Happy Father's Day!

Living Deliberately in Concord: Part One

We returned a few Sundays ago from our long-awaited American Transcendentalist practicum in Concord, MA. Monday morning the smell of hing and methi still lingered in the car, and visions of America’s most influential thinkers and writers still danced in our heads.

It all began on Christmas Day 2011, when I unwrapped a box containing a bright green 3-ring binder and what felt like thirty or forty pounds of scholarly tomes. Inside the binder, the syllabus and attendant resource materials for a graduate-level course created by Matea: ENGL 446: American Transcendentalism and the Prominence of Place. The self-directed course, which we were to work through together, would become a passage back to the nascent pulses of the Unitarian Universalist traditions we have adopted in Vermont, and the stream of progressive, idealistic New England virtues which we heartily imbibe.

In early January we commenced our course with the introductions of Meyerson’s Transcendentalism: A Reader and Finch and Elder’s Norton Book of Nature Writing. For the subsequent four months we devoted ourselves to the major works of Emerson, Thoreau, Bronson and Louisa May Alcott, and others active in the 19th century transcendentalist movement, making our way through the better part of the Meyerson anthology. The assignment of Little Women in late March was a welcome reprieve from the difficult line-by-line explications of “Nature,” “Orphic Sayings,” and “Self-Reliance.” To synthesize our readings and bring a finer focus on the difficult-to-pinpoint transcendentalist concepts, we finished the course with Schreiner’s The Concord Quartet: Alcott, Emerson, Hawthorne, Thoreau and the Friendship that Freed the American Mind.

On April 25, we embarked on the experiential learning component of the course with a trip to the North Bridge Inn in Concord. The excursion was meant to eliminate degrees of spiritual and geographic separation from our transcendentalist cousins (I was not allowed to call them “trannies” for short) and elucidate some of the more inscrutable passages, most attributed to Mr. Emerson, which we were still mulling over in our heads. As the day approached, we found ourselves “too excited to sleep,” so we decided to append a night’s stay to our trip and overnight Wednesday in Tewksbury, MA. There we treated ourselves to a delicious Greek dinner at a local dive and enjoyed a scrumptious diner breakfast the following morning; Guy Fieri did not make an appearance.

On the official first full day of the trip, it truly appeared that nature was in a wonderful mood to be…communed with…and it was our expressed intent to do so. All week the forecast had promised an abysmal Thursday of rain and gloom, but Thursday morning we awoke to fair temperatures and sunny blue skies that would follow us for the remainder of the trip. On the road to Concord we passed stunning colonial houses whose yards were a profusion of pinks and purples, the hues of early spring and the ubiquitous dogwoods, lilacs, and azaleas in full bloom. As we approached the town center, a proud she-turkey strutted across the road in front of us as if to say, be sure to slow down and take it all in.

First stop was the small but well-executed Concord Museum, which provided a great context for the town’s dual claims to fame: as the birthplace of the American transcendentalist movement and the home of the “shot heard round the world” that unexpectedly initiated the American War of Independence. A favorite among the museum’s exhibits was the exact replica of Emerson’s study, complete with nearly all the original furnishings and Emerson’s own collection of books, which were saved from his home across the street when it burned in 1872 and moved permanently to the museum in 1930. My personal favorite was the large horsehair sofa upon which the likes of Thoreau, Alcott, Hawthorne, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Margaret Fuller, abolitionist insurrection leader John Brown, and Senator Daniel Webster sat a while to visit the “sage of Concord,” and upon whose bulky, protruding feet many of them inelegantly tripped on their way out. Above the couch hung a replica painting of asters and goldenrod given as a Christmas gift to Emerson by Louisa May Alcott’s artist sister May.

In the adjoining room was housed some personal effects of Thoreau, including the chair and rope bed frame from his studio efficiency on Walden Pond and the desk on which he composed Walden and “Civil Disobedience.”

Aside from the literary collections, we also enjoyed the 1775 Revere lantern that alerted militiamen to the British advance on Concord, the special Colonial Treasures exhibition containing letters of John and Abigail Adams, and the permanent exhibit upstairs presenting rooms decorated according to the fashion through different periods in history. We had nearly decided to leave the museum off our self-guided tour of the city, but we both agreed afterwards that it was a must-see for those making a pilgrimage to transcendentalist New England.

Next we headed to the final meeting place of the Transcendentalist Club. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery (not to be confused with that of Washington Irving fame) is a short walk or drive northeast of town center and plays gracious host to most of the major transcendentalist figures, as well as famed Concord sculptor Daniel Chester French (The Minute Man statue and the Lincoln Memorial), inventor of the Concord Grape Ephraim Wales Bull, and education reformer Elizabeth Peabody.

We drove through the stone pillars of the Prichard Gate and followed the meandering paved path around a curving slope lined with a low stone wall and flowering dogwoods, to reach the small parking area of Author’s Ridge. Excepting some noise from the road, the grounds seem as they were 150 years ago, stone markers dotting the hillsides and intermingling with towering pines, woodbine, and azalea bushes.

A dense moss covers the ground on the steep hill leading to Author’s Ridge. Resting in close proximity, in a perpetual pleasing shade, the Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Alcott family plots were the first we spotted. Thoreau’s unassuming headstone, reading simply “Henry,” resides next to that of his sister Sophia among a tangle of exposed tree roots. Visitors who had come earlier in the morning had left tokens at the site: a plastic battery-operated votive candle, a collection of smooth pebbles, and a fresh white chrysanthemum.

We added our own pebbles to the left downward slope of the headstone after contemplating for a moment that the moss under our feet carried forth at least an atomic manifestation of the man himself, as would have pleased him verily. We stopped for a short time at the Hawthorne family plot, where Hawthorne, his beloved wife Sophia, and their daughter Una are interred. Though the Hawthornes were an exceedingly devoted and “cute” couple who found love later in life, the paterfamilias was admittedly not our favorite among his contemporaries. Other fans, however, had left tokens to honor the man who penned The Scarlet Letter, The House of the Seven Gables, and other notable stories. The Alcott family burial site was located just across from the Hawthornes’ and is identified by the intricately-carved monolith standing in the center of the square plot. The family foot stones are marked merely with each individual’s initials and birth and death dates. Placed next to the flat stone bearing Louisa’s full name was the U.S. Veteran medallion marking her service as a nurse during the Civil War.

The medication administered to treat the typhoid fever and pneumonia she contracted during this brief post would, ironically, lead to life-long ill health and her slow death due to mercury poisoning. The rest of the Little Women—her sisters Anna, Elizabeth, and May, who were featured semi-biographically in Alcott’s most famous book—have markers nearby (May is actually interred in France), as well as her beloved mother Abba and her transcendentalist father Bronson, who inspired important reforms in the education system during his lifetime. Further on, at the peak of the hill and looking down upon the greater part of Sleepy Hollow, is the imposing slab of pink granite (which manages to be both the most grandiose and the most unassuming markers upon Author’s Ridge) marking the burial site of the Transcendentalist Club’s most venerable member, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Many members of the Emerson family are buried here, and Waldo is flanked by his dear wife Lidian and their daughter Ellen. Here, as we had with Thoreau and Alcott, we placed a small stone atop the granite. Emerson himself, certainly not in doubt that it would one day become his own final resting place, gave the cemetery’s dedication speech in late September 1855. On that day, he would accurately portend that, “When these acorns, that are falling at our feet, are oaks overshadowing our children in a remote century, this mute green bank will be full of history: the good, the wise, and the great will have left their names and virtues on the trees…will have made the air tuneable and articulate.” Matea and I, children of this remote century looking out over the sparkling marsh abutting Author’s Ridge, made sure to breathe deeply as we lingered.

The morning had mildly slipped away as we descended the footpath back to the parking area. With the windows down and our fingers strumming at the light breeze, we headed to the picturesque downtown area to make a quick stop at the Concord Cheese Shop, where we procured some delightful picnic provisions before continuing down Route 126 to Walden Pond. A gorgeous pink dogwood greeted us at the gate to the State Reservation area.

On this unexpectedly perfect day in late April, we were a bit surprised to find the parking lots largely vacant. We parked next to the replica cabin the park has built to look exactly like the one in which Thoreau lived for two years while conducting his famed social experiment.

The cottage, in its entirety, was smaller than a modern-day master bedroom (10’ x 15’) and was modestly but suitably appointed with a table on which to eat, a bed in which to sleep, and a desk on which to write.

