A Little Madness in the Spring OR Five Insignificant Complaints

1

Recently, I feel a great disturbance in the Blogger universe. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. I.e. Blogger was down. Everyone’s last post was removed, and although I got mine back, the comments remain lost in space.

Someone out there has to answer for this. Also- who do I contact to receive what I lost in AdSense revenue as a result of this debacle? Someone out there owes me at least 3 cents.

2

Yesterday, I had my annual singing gig. Joe (the saxophonist) and I are completely perplexed as to why, after last year’s significant press coverage, neither one of us have received one invitation to perform at any other event. This year, I really nailed “Orange Color Sky,” which contains music’s most memorable lyrics: Flash! Bam! Alakazam! I’d be happy to sing this at your graduation party.

I also sing the Star Spangled Banner at sporting events. I do Little League Games.

3

This week in Albany, two new bills introduced to the Senate seek to delegate an official New York State vegetable. The contenders? Sweet corn and onions.

This is bad news. New York, particularly upstate New York, has enough problems without being associated with a state vegetable that a) is not a vegetable or b) makes people cry. Don’t get me wrong, I love an ear of sweet corn and a good Vidalia onion; however, when I think corn, I think “Nebraska,” and when I think onion, I think “Texas.” (This association comes from the YA book, “Holes,” by Louis Sacchar.) When I think New York, I think “apple,” which apparently is the state fruit. I’m nominating it as state vegetable, as well, because apples are as much of a vegetable as starchy, unhealthy corn is.

4

This week, I said something cruel that I will never, ever be able to take back. In a moment of stress, I said these words:

“I don’t love you. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever loved you.”

I realize this admission guarantees I will be receiving some much-deserved hate mail.

Thankfully, Kiah is a dog and doesn’t understand most English. She understands SOME English, words like like “walk,” and “treat,” and “be really, really cute!” So, I didn’t crush her spirit with my false admission. She has not been moping around, nor will she require therapy in the coming days.

Of course, I didn’t mean it, but I was reeling over the sudden disappearance of my English muffin topped with homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam. It was the last English muffin in the house, hence my passionate response.

I wish my dog would stop eating my English muffins.

5

2 ½ years ago, we said goodbye to our village house and our porch swing, which the new owners demanded we leave. They were unmoved when I told them the swing was a father’s day present for John. I drive by the house, occasionally, and see them swinging, and I am filled with a melancholy nostalgia. (I have to do this surreptitiously, now- something about “stalking” and “making them feel uncomfortable.")

There are a lot of things I could complain about this past week like: the white fuzz in the air that makes me sneeze, the humidity that increases the overall size of my hair ten-fold, and the sugar ants that will have completely taken over the kitchen, effective Monday. But these are such small, petty, insignificant complaints when compared to the expanse of the robin’s egg blue sky, the vibrant green of the trees’ infant leaves, and sun that swathes the house in warm light. (The sun also exposes every one of my house’s many blemishes; but again- insignificant in comparison!)

We can buy another porch swing for our smaller, slightly less charming porch. This time I’ll carve our initials right on the front, so no one else can claim it as their own. And I will swing, peacefully, and drink in spring.

Until one of my boys inevitably sprays me with the hose. (He was just trying to give the flowers in my hanging baskets a drink. This may have happened to me this week. Again- insignificant.)

A little madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own! Emily Dickinson

111 Miles

This past Monday marked fifteen Valentine's Days come and gone with the husband, and for the first time ever, we were apart. Not only that, but I was not wearing my wedding ring. Took it right off. Because my fingers were swollen like sausages.

We spent the weekend up in the Adirondacks with friends who had invited us to go snowmobiling. Amazingly, my parents were each able to take a set of children on short notice, my friend (God bless her) took the dog, and we were good to go. John and I left Friday late afternoon for Old Forge, which is the snowmobiling mecca of the east. I’m not even joking. Instead of cars, the small town is jam-packed with snowmobiles and people strolling about in full winter regalia, looking like rather colorful astronauts.

