momtourage

Unthinkable/Unimaginable/Unfathomable

While I was busy baking bread, having a picnic, enjoying an adult conversation during a play date, scolding Sam and Hank, washing the kitchen floor - think of the most frivolous and mundane activities that make up the day to day - something very, very terrible was happening to a friend and her family. I don't want to invade their privacy by going into any details, but I don't think I can go on to write anything else without this pause, this acknowledgment that things we cannot understand or even accept happen to people we care about.

My love and tears go out to them in this horrible time.

Union Fair Pictures

Here are a few highlights from our excursion yesterday:

It was hard to get Hank to stop bouncing. I think we used 15 tickets on the bouncy castle 'ride.'

Whoever created this ride deserves a medal. Sam, Hank and countless other kids took a lengthy tour of the fairgrounds at a gentle speed, for a reasonable price.

Galaxy Girl, just before the handstand. Can you imagine the amount of upper body strength this woman has? Notice how the flag is flapping - she had to deal with some wind too.

Thrills, a Galaxy of (more or less)

We went to the Union Fair today, which we do every year. It's a pleasant, midsized fair in - you guessed it - Union, Maine. It has its share of strangely creaking rides, worn-down looking carnies, fried food stands and agricultural displays. But there are some special highlights that make it more fun than it might otherwise be:
1) It is a blueberry-centric fair, and there are fresh-baked, luscious blueberry treats available for purchase. I recommend the blueberry crisp. With whipped cream.
2) There is a 4-H pavillion with lovingly crafted items and heartfelt accounts of raising animals and food.
3) There is a mish-mash of a museum with a seemingly endless array of banal and unexpected items. Beware the hawkish old ladies who sometimes man the entrance - their frowns will haunt you throughout your tour.
4) There is a Blueberry Queen who is definitely not picked for her looks in a bathing suit.
5) There is often musical entertainment.

And this year there were two additional excitements
6) A children's ride made from 50 gallon steel drums, with real little wheels to 'drive' with, pulled by a lawn mower. It cost $1 for a 10 minute ride.
7) Winns' Galaxy of Thrills

Sam spotted the promotional material for The Galaxy of Thrills first. The photo of a motorcycle on a tightrope, also involving a scantily-clad lady on a trapeze was hard to dismiss. Since I spent a larger part of my childhood than most people do at stock car races, drag races and demolition derbies (in that order), I tend to put daredevil stunts without any safety equipment into the category of wholesome family entertainment. For example, my dad took me to Hooters for lunch since it was right across the street from the Daytona 500 and there were a lot of other families like us there at the time. So I guess maybe my perspectives are a little skewed, or a tad biased or strongly influenced by early, entirely normalized sightings of a)buxom ladies in skimpy outfits serving food b) reckless behavior that many would consider downright dangerous if not life-threatening.

So Sam and I were both excited for the show to begin. The highly tanned Winn family performed most of the stunts and I have to applaud them for their professional presentation and breath-taking stunts. We were worried and thrilled at the same time as the mom, "Galaxy Girl" climbed to the top of a 12 story high, tippy tower (it was windy too) and did a handstand on top. She later appeared on a trapeze that was somehow linked to a motorcycle zooming around a circle in the air. Other motorcycles zoomed around inside a small globe of sorts, and my step-dad recalled a similar sight at the Southern country fairs of his youth, only the globes were built of wood. I am sorry to say, I missed the daughter, "Miss Ashley's" hula hoop madness routine, but I was assured that it was incredible. Well, maybe we will catch the whole show next year.

I Write the Songs...

Because I am making a 3 hour trip to the coast once a week I have had ample time to revisit the radio stations of my youth. And in Maine this means lots and lots of classic rock. WBLM "The Blimp" (It's a bit of a stretch.) is the station we always listened to on the school bus and its sassy, adolescent humor still rocks my journeys, though I don't have such a high Van Halen tolerance nowadays. Still, I can usually count on some Led Zep and other faves of yore though they be mixed in with the absolute dregs of the times too.