After arm-wrestling with the bronze statue of Thoreau outside the replica cabin, we gathered our picnic accoutrements and headed to the original site of his temporary domicile. Walden Pond sits across the two-lane highway from the parking area, and the site is a pleasant half-mile hike along the water’s edge. Along the way we snapped pictures of the 64-acre kettle hole pond and observed the budding foliage that Thoreau so carefully catalogued over 150 years ago.

The swarming summer throngs had not yet arrived—Walden Pond is an extremely popular tourist destination and swimming hole in the summer months—and we found the journey both serene and surreal. We approached the small cove Thoreau chose as the location of his dwelling and crossed a small foot bridge to reach the site of the foundation. We were surprised to find that the cabin had not been built directly on the water but was located on a small rise about 100 feet into the woods. As we approached the site on the worn footpath, the famous “I came to the woods” sign came into view, and next to it was the cairn of which Bronson Alcott laid the first stone in 1872.

Thousands of medium-sized rocks comprise the stony heap today, and Matea and I added two of our own to the pile, just as Walt Whitman also did in reverence to Thoreau in 1881. The original foundation of Thoreau’s cabin is marked with nine stone pillars about two feet in height.

Inside the rectangle of pillars lays a flat stone marking the cabin’s chimney foundation, and here we laid out our picnic. With the pond still in view and no other visitors to intrude upon our repast, we endeavored to “simplify, simplify” with a ploughman’s lunch of homemade cheese straws, a seeded demi-baguette, creamy and piquant Roquefort cheese, a wedge of English-made Red Dragon, a plug of “fig bread,” and a few crisp cornichons.

It was a wholly satisfying experience, making a quiet visit to Thoreau in his spot in the woods a century and a half later, taking in the natural scenery, and feasting on delectable imported cheeses.

We took a different trail through the woods back to the parking area and, beginning to feel the myriad activities of the day, drove into town to check in to the Emerson Suite of the North Bridge Inn (another detail Matea had seen to as part of my Christmas present). After a brief rest, and for a rather incongruous finish to the day, we ventured over to Lexington to have dinner at a Mexican restaurant located in a strip mall. The day had been all kinds of wonderful. As the sun set and a tease of rain finally began to fall, we sucked the vegetarian-bean-chimichanga marrow out of life to the serenade of a live mariachi band.

This One’s For The Girls

I found myself at the Majestic 10 theater Sunday afternoon for the matinee showing of Ramona and Beezus, a movie adaptation of the ever popular children’s book series by Beverly Cleary. The cinema was packed with moms and their young daughters, mostly. And there were 20- and 30-somethings, like us, who had read the books when we were the same age as the giggling little ones around us. Before the movie there were previews of upcoming films for kids, including a Pixaresque revival of the most beloved little creatures of my childhood (you could argue for the Fraggles, but I personally found them boring), the Smurfs! The sweet “la, la, la, la, la, la” theme music had been jazzed up with a hip-hop beat in the background, but you get the picture. The Hollywood producers have the right idea, coming out with movies that are nostalgic for the parents, who really determine ticket sales, and will be just as enjoyable for the kids. The other thing I noticed is that I didn’t see one previewed movie that wasn’t going to be presented in 3D. And you’ll probably see me at many a one, wearing big, goofy glasses and waving my hands out in front of me to touch the little blue men who aren’t really there. But back to Ramona Quimby.

I was actually excited to see this film, and it really lived up to my expectations. I will say that, despite the name, the movie didn’t have much to do with the dynamic between Ramona and her big sister, nicknamed Beezus, at all. There were a few nice, sisterly love-hate scenes, but it was mostly about Ramona herself. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that I liked the movie. If someone asked me, I would say, “Yeah, it was cute.” But it occurred to me that I was sitting between two women (Matea and Georgia) who had grown up in a house full of sisters (two each), and who probably made much more of a connection to the characters than I.

I grew up with good ole Charlie boy. We played and fought and loved each other as much as any two siblings possibly could, I think. He was 5 years younger than me, and I admit to taking advantage and knocking him around a lot. (He should admit that he took advantage of his age and cried unnecessarily at times just to get me in trouble!!) I helped him learn to play baseball on countless nights in the yard. I would make him remove his glove and do “frog hops” as punishment if he let a ground ball go through his legs. You can’t believe how angry he would get. He’d throw his glove down as hard as he could, his little cheeks as red as fire. But he would do those frog hops, and I would throw him ground balls and pop flies again and again, always giving him scenarios a la “if a man’s on first, where are you throwing the ball?” Even today we still laugh at the same things and react similarly when presented with situations that…need reacting to. But Matea has told me for years that, when it comes to the bond between sisters, I “just don’t get it.”

When I first started spending an inordinate amount of time at the Morris household, Matea’s sisters were, I believe, about 10 (Becca) and 12 (Brielle). Brielle, being the loving extrovert she was, took to me pretty quickly. She was inquisitive—good grief, the questions she would ask me—and hilarious and easily became one of my best friends over the years. Becca was not so easy. My first memory of Becca is of her angrily slamming a door in my face. I can’t begin to remember why. I was probably doing all I could to annoy her, which was all I knew about being a sibling. What I didn’t “get,” as Matea would say, is that she might have just been reacting like a jealous sister, not just an annoyed sibling. She was sulking like Ramona did when Beezus called her a pest. But now that Becca has grown up…literally, now that she’s an adult and living here in VT, she is one of my favorite people to spend an afternoon with. Through the years, I laughed and cried with both of “the girls,” as everyone called them. I put them through what could be called frog hops, and they probably did what they could to get me in trouble from time to time. It became sort of a rent-to-buy situation, where they were sort of on loan to me on the weekends, and then they just naturally moved beyond being merely my sometimes sisters.

I never had a Beezus (although I did persuade Charlie to dress up like a girl on more than one occasion), but I did have a Berle and Bekia. Brielle is always in my heart and almost as often on my mind. None of us is as good as we could have been with her guidance and example. And I savor my silent car rides and inside jokes with Becca. We’ll always be there for each other during unpleasant chores, violent movies, and guilty pleasure video games. Becca has taught me graciousness, magnanimity, and patience.

Matea (well, I should really say Marmee), thank you for giving me a taste of sisterhood.

Somewhere Between Acorn and Oak

Today we dined at New World Tortilla on Pine Street. I love their fresh, hand-made corn tortillas, and Matea enjoys the curry tortilla. Towards the end of the meal, Matea noticed a strange guy who seemed to be staring at her. Though she didn’t recognize him, it turned out to be our old neighbor Greg, who lived above us on Decatur Street in the first house we rented in Burlington. He lived with two roommates, Jay and Megan, who we still see occasionally. We truthfully didn’t interact with them much, though we did watch their cat for a week while they were away (which, in turn, introduced us to our favorite pizza, Junior’s, via a thank-you gift certificate). Anyway, it turns out that Greg seems much nicer and more talkative than he did back then. He’s married, and so are Jay and Megan (to each other). The crazy part was that Greg had lived above us for a year or so, then we moved out and he lived in Boston for five years before moving back to Vermont recently. I can’t believe we’ve lived here long enough to run into someone we knew before they moved away for five years! But the truth is that we’ve spent most of our adult lives here. We moved here at age 23, and May marked our 7th year in the Green Mountain State.

Tonight we’re going with friends to belatedly celebrate my 30th birthday, so maybe that’s why this being-an-adult epiphany has finally hit me. Though I could come up with a much lengthier list of reasons I am still child-like, here are some recent warnings that I am slowly reaching adult maturity:

1. Last night I edged along the driveway, and I was as proud of that as a 3 year old is a finger painting. I wanted to take a picture of my edging and display it on the refrigerator. A similar warning sign was the fact that I also swept the entire driveway. After swearing as a teenager that I would never even clean my room as an adult, I surely never thought I would be sweeping the driveway!

2. I ordered soup for lunch today. And I eat kale, even when no one’s watching.

3. I am usually out of bed in the seven o’clock hour on weekends.

4. There is no greater happiness every day than the moment my head hits my pillow.

5. Last month I voted at my first neighborhood association meeting and had a serious conversation about waste water compliance.

