but it is hefty and has no handles for carrying. As a vertically-challenged person with small hands that cannot even stretch to reach an octave, I look like an Oompah-Loompah trying to move the thing. Living on the second floor also means I can't just take the kayak out and put it back into my car at my leisure. It has to be a highly-skilled, well-coordinated event.

I'm just antsy. The end of the school year cannot come soon enough (28 more days). Actually, the end of my school career cannot come soon enough. (Less than 400, but who's counting?) 

I can feel the beach.  I can sense the beach. Every hour my lighthouse-themed clock reminds me with a fog-horn sound to think about the beach. My living room has beach artwork. I need the beach sand between my toes.

Until then, I will have to get by with chilly, damp days, and I will try to keep my head down and off administrative radar (I laugh just typing that - I'm always in trouble). Maybe I'll fight traffic one day after school to catch an hour or two on the beach instead of correcting papers since the weather only cooperates when I'm preoccupied.

Come on, summer. Lend these Spring weekends a handful of your better days. Think of it as a Mothers' (Nature) Day gift.

OLD JAIL FOR AN OLD PHOTOGRAPHER

I like to wander around new places when I am away from home. At least, I did until my old car gave me trouble and the engine died. Now I try to venture closer to civilization and cell service, just in case. Still, I find myself in southern Maine on a road that looks like it should be well-traveled, but it simply isn't at the moment. No worries -- I'm still in cell range just in case disaster strikes yet again.

I have a habit of coming across old school buildings. So, this particular morning, I find myself outside of the Town House School. It's an old building, 1900 to be exact, situated on a small tract of land that also houses an old jail and the old Clark Shipbuilding Office. Directly across from the little village of buildings is a cemetery. 

In other words, I am pretty much alone out here.

I have both my phone and my camera with me. Yes, my camera. I recently discovered that Google Photos will not easily nor readily transfer to external sources, so I decide to go old-school (excuse the pun) when photographing old schools. But, as technology is these days, phone pictures upload to the internet with remarkable rapidity. Basically, I'm two-hands deep with two different cameras taking pictures that I probably don't need, anyway, but cannot help myself from taking.

I grab some photos of the buildings, wander over to the cemetery, mosey around for a bit, then head back toward my car, which is parked near the old jail. I wonder if I can see well enough inside through the windows in order to see what exactly is inside the old jail. 

As I get up close, I realize that one glass pane is missing from a higher part of the window. No problem. I hold my cell up and snap a photo, hoping for the best.

Perfection! The picture clearly shows both the old cells and the beamed ceiling. I start scrolling through the group of photos I've taken, both on the phone and on the camera roll, when it suddenly hits me. What if the police should come by, or any witness for that matter, and wonder why there is a broken pane on the window. No one else is around, right? I mean, maybe I busted the glass trying to get an up-close and personal look inside the place. Maybe I'm a vandal!

Notorious for being caught in the wrong places at exactly the wrong times like the proverbial kid with the hand in the cookie jar, I jump in my car to make a get-away. This is precisely when traffic starts. It's as if it is suddenly rush hour out here in the middle of nowhere. I haven't seen a car in at least twenty minutes, and now it's so busy going both directions that I cannot pull out on to the road in either direction. If someone broke that window within hours of my arrival, there are at least two dozen witnesses who can place my out-of-state butt at the scene of the crime. 

I probably should've checked if the building door was unlocked and just put myself into one of those jail cells. A guilty conscience is a terrible thing to have if one is contemplating a life of crime.

 

PETS AND PLANNING VACATIONS

My friends rescued a cat. Someone had dumped the poor baby along a hiking trail, and the foster mom lamented the little guy's condition. My friends adopted the cat, fed and cared it back to health, and got him updated on all of his medical care.

Needless to say, they are ecstatic to have an animal back in their house, However, they're back in the "limited vacation" mode: No more spontaneous trips or extended time away unless the cat can come along or a reliable pet sitter can be hired. They agree, though, that it's a small price to pay to help an animal. Besides, the cat is kind of cool. He has a chill personality considering what he has been through.

I have zero interest in getting another cat. Nor a dog. Nor a parrot, iguana, hamster, snake, turtle, beta fish, or chinchilla. Sure, I could use the company, except that my need for solitude is more necessary to my survival than water. I do enjoy other people's pets. I like hanging out with my friends' new cat. I go nuts spending time with my dog-niece in Maine. I live in a complex that has its own dog park and spend way too much time petting the furry friends as they trot by.

But, people must remember that what I lack in reverence and decorum, I make up for with a wicked and cutting sense of the absurd.

While I completely appreciate and sympathize with my pet-owning pals, I cannot resist poking a bit of fun back. In the midst of an online conversation in which I've no business commenting, I simply post a picture of my pets: Scooby-Doo and a unicorn. After all, if I were to leave them unsupervised for too long, they might fly off or jump into the Mystery Machine.

Truly, I do respect pet owners and pet rescuers and pet fosters. I also enjoy being part of the crowd sometimes. When I'm alone, Scooby and Unicorn don't speak much, but they are thrilled to be part of a conversation. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to plan a vacation away from my "pets".

SERIOUS BUSINESS

Psychotic Spring.

This is where we are right now seasonally up here in New England. One day it snows; the next we are at the beach getting sunburned. Sometimes, both of these things can happen on the same day.

The most difficult part of Psychotic Spring is deciding when to change the sheets over from flannel to cotton. If the sheets are changed too soon, there are nights of freezing cold despite being covered in blankets. If the sheets remain flannel for too long, nights feel like endless hot flashes.

Don't laugh. This is serious business. 