There's this stretch of road that goes through Readfield, Kent's Hill and Fayette. It's monotonous in a subtle way, really the 'long haul' part in the middle of the trip. I am most likely in a daze by this point and have switched from an attempt to listen to a truly edifying show on NPR that I listen to with great earnestness at first but snidely refer to as a 'gripe fest' right before I give up and switch back to the mindless jokes and familiar hits of the Blimp. It was on this stretch yesterday that I won the song list lottery. 3 songs that are guaranteed to bring tears to my eyes played ALL IN A ROW. What are the chances of that? It's like they knew I was listening and was in the fragile state one arrives at after 2 hours in a car with small children, right after the big yell and just before they give up and go to sleep.

The songs are as follows and please don't judge me but this totally reveals what a sap I am:        Shooting Star by Bad Company, Superstar by the Carpenters, and Cats in the Cradle by Harry Chapin. Okay, so I'm lying a bit - Superstar wasn't in the line-up but its EXACT OPPOSITE What's Your Name by Lynyrd Skynyrd was and it forced me to think of Superstar, so it might as well have been. Sniffling, weeping, so choked up I could barely sing along, I made my way down that stretch of highway. Thanks for the memories, WBLM.

Post-traumatic Bat Syndrome

It's not like I killed the bat, got it tested and then forgot the whole episode. In fact I have been suffering from a sort of post-bat stress disorder in which I wake up randomly several times during the night and have to scan the ceilings of my room and the kids' rooms. Satisfied that no bat is swooping around, I settle back into a fitful sleep, until I wake up and do it all over again. Not too many times a night - maybe 2 or 3 - but it makes for a very tired (and grumpy) morning.

I also check behind the curtains once in a while to see if a bat is hanging there. And then I have been overcomponsating for what must be feelings of guilt for my role in the bat's death by reading books like "Bats on the Beach" and "Stellaluna" to Sam and Hank. They seem fine with the whole thing and recognize that yes, bats are important players in the ecosystem, and we love how they eat bushels of bugs, but that we should be wary of bats who are out in the day or ones that are trapped in our house.

I guess I'll just get really tired one night and sleep straight through. Maybe tonight.

Toto, I Don't Think We're in Brooklyn Anymore

I'm not sure if it made national news, but a funny thing happened in Brooklyn on Wednesday morning.  A tornado happened.  I didn't hear the theme of the wicked witch of the west when I woke up to thunder.  I was more worried that Cakie would be scared.  I was scared.  It was really loud.

When Cake woke up, he pointed to the window and said "What dat?"  I said, "That's thunder.  It's a noise that happens sometimes when it rains."  "Thunder."  He replied.  "Where?"  I said, "The thunder is outside."  "Thunder.  Outside.  Okaaaaay."  And that was it.  He wasn't nearly as alarmed as I was. 

A few times a year, New York has an emergency that shuts down the public transportation system.  We just deal with it.  So I drove my honey and a neighbor to work.  We were stunned to see trees, some of them had to be hundreds of years old, fallen all over our neighborhood. 

This one is in the middle of the short road that leads to the school where I teach. 

But this next shot is what got me thinking of the Wizard of Oz.  Three huge trees, across the street (by street I mean expressway) and one block over from my house, fallen down in a row like dominoes.  On the news they keep talking about a twister in Bay Ridge that ripped the roofs off of houses.  I ask you?  What else could have done such a thing?  The funniest thing about this is that the big apartment building behind the trees is the home of a good friend who just moved.  Where?  To Kansas.

Completely Batty

On Friday night at about 11pm, a bat flew through my hair - not enough to catch and tangle, more of a brush really. But still, it was pretty disgusting. At first I was in denial and tried to convince myself that it was a high-scampering mouse (hmm). Then it knocked over something way up on the bookshelf so I couldn't possibly think that anymore. I turned on the light. Sure enough, there was a bat flapping wildly around the room confused, no doubt, by its surroundings.