6. I’m planting my first vegetable garden on Wed evening.

7. I was jealous yesterday of a retired coworker who is taking some UVM mini-courses meant only for those 50 and older.

Anyway, I’m proud to have already established a “history” here. I love Vermont. I love weeding the flower beds. I love vacuuming the baseboards. I love doing favors for my mother-in-law (and do not take having a mother-in-law for granted). I love walking the dogs, even when it rains. I LOVE trash night. I love emptying the dishwasher. I love tinkering in the garage. I excitedly bought myself a wheelbarrow with my Nana’s birthday check. I suggested to Matea that we attend the opera next month.

Oh, youthful Chrissy. I’ve left you behind somewhere along the way and didn’t even know it. I will think kindly of you from time to time. And I promise to write.

Embarrassing Admission #14: The Tesh Offensive

I just may have listened to the John Tesh Radio Show once or twice...on purpose. His “Intelligence For Your Life” segments on easy listening radio here in the Champlain Valley have oft caught my attention. I’ve even stayed in the car listening to extra Lionel Richey songs just to avail myself of his sage advice. He just reels me in with his Teshy teasers. “What’s the one thing researchers say you should never do in the workplace?” he asks. “Stay tuned to make sure this common medical mistake doesn’t happen to you.” “We have some tips on minimizing your pet’s end-of-life suffering, coming right up,” he promises. Too often, though, he leaves me wanting. He never really seems to get around to actually doing these segments. Just teaser after teaser. I try to wait, but you can only sit in the Shaw’s parking lot for so long listening to Billy Joel. Why must you torture me so, John Tesh!! Don’t let the piercing blue eyes fool you, folks. This man is nothing but a playa.

P.S.
Upon Googleing his name today, I find a story hot off the presses that he and Oprah Winfrey lived together in Nashville in 1974 and were romantically involved. According to Kitty Kelly, author of a new Oprah biography, Tesh broke it off with her because he could no longer take the pressures of being in an interracial relationship. Not too intelligent, if you ask me!

Performing for Change can be a Real Dragnet

Every day at 4pm I wait outside the Bruegger’s corporate office for Matea to get off work. As I crossed over Church Street yesterday, I saw a young girl (well, maybe late teens) with an acoustic guitar and thick-rimmed glasses busking for change in front of the pink Bank Street wall of Monelle. The day before I had watched a local homeless man pace back and forth talking to himself, puffing incessantly on a cigar. So, to see this nice, Loeb-esque young woman on the corner next to an open 15-minute parking spot was, to me, a stroke of good luck.

So I pulled in and rolled down both passenger side windows in anticipation of her singing “Kiss Me,” which I just knew would be next on her playlist. But no sooner had I switched off the ignition than the music abruptly stopped. I looked back to see a uniformed officer standing very close to her and flipping through some sort of ticket or note book. She was clutching the guitar close to her body in an almost defensive stance. I mostly could not hear what was being said between them, but I saw Sergeant Joe Friday gesture towards Church Street (she was, technically, firmly positioned on Bank Street, not Church) and then say more loudly, “You put that away and follow me to my squad car.” He said it just like that.

I saw the girl return her instrument to a soft case and...was suddenly scared to death by Barry, the hearing-impaired maintenance man from Matea’s office. He will occasionally come to my open window as I wait (he’s waiting to lock the doors at 5), and we will try to have a conversation in charades. Not knowing he was behind me, I jumped high in my seat and missed the rest of the interaction between Molly (or so said the sticker on her guitar) and Sergeant Friday. As Barry walked away, the two of them disappeared around the corner. But before they did, I called out a “boooo,” which was rather loud, but not loud enough, I knew, for any of them to hear. I supposed the cop took Molly back to his car, ran a background check, humiliated her, and then either gave her a fine or a warning for singing too close to Church Street, where one must first obtain an official Church Street Marketplace Street Entertainer License.

Performing for money on Church Street, with the blessing of the city, involves applying for a license, auditioning on a predetermined Tuesday at noon, being selected based upon several deciding factors, and then paying a permit fee between $5 and $25 dollars. If selected, there are also 4 pages of strict rules and regulations one must follow at all times. So much for spreading spontaneous joy to the window shoppers of Burlington. I know that some acts in the past have been a nuisance to both the public and the business owners of the Marketplace. But it seems like an easier system of natural selection could keep the bad acts weeded out. If you’re no good, the meager profits won’t be worth your while. If you’re great, folks will be chucking quarters at your case all day long. I absolutely love street performers. I can’t get enough of them, actually, and I love to attend the annual Festival of Fools that takes place in Burlington. I think the red tape and subjective, politicking bureaucracy of an audition process for ordinary Joes or college kids who need to earn an extra buck is a little much. Especially tersely reprimanding and marching an innocent chanteuse off to your squad car just doesn’t jibe with the atmosphere of this laid-back city. I say, Let ‘em Work, Let ‘em Live. Viva la Busker!

Being Bubbly Takes a Toll

Every time we get together with Georgia, we just can’t seem to get enough of her kind smile and easy-going demeanor (and self-proclaimed intellect and wit, as she just mentioned on the phone), and there must be something about us that she also enjoys. So, while I was on my trip to the concession stand to get popcorn for the White (-haired) sisters, she and Matea were busy contriving plans for a quick weekend trip to Portland, Maine. We took said trip last weekend, taking a half-day off work to get a jump on the four-hour drive across Vermont and New Hampshire, and up the Maine seacoast. We stopped almost immediately, in Waterbury, to have lunch at the Cider House barbecue restaurant, which began what I would call a weekend of beverages for my two travel companions (just a few hours later I would be making an emergency pit-stop at a service plaza off of Maine’s I-95 to procure $10-worth (i.e., two!) of Starbucks coffee drinks before both girls expired in road-worn exhaustion.) The food was delicious—it’s the only place in Vermont to get a fried okra po’ boy—and Georgia savored the opportunity to drink beer in the middle of a workday. Later that night, after checking into the Portland Harbor Hotel (finding our beds already turned down, complete with chocolate lobsters) we walked down to the Portland Pie Co. for some pizza…and more beer. Matea, of course, ordered a blueberry beer in honor of Maine’s staple fruit.

The next morning we used the gps locator on Georgia’s iPhone to lead us, eventually, to The Standard Baking Company for yet another round of coffee. Then it was non-stop shopping and window browsing around the Old Port and downtown areas. I have never browsed so many boutique shops in my life. We zigzagged the city at least three times, down Fore Street, up Exchange, across Middle, down Silver, back up Union, across Fore, Free, Congress, and Middle (again). We trekked back down to the wharf area to have an experience in bubble tea. This pearl of a drink was invented in Taiwan in the ‘80s and is largely a west-coast phenomenon in the U.S. But, lucky for Matea and Georgia, there is a little shop in the east-coast Portland that devotes itself wholly to this milky, murky concoction. I, as with most of the other beverage runs, did not partake. But I did take a tiny sip of Matea’s almond bubble tea, making sure to suck one of the black tapioca balls through the oversized straw to give it a try. It was virtually tasteless, with a seemingly indestructible, indigestible Dot-like consistency. It was more fun having Matea shoot one at me than having one slip down my throat like a cold, tiny luggie (OMG! that’s gross). After the tea it was the inescapable trip to Three Dollar Dewey’s, more and more shopping and, amazingly, another trip to Starbucks before the day was over. We wearily returned to the hotel with bags filled with stationery, Provence soap, and gourmet popcorn. (Georgia, I was going to write about the cuticle cream you purchased, but I felt it best left omitted.)

