WEATHER, MUSIC, AND A WALK ON THE BEACH

Crazy damn weather up here in New England, and I'm not wasting a second of it.  Well, that's not entirely true.

Yesterday the weather was phenomenal.  Hot, sunny, fantastic.  I had to waste it sitting inside trying to get my sorry self into a lottery for a required class that has limited seating all across the state.  I got into the class but lost a perfectly decent beach day, so today I am determined to have my time in the sun.

Only problem is the weather.  It's storming out, not so much where I live; it's just raining here.  But the beach is getting a big-ass thunderstorm this morning.  I watch the radar like a savant.  I consider myself a bit of an amateur weather person, so I know if I leave my house at 9:00 a.m. sharp, I should arrive at the beach just about the same time the sun does.  Either way, sun or no, it's going to be hot as blazes today, so I'm going to the beach, damnitall.

I get into my car at 9:06, and the sun is already peeking out here.  By 9:16, the skies turn bluish, and by 9:19 I'm in sunglasses mode.  I have Ted Nugent's "Stranglehold" on full tilt, followed by Little Feat's "Dixie Chicken" and Joe Jackson's "You Can't Get What You Want" (the live version online is outrageous, by the way) and then "What You Know" by Two Door Cinema Club.  This is all followed up by a bootleg live version of Bruce Springsteen and Eddie Vedder singing AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" recorded in Australia.

Low tide at the beach is right around 9:00 this morning, and I'm going to walk the entire beach for the first time this summer.  That's my plan if the weather cooperates as well as the music does.  I shut down the radio as I make my approach down High Street.

When I arrive, my favorite space is open, right at the best part of the entire stretch of ocean. Steam is rising from the still-wet pavement, and the sand is damply pockmarked from the pounding storm that has drifted out to sea.  I walk/jog the entire beach and back, stop back at the car, then haul my chair and bag to a prime sandy spot. 

A few hours later after a dip in the waves, four chapters of a good book, and constant movement back toward the rocks to flee the rising tide, I am ready to leave.  A new cloud bank has formed, and shortly after I arrive home, tornado warnings go up all over the area. Funnel clouds are spotted and hail the size of golf balls pelt nearby towns, but my hamlet escapes the worst of it.  I can still hear the storm in the distance an hour after it passes overhead.

Crazy damn weather, and I won't waste any of it.

SEARCHING FOR HENRY

We are searching for Henry.

My sister and I spend a hot day outside, starting at Walden Pond, not swimming (like we probably should, due to the humidity) but hiking, jogging, and exploring.  Neither one of us has ever been to Walden Pond, though both of us have passed by its sign on the main thoroughfare dozens of times.  Today, we’re going to find Henry David Thoreau, or, at least, his remainders, his remnants, his resonance.

We check the trail map and decide to stay on the main Pond Path because it is an easy and direct shot to the site of Thoreau’s famed cabin, and we also decide that 2.5 miles in this heat is probably more than enough to start our long day of adventure.  The cabin site is cordoned off with granite hitching posts and rope, allowing an entry to the small area to explore where the chimney had been, where the door had been, and on.

The reverence for this literary site is shattered as we start back on the trail and I whimsically wonder out loud if Henry David Thoreau swam naked in Walden Pond.  I don’t know why I wonder this because, judging by the man’s portraits, he’s not much of a looker, to me, anyway.  Okay, he has interesting and unusual eyes, but the rest of his face is super-creepy.  If I ever stumbled upon him in the woods --day or night, any season, him clothed or not – I’d probably run screaming for the nearest exit.

On our way back to the parking lot, we stumble across a replica of Thoreau’s cabin along with a statue of old Henry, himself.  It is early morning still but ungodly hot and steamy, and the line to get into Walden Pond stretches far down the street.  We tell one car that we will be leaving in a moment, if they would like our space.  The gratefully accept, and as we are pulling out of the lot, we see that there is no more line inside the gates, for they have been locked.  The new line forms on the street.  9:40 a.m. and Walden Pond is already full.  Thank goodness naked Henry isn’t swimming today; he’d have quite an audience.

We decide to visit the nearby Concord Museum, inside of which are artifacts, history, and a baseball exhibit.  Outside of the museum is another exact replica of Thoreau’s Walden cabin, except this one is more historically sparse and more modernly functional: A table full of brochures adorns the room, brochures I am certain of which there were none in Henry David’s day.

We watch a thirteen-minute film on Concord’s history through the ages, and are startled to hear every narrator pronouncing Henry David’s name differently than we do.  All the years, all the teachers, all the professors, all the book store clerks, the name has always been Henry David ThorEAU.  These voice-over actors are pronouncing the last name as THOReau. 

Wow.  Do we feel like dumbasses.

I mean, we only grew up around here.  Have we all been saying poor Henry David’s name wrong all these years?  Did he change its pronunciation to separate his literary self from his naked-swimming Walden Pond self?  Was he travelling incognito?  “No, I’m sorry, but I do not swim in the nude.  I’m not THAT Henry David.  He’s ThorEAU.  I’m THOReau.  Dreadfully sorry for the mistake, you disobedient civilian.”