The scariest part was that all of this happened in Sam's room and the only reason I would have know anything about it at all is because we had guests, so I had moved onto his floor for the night. I dragged him out of the room, slammed the door and immediately called the 24-hour animal control hot line. Shaken and scared already (a man in the neighboring town had been diagnosed with rabies a couple of weeks ago) I was told that I needed to trap the bat RIGHT NOW, before it found its way out of the house. If I did trap it and kill it without disturbing the head too much then they could test it for rabies and we could, as a family, forgo the expensive, 28-day series of shots.

Gentle reader, I trapped that bat. Armed only with a tennis racket, wearing a sturdy fisherman's hat and a pair of completely unprotective gardening gloves, I clumsily drove it into the window screen, slammed down the sash, then duct taped the whole damn frame, inside and out just in case there was a tiny hole it could squeeze through. And then what? I decided to kill it in the morning when I was in saner state.

The next morning, as I gazed at my jerry-rigged bat display case, I realized I needed help. The bat had been asleep since its capture, due in part to me shining an interrogation light of sorts onto the window in order to trick it into thinking it was day. But now the bat would be full of energy and wily vigor after such a sleep, whereas I had hardly slept a wink, hearing imaginary chirps every time I started to drift off. The very nice lady from the hot line had told me to call the game warden if I had any problems and this suddenly seemed like a good idea.

When he arrived that afternoon, he kept his truck running. I think he thought it would take a couple of minutes and he'd be on his way. 34 minutes later, with the help of a pillowcase, a wire hanger, a stick, a net (one of 2 he had brought with him - but the first one had holes that were way too big), and a rolled-up New Yorker, we were finally in a position to kill the bat. I whapped it while he held the net, then we loaded it into a ziploc bag and deposited it in the refrigerator. My step dad had kindly agreed to take it to Augusta the next day for the rabies test.

The test was negative, we were all relieved, the kids went back to the lake with my parents and we all thought well, the bat experience is out of the way. Then this morning a dead bat was found on the floor of their place. So another bat is now in Augusta, being tested for rabies.

Will it never end?

Coney Island

I am a lover of decrepit beauty.  I don’t like my places all clean-cut and trimmed and painted.  I like to see weeds between the cracks and ads from long-ago still painted on the sides of buildings.  It explains why I love New York and why one of my very favorite places in the city is the slightly seedy isle of conejas.
   
Every year on the day after school ends, I go to Coney Island to celebrate.  I figured I’d be able to carry on the tradition long enough for my children to join in, long enough for them to learn to appreciate the place as I do.

Recently, much like other sections of Brooklyn, Coney Island has become threatened by bullies, I mean developers.  Elsewhere, groups have formed to defend the city against the unscrupulous money-grubbers who find loopholes to kick people out of their homes and buy land from the city at prices far below their actual value. 

I haven’t heard so much about Coney Island.  When I went there recently with my good buddy lifebelowtheline, we both took our cameras along to document what will be our last summer of Coney Island as we know it.  Lbtl often accompanies me on my first day of summer jaunt and mandatory Wonder Wheel ride.  This time we rode our bikes all the way down Ocean Parkway.  Which was great fun until I got a flat tire on my bike.

I went back a few days later to take my son to see the New York Aquarium.  On my way out, I stopped by the “Coney Island History Project” to get the scoop on the bad guys.  A slender man with a tan and a short bristly haircut gave me the gist.  Apparently, there are two developers.  One, the better bad guy, has just bought up the weedy old lots and plans to build on them.  The other developer, named THOR, is the real bad guy.  Thor is also the Norse god of war who wielded a magic hammer and for whom thunder is named.  So he came in with his magical money hammer and bought Astroland.  He freakin’ bought Astroland, people!  This is a nightmare.  More so for slenderguy who works for Astroland and says that his last day is Labor Day.  Thor bought the park claiming it would build shops and maintain the spirit of the place and he’s now trying to build condos there.  Who would buy a condo, and agree to keeping the roller coaster right outside the window?  Surely not the rich-folk Thor plans to court.  Thor claims that they need the housing units to make the project financially viable. Yet, if he doesn’t get his way, he’s threatening to do nothing, essentially giving CI huge “dark spots” without activity until the company finds a mayor willing to bow down before his mighty chariot.  Does anyone else see the gaping chasm in this argument? Thor’s bad. 

