Wednesday was a quiet day — or as quiet as Camp Gramp gets. There is a new Camp Gramp enterprise going — the making of Fluffy figures — on paper. They will be wealthy soon because they are making these figures to sell. Chu Chu appears to be a cat with diagonal stripes. Octo is an octopus. They also watched TV and played games. The Legos purchased at Legoland were constructed!
Then, in the evening, Matthew purchased tickets for All’s Well at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare whatever. It was at this awesome site on the shore of the Hudson across from West Point. Wonderful. It was a great evening. In addition to this gift given for our anniversary, he took care of Camp Gramp for the evening. Wow!
Thursday was New York day. In deference to his legs and occasional tendency to sit down and refuse to move, Papapa stayed home and kept Thane. They went out to lunch and got some Legos and a puzzle. It seemed to be a good day.
The remaining five of the Camp Grampers went with Uncle Matt for a day in New York City. He is an awesome tour guide. We parked the car uptown and took the Subway wayyyyy down town. The advertised air condition cars were not. The weather was perfect outside and hot inside, but we rode to South Beach (I think). We took the Staton Island Ferry across and back for a nice view of the Statue of Liberty. When we saw the line snaking all around the island, we thought our decision not to go to the island was a good one.
Then we walked to the 9-11 site. Line adverse, we got a great view from a neighboring walkway and avoided all the people who wanted to sell us the ultimate guide to the 9-11-01 event.
Then we caught the subway (with considerable trouble because you can only use a credit care twice in the system and only 4 people can use one card and other things we didn’t know. We went to Time Square, then to the Empire State building, then to the Nintendo store where CG allowances were spent. After that we walked down 5th avenue (I was so under dressed I couldn’t breathe). We ended in Central Park where we found the place the pigeon lady stood and walked through the park for about 45 minutes. The children climbed on rocks. We saw cool fields and experienced the magic of the country in the city.
A walk through Morningside park brought us to the car — a miracle since I would never have found it.
Uncle Matt was the hero of the day. I can’t believe how much of the city we saw.
The children were always heroes. They walked miles without complaining. They did a great job!
Today we will be recovering. The enterprise continues. They have decided that original copies will cost more than photo copies. Thane is going to be the advertising executive. ‘
Pictures. Well, I thought I posted pictures from the first part of CG, but discovered that they didn’t post. So after lunch, I will be posting pictures, I hope!
Now, for your next installment from Camp Gramp! – ed
Take the lack of updates as an indication that we have been really busy, really busy! Camp Gramp is going well. All the children are still alive and so are the adults, although there is a pernicious cold weaving its way through the camp and that is sad!
Saturday night Matthew and I went to the store.
Sunday was picnic day. The church had a tent erected on the back lawn and put up tables, etc. Lots of work. Matthew and I team preached, there was music, the food was great. They had set up a frisby golf course and Baz got a 38 on a par 33 course — excellent. For the others, especially Kay, the hit of the day was the rabbits. The brought a good sized fun and 5 or so pet rabbits. Happiness! Dave and Jan from Shepherd of the Hill were there, so it was a West Coast sort of day. Very nice!
Then Matthew and I went to the store.
Monday was Camp Holmes day. We went to the camp where Matthew worked all summer. We went for a hike to the lemon squeeze, a fractured rock the kids could crawl through. Did you know Paul Bunyan made the rock. Amazing! Then they went swimming and boating. Finally the older three went on the challenge (low ropes) course with Uncle Matt. A good time was had by all.
We got home, did a bath round, and watched Home Alone II — in honor of our intended trip to NY. Then Matthew and Don went to the store.
Tuesday was supposed to be New York, New York, but it was raining hard when we got up and the forecast was for thunder storms. Not a New York sort of day. So instead, we went to Yonkers. In Yonkers (I just need to say that several times since it is such a cool word) we went to Lego Land.
Lego Land is a gold mine. I want stock in Lego Land. I would think it is smaller than Macys, but it was swarming with kids and their attendant adults.
There was a ride in which we got to shoot spiders and other things. Carolyn got over 8,000 points on the first ride. I am not going to get in Thane’s way when he has a ray gun! He is a shooting demon. We successfully rescued the princess.
Then we went through the New York scape. Amazing what you can do with Legos.
The main room had a climbing toy which the younger three tore through like mad. Uncle Matt took them all to the master builders event. They built and raced cars at the track. Kay went on the merry-go-round kind of thing with the long suffering Uncle Matt and the boys opted for more time in the climbing toy.