After being shamed by our collective verbal ignorance, we head off in a couple of other directions (Old North Bridge, Minuteman National Park…) before I direct my sister (the driver) to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.  This is not THE Sleepy Hollow Cemetery of Washington Irving fame; that’s out near Tarrytown, NY.  This is the literary Sleepy Hollow Cemetery of New England writers’ fame. 

Author’s Ridge is a short walk from the parking area.   Before this entire acreage was a cemetery, it was considered a nature preserve by the local transcendentalists.  Now, though, many 19^th century local authors/transcendentalists are buried here.  We pass by Hawthorne, Louisa May Alcott, and Emerson before we stop to say hello to Henry David.

Awkward moment. 

We have been searching all day for Henry David ThorEAU, but we may have found Henry David THOReau.  We’re not sure anymore. 

Oh, well.  Doesn’t matter.  The sky is dark and foreboding; rain is certainly in our immediate future and we still have Sudbury to conquer.  We wave a quick goodbye to Henry and the rest and trot off to visit the Grist Mill. 

Grist Mill.  See?  Easy to pronounce.  No problems.  Unless we’ve been saying that wrong all these years, as well.  At this point in our search, nothing would surprise me anymore.

UNEXPECTED BASEBALL ENCOUNTER

Whenever I go somewhere, I am a magnet for the weird and unusual.  A bizarre modern combination of P. T. Barnum and Robert Ripley, freakazoid places, people, and things seem to attach themselves to me wherever I go.

Sometimes these things are creepy, like the very nice but extremely odd male stranger in Tarrytown, NY, who bought me a hot chocolate on a cold day at the lacrosse field while I was photographing a college game.  (Yes, I drank it, and yes, it was delicious.)  Sometimes these things are fascinating, like discovering a church with stained glass windows crafted by famous artists Marc Chagall and Henri Matisse -- right in the middle of nowhere.  Sometimes these things are heartwarming, like helping a baby seal make its way back into the waves and on its way back to its mother.

Sometimes, though, these freakazoid happenings are completely and totally serendipitous.

My sister is visiting.  After a living room slumber party at my house, we decide to go on a historical tour of Concord.  One of the places we stop is the Concord Museum, a brick house loaded with local artifacts from pre-Revolutionary War to post-Industrial Revolution.  We sit through a thirteen-minute video then explore the museum.

The place is compact but amazing.  Three hundred years of history are housed here, including displays, period-styled rooms, and Emerson's study (moved and recreated and smelling of the leather-bound texts that fill the shelves).  There are muskets and pistols and sabres and cannonballs.  Original documents written in longhand are close enough for us to read the intricate script.

Just when we think we have hit every single room, we cross the upper foyer to a special gallery.  Inside the gallery is a display, "The Art of Baseball."  A short video introduces us to the owners of these treasures, an amusing older couple who have my sister and me laughing out loud throughout the gallery.  We laugh so much that one of the guides guesses instantly that we are siblings.  Guilty as charged.

In this gallery are paintings, sculptures, and various artifacts of baseball through the ages.  There is an old box office sign, an amazingly intricate and surprisingly ornate lady's hair comb carved with a baseball motif, and memorabilia of all kinds from throughout the ages of baseball.

Suddenly from across the gallery hall we spot a Lucite display case.  Inside are some everyday baseball items, or so we think.  Until we get closer.

Oh ... my ... god.

Inside the case are Pudge's catcher's mask, Jim Rice's baseball bat, Yaz's Red Sox cap, and Ted William's mitt.  Next to these are three World Series rings.  Right here in Concord.  Smack in the middle of a historical museum.  Hiding in plain sight where you'd least expect to find them.


Weird and unusual, yes.  Just another typical day on the road for me?  Absolutely.

CREEPY GPS

My sister and I are taking a leisurely drive to several semi-nearby literary historical sites in Concord and Sudbury.  In order to accomplish hitting all of our marks today, we need some kind of GPS device.

I have a Tom-Tom that likes to shame me amusingly using the voice of Scottish comedian Billy Connelly.  My Waze app used to be set to Elvis, but Elvis has apparently left the Waze building.  Not a huge Arnold Schwarzenegger fan nor am I fond of boy bands, there is little left to choose from voice-wise on Waze, so I opt for the traditional Siri clone voice.  Speaking of Siri, both my sister and I have Goggle maps on our cell phones.

But, my sister is more like me than she would ever dare to admit publicly.  You see, she has a Garmin GPS, and the voice setting is for Dr. Nightmare.

Dr. Nightmare speaks in a creepy, baritone, semi-British accent with an echoing quality to its vocal delivery.  When he first starts speaking, I crack up.  The fun wears off, though, when Dr. Nightmare gives us instructions for which we are not prepared, making us jump in our seats, straining against the seat belts because the creepy-voiced guy in the dash-machine has just scared the living shit out of us.  Of course, this just makes us laugh even harder.