The final day of the trip, Sunday, was a test of my abilities as a not-for-profit chauffeur. By Saturday night the wind had begun to pick up due to a low-pressure trough (prob. not the correct term, but I like the way it sounds) that was moving up the eastern seaboard. On Sunday we were met with blowing rain and intermittent flakes of snow. We made our way to the requisite Sunday brunch, this time at Hot Suppa! on Congress Street. It required several U-turns and an aggressive parallel park. Outside the car, it seemed like somewhat of a flash-flood in the streets of Portland, and my socks were quickly soaked through thanks to the many access points in my dark-green Crocs. After brunch we hit the interstate in search of the Mecca for bargain hunters in the Downeast area: the Kittery, Maine outlet malls. By the time we hit Kittery, the wind was wild and unyielding, so I followed in my father’s footsteps and let Georgia and Matea out at the doors of their favorite shops. The back seat and trunk were filled with purchases in no time, and it was on to my second chauffersorial* duty: communing with the I-95 toll-takers. Matea told me once, though I have not been able to confirm, that toll-takers are among the professions with higher rates of suicide, due to the brevity of their interactions with other people over the course of their undoubtedly monotonous workday. The article stated, in a nutshell, that the rate could potentially be decreased by engaging your friendly toll-taker in a mere five-word exchange as you hand over your fistful of quarters. So it has become my mission, my life-saving responsibility, to work in, at minimum, a “Hi, how are you? Thanks very much,” at every booth. I count myself a savior of state toll plaza workers, a “cash only” vehicle amid a current of cold, non-communicative EZ-Pass whizzers-by. At the final booth, near the Hookset exit, I was greeted by surly-looking man in his eighties. As the gale-force winds and rain whirred around the plaza structure, I smiled at the man and said, “You enjoying this weather?” The man’s face turned as pleasant as if I had presented him with a gold bar rather than my measly 75 cents. “Not at all!” he replied emphatically. He chuckled and maintained eye contact for a few seconds before giving me the green light to continue on my way. It was only four words, but they had been effective.

Then, blah, blah, blah, New Hampshire was flooded, yada, yada, yada, we made it home safely, etc. But thinking about this toll-taker flash confabulation in which I have come to find great value, on both sides, reminded me of another solitary figure I encounter along the road.

Every morning on our drive in to work, we pass an open field where a gorgeous red-tailed hawk has made his home; the extensive teal, metal roofs of Paya’s auto dealership; a little dribble of a creek where I have seen several doe stealing a drink of water; the grand lawn of the Trinity Baptist Church compound; and a faithful friend we have come to call Merle Johnson. Around 6:48 am, just as our amazing view of the Adirondacks, cloaked in morning fog, descends below the tree line, Merle emerges in his gray, Carhart-like jacket, jeans, and flannel button-up, taking his morning solo walk down the eastbound lane of Mountainview Road. He is often carrying a plastic grocery bag, probably containing his lunch for the day, and on chilly mornings has his hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets. We have never interacted with Merle, save the occasional eye contact and acknowledging smile, but spotting him is something we have come to count on. On rare mornings when he does not appear, we wonder Where’s Merle Johnson? His presence each day brings the comfort of familiarity and constancy, especially since we have named him and created a sort of mythology of his life and journey. On mornings when we made it out the door a little earlier, we have seen him as he turned right onto Mountainview from Route 2A, and once, when we were running late, Matea believed she saw him reach his destination, Paya’s. Walking every morning with his head down, bathed in the diffused morning light like an apparition, he, too, looks like the kind of guy that could use five words. Perhaps we will drop in to Paya’s one afternoon and ask for the gentleman in the flannel shirt. And we will say, “Nice to meet you, Merle.”


*Again, not a real word, but I like it. :)

P.S.
Thanks to Portland for recharging our batteries, and for reminding us that everyone occasionally requires the gentle caress of kindness to brush away their own perception of invisibility.

Dust to Dust

Matea, Georgia and I took an impromptu trip to the Palace 9 on Oscar Sunday to see one more nominated film prior to the awards show later on that night. Not long after we had settled into our seats, I heard a mildly comical conversation going on behind me. Two elderly women had come in after us and had sat down in the seats directly behind. “You can eat popcorn?” one of them said with alacrity. “Yes,” the other said. “I thought you couldn’t.” “I thought I couldn’t, but I can. It’s fine,” replied her friend. After a few moments’ pause: “Well, we should get some,” the friend said. The woman let out a wistful sigh. “Too much work.” At this, my body must have tensed, or I must have tilted my head towards them, because Matea leaned over slightly and said, “Offer.” After deliberating for a few seconds in my head, and honestly allowing the moment to pass, I finally turned around in my seat and said to the woman over my right shoulder, “Would you ladies like for me to go get you some popcorn?” Her eyes widened. “Well aren’t you kind,” she said. Her age or her poise made her sound nearly British. (I’ve found many older, educated New Englanders tend to have an English quality to their speech.) I could tell their first instinct was to say thanks but no thanks, but as I remained turned around in my seat, I smiled brightly and said, “You should take me up on it,” in a friendly, sing-song kind of way. “Well, ok,” she said with cheerful reluctance, as if deciding something of importance on a whim. I nodded my head and lurched forward in my seat.
“We just want a child’s size,” they said before I stood to face them. I grasped Matea’s small popcorn in my fingers and said, “Would you like this size? This is a small.” I turned to find two white-haired women in their 70s or 80s sunken into two oversized, rocker-back movie theater seats. Their Brett Somers-esque spectacles shone brightly in the dim light, illuminated by the reflection of a pre-movie quiz on the screen behind me. It posed an inane question about Zach Effron to the half-capacity (no pun intended re the average age of viewer for this particular film) theater audience. “They also have the kiddie pack,” I said to the women, “which comes with a drink and candy.” I instantly felt I had thrown a wrench into the works. Georgia held her kiddie pack above her head where the women could see it. Though they both seemed to hold their breath in a moment of hurried deliberation, the diversity of colors and products in the kiddie pack seemed to delight the woman on the right, and she happily said, “We’ll take that one.” “Ok!” I said, leaning my elbow against my seatback. “Now, what kind of candy would you like?” Her accomplishment in making the first decision vanquished by the next, the woman seemed to try visualizing the candy counter in her head. Another smile gradually worked its way across her face. “M&Ms,” she said assuredly. I smiled back. “Plain or peanut?” Her eyes shot upward as if literally looking to her brain for the answer. “Let’s just do plain,” she said with a chuckle. “This is too much work,” I quipped. She and her friend laughed feebly before grabbing their purses and wildly shuffling through the behemoth bags to find exact change. When they had decided on the kiddie pack, the one on the left had asked, “How much is that?” “$6.02,” Georgia had answered. The woman on the right said, “For that?” My first thought was that she was happy with the price of this box of treats: a scoopful of popcorn, a sippy-cup-sized drink, and a compartment filled with a regular-sized bag of candy. But as they exchanged ones and fives with one another, carefully counting out the bills, I realized that these two children of the Depression had rather been shocked at the exorbitance of the price, but were too far into “taking me up on my offer” to back out now. The folding money sorted out and handed over to me, the hunt was on for the last two cents. I drove my hand into my pocket, but, of course, I never have cash or change on hand. Georgia and Matea simultaneously reached for their wallets, too, but the woman on the left, the not-quite-British one, rather gallantly interjected, “No, I have it right here.” She carefully placed the two pennies in my palm. Her skin was soft and thin like buttered filo dough. “And finally,” I said, “what sort of drink would you like?” Audible pondering sounds came from both of their mouths. “Something clear,” one of them mustered. “Is Sprite ok?” I asked. “Yes!” in unison. It had been a roller coaster of confusion and conviction for the two of them. Last decision made, they both receded back into their seats.
“Oh, hurry dear, before it begins,” said the cheerful woman on the right. I skipped off to the concession stand to meet the same teenager who had filled my personal snack order. A little embarrassed, I placed the ladies’ order. As the well-pocked youth filled the box with their selections, I hoped in the back of my mind that Georgia had correctly remembered the price, including tax, as the penny-wise elders had left her no margin for error and, as I knew, I had no other form of payment. Having put the women through what appeared to be an ultimately exhausting barrage of questions, I could not bear to return to them for an extra few cents, should the need arise. As the kid let the fizz rest and topped off their Sprite, a couple of scenarios ran through my head. I could not sneak in and get the change from Matea, as they were sitting directly behind us. I could not call her, as she is ever diligent about turning off her cell phone during any film or performance. I had decided on haggling with the now-idle gang of high schoolers behind the counter (I was the only person still filling a concession order), pleading my case on behalf of my enfeebled geriatric acquaintances back in theater number two. I’ll slip you the change on my way out after the movie, I would tell them. They’ll have no problem with this, I thought, as he punched in the PLU for “Kiddie Pack.” But no need for a convincing plea; Georgia had remembered correctly. I slid the $6.02 across the counter and pulled the box of warm, yellow kernels towards me. I unwrapped a straw and punctured the hard-plastic cup top, and made sure to get extra napkins. Back in the theater in a flash, the house lights still up, I handed over the box of goodies. The woman on the right handed the parcel over to her companion, and I placed the four napkins in her lap. They both offered a gracious “thank you,” still with a hint of pleasant surprise in their voices.
The film, The Last Station, began without delay. It told the story of famed Russian writer Lev Tolstoy in the golden years of his life, as he struggled to decide on the rightful inheritors of his legacy. By the time of his death at Astapovo Station at age 82, he had endured immense pressure from both his wife, Countess Sofya Andreevna Tolstoy, and his protégé, Vladimir Chertkov, who both had a personal stake in securing the copyrights to the author’s written works. In the end, he and the Countess seemed a typical elderly couple preyed upon by more youthful family members (in this case, a Tolstoyan Movement that had taken on a life and mind of its own). Watching the Countess being locked out of doors like a child while her husband lay dying, I felt a slight bit of pride that my own inquest into the business of two elderly folks had been for selfless and benevolent ends. I thought to myself, when I am old and nominally incapacitated, and I find out one day, to my surprise, that I can still eat popcorn, I hope some youngster is willing to fetch me a box of treats covered in teddy bears and trains, too. I will surely be appreciative then. But this day, in the dark flickering of the theater light, like the waxing shadow of the next decade of my life, nothing could be more satisfying than hearing my two new geriatric friends quietly rip open a bag of M&Ms to share.