For me the highlight was the 4-d movie. Even Don was reaching out and trying to grab stuff. There was wind when the helicopter took off and rain when the fire hose was turned on us. (mist would be more accurate). It was only 15 minutes long and left me wanting more!
Of course the exit was through the Lego store where money was spent. Grey owes me $5 because of the insufficiency of the allowance given by the Camp Gramp treasury.
On the way home, we stopped at a diner. The brown and white milkshake was good. I had a happy waitress, which is two pieces of Wonder bread with bacon, tomatoes, and cheese on it — all grilled. One should experience these sorts of things, you know.
Don and I went to the store after Yonkers.
Today, Wednesday, is to be a quiet day. I think we are all tired. Matthew has bought Don and I tickets to a Shakespeare play in the park tonight, in honor of our anniversary, which we spent in Yonkers. I am excited. He will be in charge of Camp Gramp while we are gone, but don’t worry, he is good at it!
Tomorrow, New York!
The deficiency at Camp Gramp is definitely picture taking, but I will upload a few of them for you soon. We are too busy to take pictures.
Camp Gramp time is usually a week when Adam and I slip away, and remind ourselves joyously of why we chose to marry each other in the first place. It is appropriate, then, that Camp Gramp week almost always falls on our anniversary. On August 5th of this year, Adam and I marked thirteen years of joyful marriage together. Thirteen has always been a lucky number in my family, as my parents married each other on a Friday the 13th. I’m feeling 13 years lucky myself, these days.
Anyway, the rhythm of Camp Gramp was shifted a bit because my brother had obligations into the second week of August, and this year Camp Gramp was to be held at my brother’s manse* in New York. This had the effect of moving Camp Gramp week into Gencon week – two sacred obligations colliding. Since I could schedule time with my husband another time, I am sending him with goodwill to Gencon where – I am reliably informed – he has the best schedule he has yet gotten (possibly due to some algorithmic javascript software he wrote to help him rejigger his schedule on the fly.) So this year, there was no Istanbul, Austria or Ashland for us.
Still, there was the weekend. We left Friday night – after a full day’s work. This was – of course – the Friday night where the beer truck dangled off the side of the freeway. (An incident only amusing because I ended up making it home in good time due to some excellent and thoughtful reaction by MBTA employees, and because no one was hurt.) I fetched our farm share, prepared that which would not keep, schlepped the rest of it in the ‘fridge and consigned the three watermelons and two vast cantaloupe to Camp Gramp consumption. We packed full the back of the car and cossetted our sons with pillows and blankets.
Come and sit by my side if you love me
The last pink traces of sunset found the Flynn family singing “Red River Valley” in the car, with certain young voices picking up the refrain. I thought as I sang “Come and sit by my side if you love me” about Michael. I remember him crying when I crooned the old words to an infant grandson of his, remembering his lost brother Jimmy. And now those small voices from the back seat may someday fondly remember the same strains, and their beloved brothers. One of those small voices begged anonymity, as though I would ever find a love of singing something to be ashamed of, so you will never ever know who sang so sweetly back there.
Through construction, leaving the Red Sox broadcast area, crossing the mighty Hudson and late into a starlight night we went. Only I was awake when we finally got to Middletown. My mother was waiting for me on the steps – waiting up for me to pull in to the driveway, like she has done so many times. Small bodies were carried upstairs – perilously close to the last time that will be possible. Cantaloupe were unloaded. Blessed flat, soft surfaces were revealed.
How silly is that Unka Matt in the window?
We left not too late the following morning. It’s funny how little time is required to fall into the cadence of your family. For me this is a blessing – I’m very fond of my family. I ate breakfast, kibbitzed with my brother, brushed my niece’s hair, took a picture of the four of them – Thane clinging to his Kay, Grey with a comradely arm around his Baz – and we were on our way. We only forgot four things, and we hadn’t even left town by the time my mom called to tell me of it.
It was 11 on a Saturday morning, and my husband and I were at LIBERTY. We went shopping. We ate at Denny’s. We pointed the car northward in search of an elusive hike on the Appalachian trail. By the way, in case it ever comes up, I highly recommend searching for a particular unmarked trailhead on the Appalachian Trail as an excellent way of discovering and becoming intimate with the rural ways of Connecticut. We sought for signal to update our directions in the high places of grassy, half-forgotten graveyards. We went round and round main square intersections looking for signs. We accosted random hikers. We went on one-lane, washboard gravel roads thickly papered with no-trespassing signs. We did u-turns. We drove past horses and pastures and woods and rivers. We went past shoulder-high corn, dappled streams, private schools and mansions in Salisbury.