We are crossing through some historically bucolic countryside, out in the middle of East Bumboot, totally not near anything remotely civilized, when Dr. Nightmare randomly announces, "Never mind that noise coming from the trunk!"

Holycrapola.  Is he talking to us?

The strange thing is that he says the same exact thing when we pass by that same exact location on the return trip.  I wonder if there is some sort of trigger that tells the GPS to say this when the map shows no other living, breathing soul within scream distance.   I mean, really.  Imagine some technician decides to add that feature just to frighten unsuspecting motorists.  How totally cool would that be?

"Turn right," Dr. Nightmare instructs in his deadpan lower vocal range, "then arrive at this dreadful destination."

Wait a second.  This "dreadful destination" is my house!

Okay, so Dr. Nightmare is noooo Billy Connelly.  However, he does run a close second place.   

BARBIE, QUEEN OF THE PROM

My sister is here visiting.  We are supposed to participate in a fundraiser tomorrow, a Mud Run, but it has been cancelled, so we are planning an adventure, instead.  While planning our adventure, we are keeping ourselves occupied with activities like long walks in the sweltering heat, Cribbage, Gin Rummy, and board games.

Yes, board games.  Old, old board games.

We decide to play the original Barbie, Queen of the Prom game.  For anyone unfamiliar, in order to win the game, we must collect cards about dresses, school clubs, and, of course, boyfriends.  I want Poindexter, but I keep landing on Ken.  Oh, that sounds dirty a little bit, doesn't it?  Several rounds later, I still have not managed to go steady with Poindexter, but I have cheated on Ken with Bob and Tom.  Apparently, my Barbie is a hussy.

Once we have exhausted make-believe Barbie dress shopping, we move up a level to a slightly more recent (but still old) electronic board game called Mall Madness.  My sister keeps winning because she has always been a superior shopper compared to me.  Even the game reaches its limit with her when every time her

cardboard credit card hits the money slot, the machine yells, "THE BANK IS CLOSED!!!!"  I, of course, am rewarded $75 for my pathetic efforts whenever my card hits the same slot; the bank feels sorry for people like me who are shopping-challenged.

In the end, I do reasonably well at the card games, but my sister totally kicks my ass at the board games ... the old, old board games.  I believe it's because she is OLD-er.

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

TWELVE ITEMS

Shopping in the parallel universe today!

I need to stop into the store for about five minutes, for a total of eight items.  I feel confident that my loot will lead to a quick get-away. I can wait in the express aisle with my fewer than twelve items!  Woohoo!!!

The only problem is the woman in front of me.  She already has four bags full of groceries (clearly more than a dozen items).  What she is doing in the express check-out line is a mystery (and a bit of an itch), so I am forced to wait in the regular check-out line, along with other shoppers avoiding the over-the limit woman, in the line with the slow cashier.  Maybe I'll get out sooner than the now-slower line, which is supposed to be the express line.

Before I make my final decision on a line, my blood starts to boil.  The lady in the express check-out keeps going back into the store aisles to add more stuff to the conveyor belt.  I blame her for being a numbers-challenged moron, but I also blame the express cashier who started ringing her full grocery cart in the first place.


This is one of life's everyday conundrums that will never be solved.  As I stand there with my eight items, waiting and waiting and waiting, it pisses me off.  It's not rocker science, folks; then again, maybe it is.  Boooo.

HUNTER AS HUNTED

I know plenty of people who hunt.  They're awesome people, and they're pretty decent sportsmen (and women) and people in general. 

They eat what they kill, they only hunt in designated areas, they only take what they are legally allowed to take from nature, and they do not hunt simply to put trophies on their walls. I also know plenty of former hunters who now choose to shoot animals with cameras rather than crossbows or guns.  That's fine, too.

Here's what I don't know.  I don't know how or why anyone could claim not to know he is tricking a reserve animal out of a restricted, protected area and into an open-season area.  All my hunter friends can read both signs and maps.  I don't personally know anyone who hunts just to see an animal dead, maybe stick its head on a wall or put its pelt on the floor.  I don't know any hunters who would bribe crooked guides with $55k to kill a country's pet lion. Furthermore, no hunter whom I know personally has ever poached black bears and lied to the police and game wardens about it.  No hunter whom I know personally has ever sexually harassed a female employee nor remarked to her directly about her genitalia.

This dentist/hunter whose life is imploding is getting exactly what he deserves after killing Cecil, the beloved African lion.  His practice is closed, his address has been published online, and his face is being broadcast everywhere.  His Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts have been closed.  From all anecdotal accounts, they guy is a fucking dick turd in his day to day life. 

Now he is presumably hiding out, being hunted and stalked like the animal he murdered. 

That's right - murdered.  This is not hunting.  This is not even any kind of sport.  Karma is a bitch, Doctor, and right now that bitch bites like a lion.  Keep running, sir.  There may be some human (or animal) guide willing to lure you out and treat you with the same mercy you showed Cecil.

God speed.  Bastard.