Plunder Woman, Here to Reap and Pillage

Few things are as tempting as a silver plate of fudge samples found unexpectedly at the register of a small-town specialty shop. How loudly the marbled slivers call to us, “Take me,” until we are finally willing to feign the sheepish grin at the teenage clerk and then go in for the kill. Nothing is worse in that moment, standing before a closely-attended sample display, than discovering the absence of the tiny glass toothpick keg. Do I take with my fingers? Are the morsels spaced far enough apart so that I won’t accidentally nudge a second piece with an errant knuckle or fingernail? And then, when you have consumed the spot of divinity placed there just for you, you raise your eyebrows to the clerk and say “hmm.” There’s a slight pause before she hits the total button on the cash register, just after realizing you’re not buying. Only the most audacious among us will, after taking our paper bag of postcards from her hands, go in for the second hit, holding the bit up to her momentarily in silent thanks...though I have seen it done.

Even better is the discovery of the well-hidden, unattended sample platter. A bowl of pulverized peanut brittle or strong, grainy mustard. A mirrored tray of candied nuts whose fresh, warm cousins are churning away just inches behind the glass barrier of the roasting machine. A suggestively open jar of black bean salsa, welcoming, almost daring, an assault of tiny round corn tortilla chips. The experience of sampling, of boldly taking what is not mine, is delicate and intimate and some kind of intrepid. It is the thrill of committing a crime I would never venture, the pretension of indulging in a boutique commodity I can scarcely afford.

Entering a gourmet food shop feels as if the world is throwing a tapas party in my honor. I suppress the urge to crack my knuckles loudly before I begin but quickly find myself moving through each station like Templeton conquering the heaps of edible refuse left over at the fair. Like a gracious dinner guest, I do not turn up my nose at the ones whose descriptions sound unpalatable. Free from the self-conscious inhibitions borne of being watched, I plunge pretzel sticks into every single jam and jelly. I pop a large green wasabi almond and chase it with a paper pill cup of hot mulled cider, shaking out every last drop as if I were standing in the shadow of Jim Jones himself. In the course of ten minutes I take the unassuming little shop for all it’s worth and walk out gnawing a toothpick to splinters. It is pedestrian and legal and even expected behavior, but I revel in an illusion of aggression and dominance, as if I am sneaking out in the early morning hours knowing I will never call.


My favorite places for free samples in Vermont:

Harvest Bread Company, Burlington, VT
The generous slice of wholesome, often-warm bread, accompanied by softened VT Butter and Cheese Co. butter, does not make up the for the exorbitantly-priced loaves…but it comes close.

Cold Hollow Cider Mill, Waterbury, VT
Fresh cider in Dixie cups. A round trough of mustards, jams, jellies to be tasted atop common crackers.

Stowe Mercantile, Stowe, VT
Jams, jellies, salsas, hummus, candied nuts abound.

Vermont Country Store, Weston, VT
An assortment of jams, sweets and cheeses to nibble on and sundry eclectic items to look at.

Cabot Cheese Outlet, Waterbury, VT
Gorge on cheese cubes to your heart’s content. Pop a handful of cheddar cheese shake popcorn on your way in, and on your way out.

Dakin Farms, Ferrisburgh, VT
Smoked cheeses and meats, maple products, salsas, fudge…bring a bib and enjoy.

Jean-Talon Market, Montreal, QC (okay, a short drive from VT)
A feast for foraging fruitarians, this market has lovely displays of fresh fruit samples at each of the hundreds of vendors that sell imported fruits and veggies seven days a week. And although you’ll have to pay for it, the freshly boiled corn-on-the-cob is worth its weight in gold.

Off to See The Wizard

This weekend we traveled some roads oft-taken (Interstate 89 and highways 100 & 108), and also discovered some new old haunts. Vermont promised to be in “peak color” following several weeks of abruptly crisp fall air and months of summer rain. As we do every Saturday from May to October, we began the weekend at the Burlington Farmer’s Market. As always, I had 2 broccoli samosas for lunch, and Matea had a veggie samosa and a Folk Foods “Bennie” bagel sandwich. We walked over to Mirabelle’s afterward to share a snack while we waited for the Flynn box office to open. We bought tickets to our perennial favorites in live theater, Winter Tales and A Christmas Carol. We’ll get tickets to The Nutcracker and an off-Broadway production of Annie when they go on sale later this month.

By the time we left the box office, a light rain and nasty cloud cover were again threatening our plans for viewing Vermont’s own seasonal spectacular, Foliage on the Mount. But after another hour or better, the clouds began to move out to the east. From the top floor of our house, I could see blue skies over the Adirondacks. So we hopped in the car and made our first new discovery of the weekend: Lake Iroquois. Unbeknownst to us, this beautiful lake is a mere 6 miles from our home. The sun shone fully for the first time in the day, and we took a group photo with the lovely red and yellow hues surrounding the lake. We saw a blue heron basking in the sun at water’s edge and a golden retriever joyfully bathing itself in a large mud puddle.

We then proceeded down I-89 to Stowe, where, we discovered, all the peepers in the state were undoubtedly also converging. After moving through Waterbury at a snail’s pace, we by-passed Stowe and a long line of crawling traffic and headed on our own to Lake Mansfield. The lake itself was, honestly, unimpressive, but the drive along the Little River, with surprise cascades and roadside waterfalls, was a great hit. There at the base of Mount Mansfield, we were also surrounded by lovely late yellows and oranges. Afterwards we rejoined the mob of visitors on Rt. 108. We noted license tags from all over the U.S. and felt a spot of pride as Vermonters, as if every towering maple were our own.

As we continued over the notch and through Jeffersonville and Underhill, the colors were dazzling as promised, though many of the early reds had faded in the higher elevations. As we drew closer to home, though, the colors became much brighter and more vibrant. In Essex Junction, every fifth tree seemed set afire. I would venture to say that the spits and flashes of color on our most familiar streets, close to home, were more appreciated than the grand vistas of color, range after range, we had seen elsewhere. (Matea had described a predominantly yellow and green mountainside in Underhill as resembling “bad broccoli.”) At some point, maybe, the dazzle of large-scale color began to suffer diminishing returns. But Lake Iroquois, where we spent only a brief moment, had been superb. The individual maples along West Street in Essex Junction were unparalleled.

We had spent the day focusing on the summit only to discover that, right now, the grass is sublimely green right here in the valley.

Wicked Bunch of Crazies

Today I attended the protest in front of Allen House/UVM Hillel put on by the Phelps family of Topeka, Kansas’s Westboro Baptist Church. I have seen the WBC in the news often, picketing the funerals of fallen soldiers, Jewish community centers and synagogues, and anything having to do with gay rights. This morning I got to face Shirley Phelps-Roper, the church protestors’ new ring leader, first-hand. Since I was attending on official UVM business, our encounter began and ended at the release of my camera’s shutter. There are scores of blogs, newspaper articles, videos, etc. that decry this organization’s hate-spewing messages, so I will not expostulate on it here. I believe the pictures will speak for themselves. (Click on any photo to view full size.)


The WBC brought a grand total of five protesters (all members of the Phelps family), ranging from Shirley (50) to Luke (7), her 11th child. As far as I can tell, they (and GOD) hate gays, women, Jews, Obama, Israel, America...and burgers.