The author, on the Appalachian
We finally gave up, and hiked a different section before turning around to Kent for our night’s repose in a fancy inn. Any implication that I picked the Starbuck Inn because of my coffee leanings is purely hypothetical, mind. We had a lovely dinner at the Fife and Drum, right next to the pianist. We laid out in the dewing air and watched the Milky Way stretch itself luxuriously across the country sky, hardly blemished at all by any falling Perseids.
The next day we got a good start on the morning, up in time for the breakfast part of bed and breakfast. Our host, calloused feet clad in sandals, regaled us with tales of what we’d missed the prior afternoon. The portraits and maps adorning the walls of the well-kept colonial attested to the fact that Starbucks had been in New England a very long time. I wondered if he was the hippy scion of a long and proud lineage. Anyway, two blocks to town for a cup of coffee! But look! The bookstore is open! I consider it a moral duty to stop at small local bookstores and find things I desperately need (even if you can get them cheaper at Amazon). So we found the new Arthur translation by Tolkien, and books for the boys. But hardly had we gone a block before we discovered the library was having a book sale! Tables and tables of trade paperbacks, clothbound books, best sellers and all manner of odd books were laid out. Well, that set us back long enough that I had to get a refill of my coffee before we left (happily, four times as many books cost a tenth as much as the bookstore). Finally, we were awa’.
Actual Appalachian Train – I have proof!
This time, we did find the Appalachian Trail. We walked our way up the gold and green Connecticut hillsides, punctuated by old stone walls and periodic views. Adam was nursing a hamstring injury (a parting gift of aikido) and a nasty cold, and I was still trying out my new knee, so we didn’t go to far. But we talked and laughed and ate pretzels and talked through the latest developments in Season III of Downton Abby. We noted various interesting bugs and talked about how astronomy and atomic theory seemed on the point of convergence, like a fractal. We missed our children in the cheerfully satisfied way parents miss their children when those parents are perfectly satisfied that the children are having a blast and not missing them at all. Finally, we turned back (the path racing below our feet as we returned). We wound our way north over 7 and returned with abrupt reality to bad traffic on I90 – two days and a vast refreshing distance since we had traversed it Westbound.
And here I am now – at over 10,000 feet – on yet another business trip (missing my husband of 13 years, and my still-satisfied-to-be-gone children). It’s remarkable that although the days seems to blur together in an endless March of sameness, when I cast my memory back I find so many joyfully memorable moments popping up.
Business travel is losing what allure it once had by novelty, but yet I am content. Thirteen years I’ve had with my husband, and two bonny bright children. A thousand joyful memories we’ve made together, along with a home and a life strong enough to endure. I hope for thirty and thirteen more. Maybe then we’ll do the whole length of the Appalachian Trail together!
Housatonic River Valley
*I discovered later in life that manse actually has two meanings. In a New England context, it’s synonymous with mansion and means a fancy house. In a Presbyterian sense, however, the manse is the house that the pastor lives in. It usually specifically means a home provided for the pastor by the church. It is in this second sense I use it – since it is a classical manse, so close to the church as to almost be touching and built in a similar style. We actually lived in The Manse (a double-wide trailer) for two years when I was a young girl.
For the new reader, Camp Gramp is an annual tradition where my parents take all four of their grandchildren for a week of riotous hedonism. There are bouncy houses, Chuck E Cheese, DS games and screens, and best of all – time with cousins and grandparents that makes a lifetime of memories. During Camp Gramp week, we parental types usually idyll, and leise and vacate. This year, unfortunately, Gencon and my husband’s annual attendance is getting in the way of a big vacation, but we had some lovely time wandering home. Anyway, during Camp Gramp week, my mom usually emails roughly daily updates about the hijinks ensuing for us parental types. I usually pass those on to you, my avid readers.
Enjoy!
-Brenda, not Grandmama
Camp Gramp 2013
Camp Gramp officially started with the singing of the Camp Gramp song*. then we made our shirts. This year is a lego theme. Aunt Heidi found us vinyl iron-on lego men with the kids names on them. Very cool. Kay added red hair. Thane made an engine to go on his shirt. After a couple of false starts, they are safely installed on the shirts. No one writes instructions anymore. They send you a web link to a youtube video. Actually, much more effective.
I guess the big news is that my fourth trip to the grocery store was for anti-biotic ointment. It was the Flynn children who needed the bandaids. Grey feel and skinned his elbow and Thane has a bruise on his face and an abrasion on the back of his neck. Ouch! So far it has not been beyond my capabilities.