I strip the bed today, fully intent on packing away the flannel sheets. I get out some cotton sheets, fully prepared to change over.  After all, today it is supposed to hit 82 degrees. However, I check the weather app, and I see there are 40 degree intervals headed this way, as well. I put away the cotton sheets and opt for the knit ones. These should be a good transition from iceberg to sand dune, right?

Despite the predicted temperatures, it still feels a little chilly in here, though. I don't know. Maybe if I chuck the flannel, a blizzard will hit. I mean, it's still April. This is not outside the realm of possibility. I've seen my kids play lacrosse in a May snowstorm, which had to be halted when the white ball could no longer be located on the field.

I take another look at the long-range weather forecast. 37 - 46 - 48 ... It reads like a bad Powerball draw. I glance between the sets of sheets. I'm pretty much at Eeney-Meeney-Miney-Moe at this point, but the flannel sheets have just come out of the dryer. They're so warm. They're so soft. They smell so fresh.

Dagnabbit. 

The flannel is going back on the bed for another stretch. Hopefully, this will make sure our daily temperatures soar over 60 degrees every day, and the nights will be mild enough to keep the windows cranked open.

SORRY -- MY FAULT

Sorry.

It's my fault.

I talked about the weather and mentioned the word snow.

I went to North Carolina, where Spring has sprung.

I enjoyed warmth and pollen.

I stuck my tongue out at New England.

I mentioned car washes and beach chairs.

I laughed at the weather front dropping torrential amounts of rain.

I flew through clouds and turbulence and smiled.

I had gloves and a down vest at the ready for landing back in Boston.

I kept my heat cool and the shower hot.

I pre-warmed my car every morning before work.

I basically thumbed my nose at Mother Nature this whole week.

And then -- New England woke to snow.

Not a lot of it, but enough.

Mea culpa.

It's my fault. 

Sorry.

HELPING ME SLEEP AT NIGHT

I don't sleep well.

I never have, so this is nothing new. As a kid, I suffered from bouts of insomnia and random wakefulness during the night for no apparent reason. This continued into adulthood, but I've learned to turn it to my advantage.

Rather, I've turned it into a game.

When I wake up during the night, it is rarely a semi-sleepy condition. When I wake up, I'm wide awake and raring to go, even if I've only been asleep for twenty minutes or two hours and twenty minutes. I can also hit dream-sleep within moments of falling asleep and have been known to wake up minutes later after vivid dreams or nightmares. 

I'm not sure how much actual REM sleep I get since reports claim that muscles suffer a kind of paralysis during REM. I often wake up facing a different direction or in a different position or with the quilt on the floor, or sometimes I even wake up with an arm or leg twisted wrong. Yes, I've worn knee and elbow wrap-braces to bed simply because I wake up with the upper portion of a limb facing east while the lower part of the limb faces west. At my age, this is never good.

But, here's the fun of it all. 

Whenever I wake up, I try to guess what time it is and gauge how much more (or less) sleep I can stuff into the night. Usually I'm way off. Maybe I feel exhausted but discover it's time to shut off the alarm. Or, maybe, just maybe, I'll swear it's time to get up and get my day going only to discover I still have hours left to hang out with the pillow and flannel sheets.

In the middle of a night's sleep recently, I awaken and feel that it must be close to alarm clock time. I get a good bead on how I feel -- somewhat overly tired, but feeling like I should probably get up and get ready for work. I quietly say, "If only it weren't . . ." and then I guess, "3:30 yet. I'd love to sleep some more."

I look at the clock. It's 3:29 a.m. By the time I find the camera on my phone without benefit of reading glasses, the clock shows 3:30. I resist the urge to cheer -- I have neighbors, after all. Not only do I guess the time right on the money, but I can sleep for another two-and-a-half hours. 

This is the game I play. Maybe other insomniacs play it, too, a little while after we've played the "Relax Every Muscle In Your Body, One At A Time, So You Can Maybe Fall Asleep Within An Hour" game. Or perhaps it's after a round of the "Who Thinks Counting Any Damn Thing Will Help Me Sleep" game. 

No matter. I called it at 3:29 a.m. and totally owned it. Winner! Of course, when I wake up a little later, totally unable to go back to sleep, I don't feel so smug, but for that one brief moment, I feel victorious. Sometimes that's all I need to help me sleep at night.

CAR WASH CLUB MUSINGS

I finally did it. I finally signed up for a monthly car wash package. 

I didn't go hog-wild or anything. It's just the basic car wash thingamajig. No fake hot wax or extra wheel cleaning. (I never believed an automated car wash tunnel could do that, anyway. Wouldn't my windows have wax on them? Seems sketchy.) 

You're welcome, by the way. Since I signed up for the monthly washes, it hasn't snowed a single flake. No snow means no salt and no slush. 

I'm not worried about getting my car washes in during a monthly timeline. I've already gotten a couple of washes in for my one-cent original fee during March. Once I start with my $19.99 a month (easily what some people spend for a week's worth of coffee), we will be entering Pollen Season here in New England, or, as we like to call it: Green Car Season. 

The beauty of this deal is that I can wash my car anytime. I don't have to bank on four or so days in a row of sunshine so that I "get my money's worth" out of the $13 wash. I don't have to struggle with the payment machine that changes how I need to hold my credit card or redirect the proper scanning of the microchip.

The big plus is that there are several locations of this car wash near me. One is by work. This one is like going through a car disco with lights and colors flashing. Another location (I haven't tried this one yet) is by the used bookstore I frequent (that's also on the way to and from my daughter's house). This means that I have options for when snow happens. Or for when pollen happens. Heck, when life happens.

All I have to do is figure out the new-fangled vacuum machines, and I'll be good to go. I'm not pushing it, though. If my luck holds out the way it usually does, one clean car both inside and out is sure to bring on a blizzard, so I'll hold off on that for another month or so.