Shirley Phelps-Roper. She said some of the most vile things to those who approached her. Their objective is to provoke the love? protesters, and it is incredible the vitriol that she could spew on command. Good thing the opposing sides were separated by the widest section of South Prospect Street. Shirley led the group in a rousing, rewritten version of John Denver's "Country Roads," replacing "country road, take me home" with "filthy Jew (where's the cash?!), God hates you..." They also chanted other perennial favorite slogans such as "God Hates Fags!" and "America is Doomed!"


The saddest sight of the day, since most of the peace-loving student crowd was wholly unaffected by these wing-nuts, was poor little Luke Phelps, age 7, who stood throughout the rally taking still pictures and video.


This man dressed as Jesus, who was apparently present 10 years ago when the group was in town protesting, stood close to the WBC and verbally challenged them throughout the event. He said the group was much smaller in numbers than they were a decade ago; he hopes, in 10 more years, no one will be left but the child.


On the other side of South Prospect, the mood was decidedly lighter and the crowd was much larger. The group, mostly composed of students, held signs, blew bubbles, and cheered as cars drove by and honked with enthusiasm.


And they chanted. "We say no to hate and fear; Westboro's not welcome here!" "Bigots, bigots, go away! You can't spread your hate today!"


"Gay, straight, black, white--marriage is a civil right!"


Many signs were specific that Vermont does not stand for hate. There's a reason we're here.


"Stop the hate! Stop the hate!" "United against hate! United against hate!" Even from the south side of the street, where the WBC was standing, the chants of the Burlington community members easily drowned out those of the 5 "crazies."


After all was said and done, this group, who has been blasted by religious and secular organizations alike, did little to put a damper on the rightful celebrations of same-sex couples who, as of today, have been granted the freedom to marry for the first time in our state. This couple, and others, were unabashed in their affection before the WBC protesters. Raucous cheers were heard from the student side as a couple crossed South Prospect hand-in-hand.


I will take this opportunity to write an op-ed for the Diversity Task Force newsletter, Diversity Times. As suggested in my quickly-made sign, it's clear that "tolerance" and "acceptance" are not enough to combat the venomous hatred that this group so brazenly displays, or the insidious squeamishness that lies dormant in those who are less vocal. Marginalized groups, our friends, families, and supporters, must be just as brazen with our love as they are their hate.

Happy Marriage Equality Day!

You Grow It, I’ll Habit

I have a confession to make, blog world. Matea and I have been making “deals” on the side in order to feed our addictions and hedonistic cravings. That’s right, we needed a fix. So a couple of weeks ago we met up with an elderly Hungarian woman named Gita, whom a friend told us about, at her home in South Burlington. A number of other strange characters were coming in and out of the house as we approached the door. She greeted us warmly and welcomed us in to view the goods she had precisely portioned out on a scale in her garage earlier that morning. She had brought it in from somewhere in New Jersey the night before.

“Are you Matea?” she said in a thick Hungarian accent. Matea smiled nervously and said yes. I stood near the door as another “customer” walked out, calling behind him, “Danke schön!” My excitement was growing; I hadn’t been able to partake since my college days, nearly six years ago now. After a few pleasantries, money exchanged hands and I was on my way out with the high-quality stuff we had scored.

As soon as we got home, we hid most of it away in a black box. The next morning I prepared a small portion for consumption, removing the stems, etc. I was both giddy and nervous, hoping that the experience would be as good as I had remembered. I could smell the familiar earthy sweetness as I brought it to my mouth. I closed my eyes and took a hit, and it was utter perfection, exactly as I dreamed it would be. It was sweet, satisfying...and a little fuzzy. It was a peach.

Indeed, New Jersey was the last place I imagined getting a peach as good as the ones grown in South Carolina, and I had especially never thought I would meet up with some Hungarian stranger to buy them in 25-pound batches. But it proved to be more than worth it. They were of the perfect consistency, with perfect shape and color. For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been taking four at a time out of the fridge (black box) and letting them ripen to perfection in the kitchen window sill. By now, we are towards the end of the batch and will have to wait another year before Gita and her daughter make the trek down to Jersey and again fill their SUV with crates of the delicate fruit. Until now, it’s been impossible to find an edible peach in Vermont. They’re all tasteless, mushy, or hard. I’m so glad we now have a dealer we can trust.

In that same vein (ok, enough drug references), I’ve also been in contact this week with Hank at Lewis Creek Farm in Starksboro. They’re going to deliver us seven flats of delectably sweet red and yellow cherry tomatoes at the Burlington Farmer’s Market on Saturday. That’s eighty-four pints of tomatoes, and we still need to search for a few more flats of Sun Golds (yellow) to even out the mix. If all goes well, we’ll have over 100 pints of tomatoes this weekend to be cooked down slowly into a confit that Matea makes. It is a deceptively simple mixture of halved cherry tomatoes, fresh garlic and basil, olive oil, a pinch of chili flakes, and a splash of balsamic vinegar, baked for about two hours on low heat until much of the moisture is gone. Served over pasta, it is arguably one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. We make big batches in the summer to last us through the rest of the year.

Hopefully there will also be time to find more sweet corn before winter. The best I’ve had so far this year came from Adam’s Farm Market, at the junction of Mountain View and Old Stage roads in Williston. It was super plump and sweet, and multi-colored the way I like it. Adams also has cut your own flowers available (beautiful Zinnias) and other delicious fruits and veggies grown right there in their garden. I ate nearly a quart of their fresh strawberries the other night, and they were also the best I’ve had this year.

If the forecasters are wrong this weekend like they were last, you will find us in downtown Burlington this Saturday afternoon getting our fix along with the rest of the fresh-food junkies in City Hall Park. The farmer’s market is by far our favorite activity in the summertime. It’s an opportunity for some interesting people watching, a chance to see your neighbors and community members...and their dogs. I love seeing the fresh veggies and growers who show up with dirt under their nails, having just picked my dinner from the field that morning. It is a rare opportunity for a direct connection, and it gives us a real appreciation for what we’re bringing to the table. Last week, in addition to other crops from other vendors, we bought sweet onions (delicious on the grill), carrots, broccoli, leeks, squash, and zucchini from Full Moon Farm, which is owned by Chittenden County Representative David Zuckerman (the Progressive who, incidentally, introduced the marriage equality bill that will take effect this coming Monday, September 1) and his wife Rachel Nevitt. How “Vermont” is that! And an especially rare case of mutual support and symbiosis among community members.

And for my friends who think the prices are just a tad high, here’s an interesting tidbit from another blog on economics:

A recent Oregonian article on the high prices at Farmers Markets raises an interesting question: just what are you paying for? The Oregonian article focuses on the high prices charged at the market and how this compares to CSAs and supermarkets. There is a long discussion of what the prices actually reflect, yet, interestingly, the discussion fails to mention (or at least explicitly couch it in terms of) the basic economic concept of supply and demand.

The demand for farmer's markets comes from people who want to consume the food that can be purchased there, but it also comes from the desire to attend an enjoyable open air market, to interact with the people responsible for growing the food, to be able to select the best possible quality and to support local agriculture.

On the supply side, the cost of providing produce to a farmer's market can be higher because of a lack of effectively taking advantage of scale efficiencies, cost of time and transport to attend the market and the extra cost of selecting the highest quality from among your crops.

Put these two together and there is little mystery why farmer's market prices are higher in equilibrium than in a supermarket, and nothing sinister either: What we pay for as consumers is a lot more than just a commodity.

Hope to see you all at a local market (or in Jersey!)...Bon appétit!

That to Which I Perspire

The temperatures have been rising into the 90s this week in Vermont. Here in the Northeast, where no one seems to appreciate central air conditioning, the heat tends to creep into the house like a fog that doesn’t lift for days on end. I have never been one for summertime, with the breath-sucking humidity, the shocking brightness and the unbearable scorch of the sun. I dread the scourge of biting insects and colorful outdoor event invitations that accompanies the first May heat wave. “Come languish in my backyard for the better part of the afternoon!” “Join us for a dip in our wonderful new (urine-filled cess)pool, with singed meat and boisterous conversation to follow!”

I am the Scrooge of summer.