Tomorrow, church picnic. Matthew and I will be preaching on Death in the Pot! Could this be the first church picnic? Then we will all picnic on the lawn.
Peace, Grandmama
*Camp Gramp theme song was added two years ago, I believe. It references Lucky Charms.
In 2012, both my dear cats died. Magic died of an illness, and Justice died in an accident. We took a break from pets after that (kind of enjoying leaving doors open and not having a litter box, if I can be honest). Grey, a seven year old, strongly remembers his cats as beloved. Since about Christmas, Grey has been on a full court press to get another cat. And I will confess, for all my logistical challenges with cats, I miss having a cat in the house.
So I sat Grey down in the dark of winter and told him he could have a cat if he could *Actually* prove to me that he would provide the daily care for the cat. This is not an easy bar. So often with kids we have pro forma promotion – if you just kind of do the work you get the pass. But in this case, it wasn’t just about him going through the motions… I actually needed to believe that he would (most of the time) take care of the cat.
We settled on a proof of responsibility, and Grey named the cat in his imagination. The cat is named Data. I’m not sure why he picked Data, but as a geek I have to love the name. I imagine a robotic but affectionate feline. Grey has spun stories and yarns about his future, to be cat, and talks about readying for Data.
We set a chore chart on the fridge. The deal was that at 170 checks (the target was selected by my son) I would get him a cat. The checks were a mix of easy and hard, dos and don’ts, which evolved over time. At first, I had trouble thinking of five or six chores that Grey could actually do. Now I have more chores than checkmarks on the board – several of them being actual things that make my life easier if he does them. He got up to about 120 and then decided to spend a bunch of his points on Skylanders (a video game). But he got right back up on the horse and worked on earning his checks.
The chore chart is great for setting expectations, reminding him of his chores and helping with long term planning and arithmetic.
Finally this week, with a marathon day of chores, Grey got his last check mark and reached the 170 mark. It was reality. Grey had earned Data.
Now, this is not actually the best time of year to bring home a new cat. Grey is headed off for Camp Gramp in two weeks (how does that happen, that summer flies so fast?) We have one more four day camping trip before school starts. I’d rather wait until we were here all the time. But somehow I found myself perusing the adoptable cats at the local shelter, and I stumbled across this guy:
Mud Pie- unfortunately he doesn’t have the right personality for our home
All together now, “Awwwwwww!”
He’s a little young for my tastes (I’d actually rather have a two year old cat), but he is SO DARN CUTE. Last night, Grey and I went to get the cat gear we’d need. Then we came home and filled out an application for adoption together. I’m waiting to hear back from the kitty’s foster parent to see if we can set up a time to meet some of their cats. I do want to make sure that proto-Data will be a personality match for our family.
One of the things I love most about a CSA is the obscure produce. Of course, there’s obligatory Kohlrabi in New England. I mean, it grows so well. Of course, the best you can hope for with kohlrabi is not to taste it, which does not inspire desire. But then there are the other non-commercial produce items, like garlic scapes and purslane.
Garlic scape time of year is over, sadly. I usually keep a bouquet of hydra-like tops for a few weeks, but even those have past. But this last week a flux of culinary ambition took me over at the same time my green box included a bunch of purslane.
“So Brenda” you ask. “What the heck is purslane?”
It’s an edible weed. I see it all the time in the cracks of sidewalks, in neglected window boxes, creeping along unwalked paths and next to un-week-wacked walls. You’ve seen it a thousand times and never noticed it, since you saw it and thought “weed”. But it’s actually a super nutritious, rather tasty green. And despite being tasty, bountiful and nutritious, it is rarely if ever commercially available.
Isn’t it funny, how rich but stilted we are? We pass by an awesome nutritional opportunity because it’s not sold to us, and buy expensive greens from California instead.
I digress.
Last time I made something from purslane, several years ago, it was a super-vegan-froo-froo soup recipe that was distinctly eh. This time, some googling showed a great Turkish recipe that looked super tasty. Having made it, I can affirm that it is, in fact, super tasty. (Although it would be even better with bacon. But everything is even better with bacon. One of my friends had dinner at my house this week and said, “I like it, but I’ve noticed every meal you’ve ever served me has had bacon in it.” This is true.)
So here is my version of the recipe, with some modifications. I was able to use farm share onions and tomatoes, in addition to the farmshare purslane. I served this dish warm – I think it would be pretty good cold, too.