I’m so sad about Astroland.  I can’t really even put it into words.  So I’ll just show you pictures.  When it is all Disneyed up and sparkly and shiny and safe, I’ll have these pictures to show my kids the real Coney.  Coney as it is and will always be for me.

the nightmare move from hell

It all started out fine...Five guys and a driver came and took all of our stuff in Brooklyn...Our things showed up the following week in Austin...

The catch was that this time, the only movers were the driver and his son. Six people down to two people.

When my husband told me this, I was picturing that the son was a strong college-age lad, NOT A NINE YEAR OLD. I'm sure he didn't have a work permit. And he was moving and dropping things, including my 20-inch computer monitor. He was trying to be helpful—since who else was going to help?

A drunk day-laborer, actually. And my husband. You sorta don't expect to hire movers and then have to do it yourself too. Isn't that what happened in college when you made all your friends help you? (Of course, you only owned a bed and a few boxes then.)

Did I mention that is was 96 degrees out and there were six flights of stairs? (It's a poorly designed apt complex). It took ten hours to unload the truck. My poor hubby.

The worst thing is knowing that we'll have to move OUT of this apt in six months! (We won't be using the same movers though—the horror!)

Survivalist Leanings

Oneofhismoms knows that I have certain survivalist leanings. But I don't think that anyone else does. If you were interested and a keen observer, you might notice that I own a bunch of Foxfire books, that I am somewhat obsessed with my garden (sadly, as it is ailing this year), and that I knit many articles of clothing per year. I also tend to worry about global warming quite a bit, going so far as to consult an internet map that tells you how rising water will effect various locales, suggesting that we should move away from the coast, then worrying about how much extra carbon we would produce inland where we would have to own a car and use it.

Okay, okay, so maybe I have wondered (more than once) if I would be able to stalk and kill a deer for meat for the family, and have tried to remember how my cousin showed me how to skin a squirrel that time. In order to feed and exacerbate these tendencies, I haunt the 'homesteading' section at used book stores here in Maine. (Many of these books were written by back-to-the-landers in the 1970s and are difficult to find now.) And yesterday I added a new tome to my arsenal of 'just in case' books. It's called Preserving the Fruits of the Earth It has instructions for making jams, conserves, wine etc. out of almost anything imaginable. It also provides step by step directions on how to capture frogs, dispose of them and cook them. In other words, it gives you the tools with which to stock a cellar and chest freezer then live off of the contents. Which could possibly be handy information to have.

But I am not at that paranoid frog skinning stage yet. Instead, I am at the bread and jam making phase which certainly could be construed as fierce domesticity, old-fashioned housewifeliness even - if you did not know of my pessimistic forebodings. Since I came to Maine, I have bought one loaf of bread, total, preferring instead to make a whole wheat/white flour loaf sweetened with local honey once a week. And last week I started with the jam.

To begin with, I love the colors of homemade jam, their rich jewel tones, and the sweet, sweet promise that lies under that perfectly sealed lid. I have made two batches thus far, one with raspberries picked from my Aunt and Uncle's patch next door and one with blueberries picked from Wyman Hill, a favorite spot for contemplation before it was largely clear-cut. To this I will add a batch of golden peach jam next week, since peaches are on sale at the moment. If we have enough blackberries this year I will make some of them into jam too. It's a pain to do, dangerous (I don't have one of those wire things you place the jars in boiling water with so use fingers and a slotted spoon to ease them into the bath) and a huge mess (think every pot in the house covered with sticky jam, plus the counter, walls and part of the floor). But I know that on a cold, gray winter day when I open up one of those jars that it will conjure up the best parts of the summer, the silence of the blueberry barren, the smell of warm raspberries, and the sight of my delighted children discovering the perfect fruit and eating it - a simple, pure, and joyful act.