As a child, I would play outside all day long, despite suffering from “heat migraines” on particularly sweltering days. Occasionally I would come inside, dirt on my bare feet and calves like a henna tattoo, for glasses of ice water to cool off, but most days my mother had to call and call for me to come in at dusk. My grandmother’s house had no air conditioning, and I spent countless hours with my face pressed against the metal grill of the electric fan, or twirling a wet washcloth in the air and then pressing it to my eyes and forehead. There, the preferred activity of my cousins and me was to “play in the hose pipe.” We started off filling a baby pool with water, which was sufficient enough for a half an hour of splashing around, until the Southern sun would begin to poach us like so many dressed hens. A fresh stream of cool water was soon necessary, so we would turn the hose back on and lay back and let the warm water overflow the sides all around us until the pool felt fresh again. Then, after another half hour, when we grew tired of simmering in a cartoon-covered pool now filled with dirt and grass clippings like a broth of cooking herbs, we turned the hose on full-time. We covered the nozzle with our thumbs and power-sprayed each other in the face. We would arc the water into the sky to make rainbows, put the hose down our bathing suits, lean over and let water flow into our mouths and fall out again, spray down the windows and all the cars, the dog…until the entire backyard was flooded with wasted water and mud. Then, in the tamed heat of the late afternoon, we would bike and scooter and dig in the dirt until our bathing suits were dry.

As an adult, I find no such novel remedy when the temperature rises. Now, like then, I am cursed in the heat with a very, very red face. Extremely red, like my cheeks might break out into blisters at any moment. I cannot escape this, and no cool cloth or iced drink will remedy it. At the slightest bit of physical exertion in summer weather, I begin to feel my heartbeat in my face, like mercury surging through a thermometer, my head the red, bulbous tip about to burst for lack of an outlet. I become physically drained, sometimes nauseated, and have the constant sensation of someone breathing on me, hot, hot breath all around me. My one objective these days is to lessen the time I spend between my air conditioned car and my air conditioned bedroom. In the afternoon, after walking the dogs in the direct sun, I want only to retreat upstairs, toss my damp clothing into a pile, and sprawl out underneath the ceiling fan. Luckily, in Vermont, snow flurries are always right around the bend!

But Scrooge is meant, at the end of the story, to find some level of appreciation for that which he has come to detest in his jaded old age. And since I am the Scrooge of summer, it was only a matter of time before I had my own Tiny Tim moment. Last night, because we felt like cockroaches being bombed out of our own mega-hot home, we decided to dine out on the back deck, which is shaded by the shadow of the house in the evening time. The temps were still in the mid-80s as I stood over a hot grill to prepare two very delicious small pizzas (tomato/garlic/basil/asiago and pesto/sundried tomato). My feet were swimming in my Crocs. My face was a glistening crimson, of course. Sweat was permeating every inch of my clothing and cascading down over my temples like a Mad TV skit. But at some point, the eastern sky turned a brilliant golden color. I looked out over my yard—weeds are taking over everywhere—and felt the most gentle breeze. I questioned whether it was a breeze at all, certainly not something to move the hair matted to my forehead, but it was definitely not “hot, hot breath.” As beads of sweat rolled downwards from my fiery face, I was filled with a sense of myself and my body. I felt a tickle on the nape of my neck and in the small of my back. Perhaps in a heat-driven delusion, the ghosts of my past, present and future rushed over me. I appreciated where I had been and where I am headed. Two days before, this yard had been graced with its own plastic pool, and my friends’ toddlers laughed with delight as they dipped toes and faces into the water. I envisioned my own children someday muddying the yard and spraying down our unsuspecting pugs.

Matea and the dogs appeared at the sunroom window, and a feeling of satisfaction and contentment for the present moment came over me like a gulf stream of fresh water from the hose. We slid the cooler, still filled with ice from the weekend barbecue, between two opposing camping chairs and ate the grilled pizzas and watermelon as the sun set. I didn’t smack one mosquito, and never once sighed with exhaustion. I knew, when the winter comes, I will long for the intimacy of sweat evaporating into the summer night.

VH-1 Behind the Music: Learning to Sing Joni

May for us was a month of focusing on one thing and forgetting everything else. Since we closed on the house April 30th and began renovating May 1st, everything from birthdays to anniversaries to dear friendships has gone virtually uncelebrated or unattended. We were literally more involved with choosing a toilet lever than we were in acknowledging our 14-year anniversary on May 30th. And, obviously, I have seriously neglected my poor blog, having spent too much time in work boots and not enough going barefoot. So, in a month when I slipped one year closer to “old age,” and my relationship progressed further into its teenage years, why not a retrospective on a time when “we” were teens and “WE” was in its infancy. Even if this “happy anniversary” to Matea is off schedule, at least it’s under budget!

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At some point in the late 80s/early 90s, my Dad decided to convert our family to a country music household. I resisted as much as I could at the time, holding firm to my beloved Debbie Gibson, Wilson Phillips, Whitesnake, et al; but after a couple of months of car trips featuring The Judds, Reba, and Travis Tritt, the twangy, story-telling tunes somehow managed to endear themselves to me. So by the time Matea and her family had made their way south from West Virginia, the year before we met, I was pretty much as honkey-tonk as they come. She says one of her earliest memories of me (other than my being generally obnoxious) was my singing Garth Brooks’s “Calling Baton Rouge” in the hallway of our junior high school. My earliest memory is having French class with her. My French name was Gabriella, and I think hers was Elise...Estelle...Monique? I can’t remember. But anyway, we were assigned to do a skit together on the topic of getting ready for bed. So we showed up that day decked out in pajamas and got up in front of the class to recite phrases like “je me brosse les dents, je prends une douche, je dorm,” etc. This initial collaboration somehow parlayed itself into a second later in the year. We were dismissed early from same French class to an end-of-year auction for participants in a program called Accelerated Reader. We had accumulated “dollars” over the school year by reading books and taking tests on the computer. Although I don’t remember our being the closest of companions at this point, we ended up pooling our resources in order to augment our bidding power. Who knew that would be our first foray into acquiring communal property? At the end of the day, I think we left with a Zip-Loc bag full of candy and a Santa Clause toilet seat cover which I gave to my grandmother. I was 13 then.

Nearly a year later, we had become slightly better acquainted. The passing of my grandfather in late November of 1994, however, had a profound effect on my life. It shocked me to realize that even family was not permanent. Matea was the first person I told about it at school, in English class. I wrote my first poems that December, and the period of angst and grunge had officially begun. Matea’s compassion during a tough time had galvanized our friendship, though, and I started walking to her house after school. My mom would pick me up around 5 each day, so for a good hour or two, we had time to eat frozen pizzas from the microwave, watch trash tv, annoy her sisters, etc. But mostly we listened to music. She had one Trisha Yearwood cd and one Garth Brooks greatest hits, but otherwise her collection was like a whole new world of unfamiliar musical territory. I had never been exposed to Little Feat, Steely Dan, Amy Grant (ha ha), Cat Stevens, John Prine, and especially not her favorite, Joni Mitchell. By this time, as necessitated by my new grungy modus operandi, I had begun listening to top 40 and alternative radio. Most of the classic rock was a familiar enough approximation to or amalgamation of the hair bands/pop country/alternative rock of my past and present. But Joni Mitchell, with her high-pitched singer-songwriter style, was enough to pierce my eardrums and send me running from the room. But as a much more mature 15-year-old, I learned to bear it somehow and began to break myself in on the folksy soprano, starting with “Big Yellow Taxi.” I sat in the floor of Matea’s bedroom listening to the track over and over until I got the words down. Sing-alongs were important. We routinely sat in front of the boom box for hours, belting out everything from Bonnie Rait to The Offspring. Over the next year or two, both Joni and Matea, had found a place in my soul. I had nailed the high-octave “Pleeeeease” at the end of “Big Yellow Taxi” and mastered most of the songs on both Ladies of the Canyon and Blue.

Fast forward: before we knew it, we were graduating from high school a year early and heading off to Clemson, then graduating and moving to Vermont, and now settling into our first house. Even after 15 years, it seems like we’re just getting started. We were lucky to have had so many years of practice, collaborating, pooling resources, helping each other through hardships. I have learned to have true compassion, conviction, and trust. But most importantly, no matter what we’ve gone through together since she first played “Big Yellow Taxi” for me, I’ve always remembered to savor the high notes.

“Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine. You taste so bitter, and so sweet. Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling, and I would still be on my feet. Oh I would still be on my feet.”