Purslane with Tomato (Domatesli Semizotu)
1 bunch or 1 lb purslane (verdolaga in Spanish), washed and chopped into 1 inch pieces
1 small onion, finely diced
2 cloves of garlic, sliced or minced
2 tomatoes, grated or petite diced (or 1 can petite diced tomato)
1/4 cup precooked rice
2-3 tbsp olive oil
1/2 tsp sugar
salt
1 cup hot water
-Heat olive oil on medium heat and saute onions.
-Add purslane, tomato, rice, salt, sugar, pepper. Stir for a couple of minutes.
-Pour in water.
-Cook on low covered for 15-20 minutes until rice is cooked.
-Serve warm or cold
I’m feeling both dismayed and accomplished by my farm share production this week. So far I’ve made:
*Blueberry pie – with lard crust. DELICIOUS.
*Peach cobbler. OM NOM. Also, peeling peaches for baking is one of my least favorite things, and eating baked peaches is one of my most favorite things.
*Purslane salad (purslane, onions and tomatoes)
*Spaghetti & kale (onions and kale)
I have saved for winter:
* Grated zucchini
* Green beans
* Blueberry pie filling (I had a lot of blueberries)
I also sent a cantaloupe to daycare for snack because I do not like cantaloupe.
The dismaying thing is how much remains in my crisper drawers, uneaten and unplanned. Wish me luck!
If I ever form a rock band – which is less preposterous now than it once was – I think I will name it Imperative Basil.
Imperative. Basil.
My farm share pick up is on Fridays. In theory, this is a great idea. I’ll have all weekend – luxurious laid-out hours – to process mother nature’s bounty. A few weeks ago a note came through from our CSA saying that extra bundles of basil were for sale! $14 for 10 bundles. I thought about my great success canning pepperonata last year, and my favorite pesto/mozzarella/pepperonata sandwiches, and thought… pesto! I’ll make pesto! And I signed up for ten bunches.
A week passed.
Then I went to pick up my ten bunches. They were not ten REGULAR sized bunches. Oh no. There were ten VAST bunches. And the temperature was over 90 in my kitchen. The delicate basil had a life-span measured in hours, not days.
I managed to clear out enough room in the ‘fridge for the yards of basil. But I didn’t have lemon juice, nor did I have enough parmesan. Saturday morning, I slept in. When I got up, I had just enough time to get to the grocery store before Adam had to leave for aikido… if I didn’t stop for coffee or breakfast.
You have never in your life seen such a grumpy grocerier than I was that morning.
The next four hours of my life were spent in pesto making. There were three double batches. Twelve cups of pressed basil needed to be washed and stemmed. Pecans roasted. Jars readied. I stewed in the 90 degree heat. Adding insult to injury, I misread the pesto recipe for the first batch and added the amount of salt that was supposed to go into the WATER for the PASTA to the pesto. Doubled. Still, I labored on.
At about 2:30, the final jar of pesto was put into the freezer. Twenty one jars comprised 84 ounces. I had saved the basil. Alleluia.
Now, to save the afternoon. My plan had been to go to the beach after aikido, which I reckoned to last until 3. But at 1, my husband limped home. And by limped, I mean, limped. With only two weeks left to his aikido career, my husband managed to do something to his hamstring that involved horrible popping sounds. So there we had the oppressive heat, the imperative basil, the injured husband and the beach plans.
I corralled my children. I packed the fun bag. My husband limped around packing the food bag. I cajoled and threatened until people were covered in sunscreen – hard to rub in through the sheen of sweat. I put my children in the car. As I closed the door, I heard the rumble of thunder.
“By JOVE!” I exclaimed in fury!
My husband, bless him, pointed out it might be fun to watch the thunderstorms roll into the Atlantic from Gloucester, so we went North anyway. We drove through a deluge, with waves parting in front of the wheels of the car and lightening strikes to the East and West – the sun dimmed to twilight under the heavy burden of the falling rain. When we pulled into Good Harbor beach, they waved us through without payment. We’d driven past the bulk of the storm – assuming it to be hard on our heels – but the beachgoers were flocking out as the first drops fell.
We sprinted to the beach and tossed the children in the water, the cold and hot air like layers on a cake, the winds picking up. And we danced in the water, jumped through the waves, dove in, sluiced off, and laughed – knowing at any moment the storm would come.
Then we made the most awesome set of sand castles across a rill trickling through the saturated sand. Grey worked on the Fortress of Europe. Adam – across the channel – constructed the Fortress of Asia. I played Venetian and provided buildings to both sides, counting my profit. Thane dug holes and chased seagulls.
Then we had some lunch. I sat on a beach chair, cool winds to my back and warm sands underfoot, eating a salami sandwich on homemade bread when I was viciously, viciously attached by a seagull with bad aim. I retained my sandwich, but incurred an injury on my pointer finger. So far, I am happy to report, I have not died of mysterious seagull diseases, but in case my life is actually a Chekhov novel, beware.
The rain? It never came. The band of storms passed to the south. We stayed until we were played out, and headed home sandy and tired. When we got home, the breezes were cool and bracing.
We made it.
And in the winter I will remember – as I taste the oh-so-salty tang of farm-share, home made pesto – the heat and the joy and the luck of my summer.
Last week I was in Dallas, and I was complaining about the weather back home (and how it was the same as the weather in Dallas). “Yeah,” said one of the Texans, “We hear you guys have a terrible heat wave in the 90s and we just have to laugh!” Unspoken at the end of that were the pejoratives about our tenderness that no Texas gentleman would use around a lady such as myself.
I countered in a way that terrified and horrified them: “I have no AC in my house.”
They were dumbstruck, as though I’d told them I had no toilet. No air-conditioning? That puts an entirely different spin on 98 degrees with 90% humidity, my friends. Yes, it does.
Thinking about it, and I think I’ve only ever lived in one place that had AC. We lived in California for a while when I was four. My thrifty grandmother, through osmosis, somehow taught me how to manage the heat with as little AC as possible… but we still had AC in Central Valley. (Those tips, by the way, come in awfully handy right now.) Every house I’ve lived in since we took Amtrak north to the Pacific Northwest has been heated, but not air-conditioned.
This summer has been HOT. (Except for Memorial Day when it froze. I might be whining about that for the next year or two, so brace yourselves…) I think we’ve already had 10 days over 90. In my mental calculus, I usually figure that Boston will have 8 – 10 days over 90 all year, and that plenty of those days will be like 91. We actually do have window box AC units (otherwise we can’t sleep), but usually that 10 days a year just doesn’t seem worth installing central air for.
But we’re in day five of a seven day likely heat wave, and tomorrow is supposed to be the worst yet. The basement is hot. The attic is unbearable. It’s only getting down to the mid 70s at night, so the house doesn’t get a chance to cool down. (Oh! The unthought-of consequences to having good insulation! When the house gets hot, it stays hot.) Suddenly, you find yourself wondering whether an AC unit would be that expensive after all.
When I was at a formative age – around 9 – my family watched the Tom Hank’s movie The Money Pit. At the time we were living in a house built with a gorgeous view on a just fantastic plot of land. The house had a great layout. And it was about half-done. The sink in the bathroom wasn’t hooked up. The nursery was exquisite, but other bedrooms were just drywall. In my room, there was a door to what was supposed to be a porch (one assumes) but was actually a story-long fall. Needless to say, my parents were renting.
But the combination of the movie and the house have instilled a life-long terror of home maintenance in me. I lived for six years in terror that at any moment my roof would cave in and I’d have to pay gazillions of dollars to get it fixed. (I think I added about $5k a year to the estimate I was given when we bought the house, but the roof did end up costing a bundle.) When the guy redid our roof he informed us that the window sills, which we had fixed and treated to the tune of $3000 when we moved in, were completely rotted and needed to be replaced. Now I imagine water seeping into my walls and wreaking havoc. And that will be another, what? Six thousand dollars?
And then there are the bats. I had high hopes that my Very Expensive Roof would be batproof. In fact, I counted on it. I looked up at the dollar bills taped to my roof, um, I mean, my new shingles and thought, “At least there are no bats.” Then I spent an afternoon in the attic and heard the squeaky voices of my unwelcome guests. I called up The Bat Guys and attempted to sound non-hysterical in my insistence that they come IMMEDIATELY and RELOCATE THE BATS to MAYBE THE BAT HOUSE I HAD INSTALLED. So that’s another two thousand dollars.
Of course, there’s the porch project too. We’ve gotten the stain. We need to test the stain on a piece of wood before we can decide whether the stool we’ve picked out will be a good match. And then we’ll need to get about four more of the stools in order to go sit in our nice front porch.
And the kitchen floor could stand redoing, as could the hall carpet. And there are bees living under my porch.
All this is to say… it’s too darn hot. And it’s likely to stay too darn hot at Chez Flynn for at least another year.
When I took a job in Boston’s Innovation District, I assumed that I could somehow take public transit to get there. I was right, but not in the T-centric way I had thought. I ended up taking the 354 Express Bus from Montvale to State Street, then walking nearly a mile through the financial district to my renovated-brick-warehouse office. I wrote about my 354 commute back when it was new.