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

A Note From the Eternal Applicant

In case you haven’t heard yet, we are closing on the Pleasant Acres house on April 30th! (If you have any empty boxes, send ‘em my way!) During this process, I’ve realized how much of my life has involved striving for acceptance. Even my rebellious teenage antics worked to grant me general acceptance among many high school peer groups, although I’d say I never achieved a “full membership” in any of them. I studied for 11 years in order to be accepted to college (and no one’s even heard of Clemson up here!!). Matea and I left the South in search of acceptance and inclusion, put our best selves forward in interviews in order to impress potential employers. And here we find ourselves again, relieved at having won the approval of our lender, keeping our fingers crossed also that the inspector approves of our home’s imperfections tonight. There’s a lot of impressing to manage! I honestly don’t know how people of faith can do it, to have that omnipresent judgment and ire “hanging over them,” as it were. Not that I wouldn’t “pass” in that regard, too, I suppose, but good grief.

Well, hope you weren’t expecting too much from this blog entry. Wasn’t in the mood to impress. If disappointed, unsubscribe now. ;)

Pleasant Acres

So we’ve begun the stomach-churning process of looking for a house. You have no idea how many spreadsheets we’ve made and pored over in the past two weeks. It looks like, if everything works out, we may end up making an offer on the first and only home we’ve actually taken a look at (pictured above). We’re going today to see some undoubtedly-inferior dwellings, just to be certain our liking of this house was really love at first sight and not just a one-night stand. The minute I envisioned myself getting tea from the fridge at midnight in my underwear, I knew it would be hard for another place to win me over. I know, the name makes it sound like we’d be moving into a retirement community, but from what we can tell, there are actually a good number of young families there. So, wish us luck that on our second date (we’re seeing the house again tonight) we don’t start noticing a bunch of wrinkles and belches.

A Snarky Remarky

Vermont’s governor, Jim Douglas, has recently proposed making the state’s motor vehicle inspection a bi-yearly, rather than yearly, requirement. Coming from a state that long since did away with such requirements, I think this is one good step toward eliminating a purely-unnecessary, revenue-generating, quasi-bureaucratic, corrupt racket that is sanctioned by this state. Here’s the story of my first VT state motor vehicle inspection.

In 2003, Matea and I were more than happy to get all of our official Vermont documentation, including driver’s license, registrations, tags, and anything else that meant we were bona fide residents of the state. After acquiring a boastfully thick folder of documentation, we had left only to inspect the two cars. Now, limping Matea’s Taurus named “Turtle” from SC to VT was a story of its own—I drove it from PA to VT with the brake lights stuck in the on position— but Matea had been able, quite amazingly, to make this repair by herself in our driveway. So we were certain that these two competent, well-traveled sedans would gain the good favor of any inspector who took a good look at their unmentionables. So, I picked the first authorized inspector in the book: A. Brown Automotive. Several hours after dropping the car off, Mr. Brown called me back to say that, prior to passing inspection, I would need several hundred dollars more in diagnostics to reveal the reason for my check engine light’s being illuminated. I politely informed him that I had memorized the entire inspection manual before bringing my car to him and that, according to section so-and-so, vehicles manufactured before 1996 are not subject to the engine light diagnostic rule. After a slight pause, this monumental a-hole A. Brown snarkily responded, “well, maybe you should become an inspector, then.” The nerve! I calmly asked him to cease and desist in working on my car and told him that I would be there promptly to pick it up. Now, in this state, even when the car “fails” inspection, you still have to pay for the time the highly-qualified master mechanics spent checking it out. Fair enough. But Mr. Brown’s snotty satisfaction with this fact soon turned to glowering disgust when I slapped down my $10 off phone book coupon to bring the total for my troubles down to a mere $5. Take that, A. Wipe!

My second attempt was with a chain I knew, Meineke Car Care (because I trust their spokesman George Foreman implicitly). I pre-paid my $19 and talked the engine light rule over with the lead mechanic. We were on the same page when I left the shop. Alas, several hours later I received the call of death. The clear plastic on the headlights was a little too cloudy for their liking. $600 for new plastic or we would fail again. Mind you, Matea and I came up here directly after college, with no jobs, living on nothing but love and fresh air. We didn’t have the money to go around to every shop in the state to find an honest inspector, let alone to pay for new glasses or exploratory surgeries for our auto-children!! So we left again with no yellow sticker.

I had become frustrated, exhausted, cheated, decapitated...wait... I realized that I was at the mercy of “state-authorized” inspectors whose true first objective was to make money on questionable repairs. Twenty-four dollars in the hole, I made a few more phone calls and found one last shop that had cheap hourly labor rates. I crossed my fingers that they would not be such money grubbing criminals as the last two proprietors I had visited. To my utter joy, after just 30 minutes in the waiting room, I was informed that my baby had finally received the gold star of acceptance. I had but one hurdle to cross before she could don the brilliant yellow number 8 like the rest of her peers. Her front license plate had been riding in the back seat for weeks, as there was no holder for it on my front bumper. In good ole SC, we didn’t have a front license plate required by the state; although, if you loved Jesus, college football, or bass fishing, there did seem to be some requisite plateage for that. But here in Vermont, they like to have every chance at catching the bad guys (I think there are actually 6 bad guys in this state), so we must attach the reflective green identifiers to both ends of our vehicles. So rather than forking over another $15 for them to attach it for me, I knelt down in the greasy gravel of the Burlington Muffler and Brake parking lot and drove two large screws through my pristinely virgin front bumper. This was surprisingly difficult, given the fact that I had no starter holes and I was using a “chubby” (i.e. 3-inch-long) screw driver. Some of you know how red my face can get when I’m very hot or aggravated, so by the time I got back to my feet, front license crookedly but acceptably installed, the combination of the two had brought my cheeks to a hue much like Tammy Faye’s Sunday morning lipstick. Nevertheless, my zippy ‘94-model 626 and I were finally all official-like and on our way home for some much-needed r&errr...vodka. (Tip: I now patronize Champlain Valley Auto on the corner of Williston Rd. and Industrial Ave., where they give quick and trustworthy fifteen-dollar inspections.)

So, in case this entry isn’t already long and boring enough, and in case you all need my perspective on a few more VT driving nuisances, here are a couple of others that come to mind. Is it a law that Vermont parking lots have only one or very few exits? I have been trapped in these asphalt labyrinths for minutes on end before finally finding my way out. For instance, there’s only one exit from Price Chopper on Shelburne Rd., one way out of Linen’s N Things and the Hannaford-Bed Bath and Beyond complex in Williston. If they’re going to make exiting retail outlets so difficult, they could at least be as courteous as the British and throw in a couple of signs that say “Way Out.” Also, why can’t the state trust me to turn left at an intersection with a light? I often find myself idling, alone at the intersection, in one of two situations. The left-hand turn arrow is red but the straight lanes of traffic on my side are green, with no traffic coming in either direction. Or, the lights in all four directions are red, seemingly forever, while the pedestrian walk light chirps cheerily, presumably for all the lost (and blind) ghost men of our childhood kickball games, since there’s no visible human within a mile radius of the crosswalk. If I can use my judgment in turning left along the rest of a 4-lane road, why not at a green light, too? I don’t need a little arrow to tell me the next fleet of on-coming Subarus is still 600 feet away!!

I hate to gripe (actually, you all know I love griping more than almost anything) but really...oh, and one more thing: who’s ever heard of a “jug handle”?

P.S.
This is a much longer story that I’m sure none of you wants to hear (much like the post above), but I thought I may as well issue a caveat emptor while I was on the subject of cars. I am much enamored with my Belle, a 2005 Malibu Maxx LT. I wouldn’t say I was overly-thrilled to be purchasing a Chevy as my first new car, but Belle is special, and everyone who rides in her comments on her mien and temperament. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had a still-unidentified problem with the transmission and neither Chevrolet nor the dealership that did all of my warranty work would stand by the car. After hours and hours and hours on the phone and in person, I (i.e my mechanically-knowledgeable father) got the dealership to cap my financial obligation at $400 (I should have paid nothing). So, my warning is that Chevrolet will not stand by its product. But in particular, Shearer Chevrolet on Shelburne Road has the worst, most incompetent service writers and mechanics that I have ever encountered (they once left a piece of pizza on my engine block during a simple oil change). I believe they outright lie, and I would not purchase a car there if you can help it. Ok, enough car talk.