I’ve done this for almost 18 months now, and for 18 months it’s continued to be the best way to get to work. Oh, there are downsides. When you’re 2 minutes late for the bus, it makes you 22 minutes late to get where you’re supposed to go. Every once in a while (not that often) a bus fails to come, or comes late. Then, not only are you late but often you end up standing (or sitting on the floor – it’s a long ride.) Or – worst of all – the bus comes five minutes early. Parking at the bus stop is a very big problem, with an unused lot sitting blocked and idle while we cram our cars in to tiny cracks in the approved lot, or park a few blocks away and hoof it over a major road that has very little pedestrian traffic. And of course, that mile long walk is less fun in 16 degree weather, or with blowing-sideways rain, or in 90 degree heat with humidity.
There are some pretty awesome upsides too, though. I have done more reading in these last 18 months than I did in the five years prior. I read some books for information, some books to keep current, and plenty of books just for fun. The cast of characters I identified in those early days have become friends. There’s John, the mayor of the bus stop. Matt has an uncanny knack for arriving 2 minutes before the bus does, not matter what. Elizabeth and I have become friends on Goodreads because of our overlapping interests. Chris has read the entire Sword of Shannara series twice in my knowing him. The burly Viking I walk past on my commute is named Adrian (he’s a lawyer) and the magician is Andy, and “Grampa Munster” as I call my older friend in jeans has assiduously never made eye contact this entire time.
But tomorrow, the commute comes to an end for me.
The reason I could not just drive to work are because:
– Taking the carpool lane on this particular route can save you about 15 – 20 minutes every single day
– Parking is $15 a day
– A two+ hour stuck in traffic commute is not fun at all.
– I care enough about the environment and congestion to not want to add to the problems where it can be helped.
Let’s review why I couldn’t carpool, though.
1) It’s weird finding some random stranger to carpool with. What if you hate them? What if they kidnap you and sell you the gypsies?
2) I didn’t know anyone who worked near me and lived near me.
3) My daycare pickup/dropoff schedule is uncompromising. I CANNOT drop off before 8. (And I need to get to work by 9 for an hour and fifteen minute commute – thus my husband does most dropoffs.) I MUST pick up before 6 or there is great wrath.
So to carpool with someone, I would need to be really good friends with them. They would need to have my same rigid schedule. And they would have to live pretty close to me.
Ahem.
My next door neighbor and good friend, whose sons attend identical classes in school and afterschool, has had her company move headquarters. To the building next door to my building. SCORE.
So tomorrow is the start of a new regime for me… a regime where I don’t have an express bus pass for the 453 ($160/month), but I do have a parking card. We’re taking turns driving, and taking turns with whether the “guys” or the “girls” will handle kid duty on a particular day. We’ve already agreed that it needs to be perfectly kosher to read in the car instead of converse. I could hardly ask for a better setup!
It sort of feels like a time of change for me. Not only do I now have a new commute, but I also have a new desk on a new floor. On Friday, I moved my things to a new location. It’s funny how much a new spot changes your perspective on a day’s work. I’m sure I’ll get used to it quickly, but it does seem like a number of changes, all at once!
The last camping trip we undertook was, as I said, a Fine and Pleasant misery. Near constant rain, freezing temperatures and winds conspired to keep us damp, cold and in the tent or the car for most of the trip.
This is what bliss looks like
This trip, a mere four weeks later, could hardly be more different. The temperatures were literally double Memorial Day, making gentle waves between 90 and 65. We had a spectacular time this trip. For the first time maybe ever we just stayed in the camp and went swimming and sat around and generally had a superb time. (Well, except for our trip to go see Despicable Me II, which the boys thought was hilarious and which Adam and enjoyed enough.) All in all, this camping trip was one of the most enjoyable we’ve ever had as a family.
Last time I went camping, a number of my friends and readers mentioned that they’d love to hear how one goes about camping these days. (Ok, so maybe that was one person… but it totally counts, right?) Having once again read far too much McManus this trip, I’d be happy to offer my expertise on the topic.
I was trying to remember why I decided to go camping the first time. I mean, I’ve loved camping since I was a little girl. I remember camping when I was five and my mother was pregnant with my brother. I loved wandering the woods, building dams in mountain streams. I loved the sound of the zipper on the tent, the patter of pine needles on the canvas roof. But for reasons that escape me, Adam and I did very little camping while we were unchilded. I think I thought I was too busy, when in fact I was just prioritizing wrong. I was also, in truth, still a total snob about East Coast vs. West Coast mountains and disdained the mountains and woods that were available to me.
But likely the summer I was pregnant with Thane I realized that this was it. This was my life. I lived in New England. I owned a house. And if I wanted to go camping with my kids, I would need to go camping in New England. My longing for backpacking as a family, of reading by the stream while their feet went numb and they built a dam, would only happen if we actually went camping.
Actually taken two days before the famous “dance class” picture
Thane was 7 months old the first time we went camping as a family. I, more or less at random, picked White Lake State Park for our trip. It had facilities (a bathroom, running water), it was a reasonable drive for us, and it had a very highly rated beach. I figured it was as good a start as any. That first camping trip, I don’t think we had any chairs. We brought the pack ‘n’ play for baby Thane. We bought a cheap tent at Target (which I loved, by the way, until it died a good death this year). We froze because I didn’t bring nearly enough blankets. It was tough to work camping around naps and babies and lack of expertise. But yet, somehow, we kept coming back. Nearly every trip back, Adam and I review the trip and make notes on what we should do differently next time. We’ve gotten to a point now where it is pretty optimized and all we need to do is make adjustments for the particular time of year and the boys’ stages in life.
This year we attempted fishing.
So… if you, dear friend with small children, were thinking about camping, what would I recommend?
First of all, gear. We have always had insufficient car space to take all the gear I’d like to take. I joke that our camping trips are equivalent to a space shuttle launch, in terms of our careful choice and selection of gear. The absolute minimum requirements are: a tent, an air mattress for the grownups, a chair for each person. Chairs are unexpectedly key; trust me. Most of the rest of the gear is small and/or optional. It’s definitely wise to have a light source per person and a knife. My husband will add that you should have roughly a thousand feet of rope and three tarps – definitely preferable if it rains. Tents start to leak under sustained precipitation. Then there are the nice-to-haves: table cloths, wood-shop class name plates (I don’t have one and confess to actually wanting one. I have years to go until my sons take woodshop though. I wonder if Boston suburbs actually teach woodshop?) Finally, approximately a thousand toys, which should be doled out to children gradually over the trip.
Food is actually a challenge. I have no problem planning breakfast. First morning: eggs and bacon. Second morning: pancakes and bacon. Third morning: instant oatmeal. Lunches can be managed with a loaf or two of bread, cold cuts, cheese, peanut butter and jam. Pretzels, cheese sticks, apples and snack foods fill out the lunch. Oreos and smores are the traditional desserts. Dinners, though. Dinners are tough. Usually we have hot dogs/sausages the first night. I tried hamburgers, but they never turn out tasty. Sometimes I’ll bring a soup – either a frozen stew I made ahead of time, or two cans of some sort of Campell’s. But usually I only plan on eating at the campsite for half the time – the rest of the time we’ll eat out.
Next summer I bet Thane will be reading too
And that’s one of the secrets of my brand of camping: we don’t stay at the campsite most of the time. We go on “Car walks” up the Kancamagus Highway. We go climb a local (small) mountain. We drive to North Conway or Lincoln for various excuses. (Starbucks!) We visited Mt. Washington and the Polar Caves. We bring our food with us, so we can stop and make our lunch wherever we find ourselves. But it’s nice to go to a nice clean restaurant and have dinner out. These car walks started, I think, because Thane had so much trouble napping in a tent and so much less trouble napping in a car seat. (A fact that remains true even today. Someone is snoozing in the back seat as I write, which would not be true if we were at the site.)
So one secret to camping with small children is to not be a purist. Our camp site has lovely amenities. It also has full cell phone coverage. We eat out while camping. We watch movies. We have digital devices, although we try to save them for times when there is not too much opportunity lost.
Key: build traditions. Have a favorite diner you stop at on your way down. (Like Miss Wakefield’s.) Stop by a little roadside stand. Have a favorite hike, or cookie, or campfire song. Have a set of toys that are sacred to camping. It takes very few times to have something become a tradition when you have small kids. Three times is plenty.
Our Miss Wakefield ritual is down to the exact parking spot
Finally: Starbucks Via is a great way of getting your morning coffee. Just putting that out there.
So how about you? Do you go camping? Are you horrified at how many compromises I’ve made to pure camping? Are you horrified at the thought of coin-operated showers? Have you found a great way to bring your kids camping? (Or your spouse?) Do you aspire to go camping? Do you have any logistical questions I have failed to address?
My Truant Pen 