After meeting our friends at the inn, we headed to a restaurant at the bottom of a steep hill. Inside, the walls by the door were lined with heavy jackets and helmets. Men and women wandered around in snow bibs (which I haven’t worn since I was twelve), their cheeks rosy from the brisk night air. I felt conspicuous with my corduroy coat; everyone else donned a brand-name snowmobiling jacket: Yamaha, Ski-doo, Polaris…

A fire kept things cozy, and a live band played an Indigo Girls song in the corner. We found a booth and our friends, Chris and Kim, gave us the snowmobiling lowdown.  When they were done, I asked them a series of questions mainly concerning the chances of me crashing into a tree. I then went over my very particular care plan should I suffer a spinal injury, insisting that no one resuscitate and that they donate all my organs to those in need, but not to “science.” I’m not sure if this ever happens, but I’m not comfortable with my heart being in a jar in some professor’s lab.

Chris is a doctor, a medical kind, mind you, and I didn’t want him to take any life-saving measures. You can’t raise twins if you’re paralyzed. You just can’t. Better to leave that to my husband and his new, hideously unattractive nanny.

Saturday morning, I put on my snow gear, which included under armour, jeans, a shirt and a sweater, snow bibs, a jacket, boots, gloves, and an unwieldy helmet with a radio attached to it. I took my first spin on the snowmobile around the parking lot, where I did a lot of embarrassing and girlish shrieking. This is where I learned that arm flapping when freaked out doesn’t work well when on a snowmobile. You tend to lose your balance, and become susceptible to tumbling over.

We headed off to the trails, which meant crossing an asphalt road. You can’t steer a snowmobile if there’s no snow. You have to position yourself just right and step on it, waiting until you reach snow again to maneuver your machine. I found this slightly disconcerting.

We made it to the trail! I was doing well! And then I drove into a ditch.  We were only 5 minutes into our venture. The ditch, I soon found out, happened to also be a small creek. Absolutely mortified and somewhat stunned, I crawled out of the ditch and waited for help. Chris carries rope in his sled, and within moments, five guys had stopped to help.

“It’s my first time!” I kept insisting. A guy patted me on the arm.

“You’re doing great!” That was so nice of him to say since clearly I wasn’t doing great at all. Driving your sled into a ditch is the exact opposite of doing great.

It only took ten minutes for the men to haul the sled out of the ditch. Both the sled and I were unharmed, so I got back on and gave it another whirl. Slowly, I gained back my confidence. John, directly ahead of me, radioed me every couple of minutes:

“You okay?”

“Yes. And you don’t have to go so slow,” I called back, irritated. And as soon as I said that, I went into my second ditch.

“It’s not as bad, this time!” I insisted. It wasn’t. It only took three men to haul me out. Fairly certain our hosts would insist I go back to the hotel room and stay a safe distance from their snowmobiles, I was surprised by their good humor and their encouragement. I got back on.

Chris gave me rather simple but invaluable advice. “Look where you want to go, not where you don’t want to go.” After that- no more ditches. I think that statement may be bigger than even snowmobiling. I’m hoping Caleb will use it as a quote in his valedictorian speech.

We rode through wide trails, skinny trails, over bridges, along steep ravines. We rode on nearly deserted roads to a diner in a small town, where we hung out jackets and snow bibs to dry. After falling in the snow and (ahem) water, my butt was a trifle cold and damp, so I stuck it up against the heater until it got good and toasty. Again, the only people in the diner were snowmobilers.

The next leg of the trip took us across the frozen Stillwater Reservoir, a six mile jaunt of smooth, fast riding. I was told not to be concerned about the slush, that it was from cracks in the surface where water had seeped through. I wasn’t concerned about it until I got to it, and then I became fairly certain I was going to perish within the icy waters, an ironic death, since I am a fairly good swimmer.  (Not to get braggy.)

There was a good amount of mist over the lake, and soon John’s taillights disappeared, and though I knew Kim was right behind me, I felt pretty isolated. We followed a line of scraggly trees to the lights at the edge of the lake, where a secluded hamlet awaited us. Beaver River is only accessible by boat or snowmobile and has a total population of 8. I assume these 8 people run the three businesses within the hamlet. We stopped at the Norridgewock III Resort, where a restaurant was full of more chapped faces, helmets, and people huddled over cups of coffee and hot cocoa. I drank hot cocoa with ample whipped cream.

We headed out about fifteen minutes before dusk, thereby again traversing Stillwater Reservoir during the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever seen. We drove toward the brilliant orange light, the mist dissipating into the air, the stars just beginning to emerge. It was absolutely surreal and beautiful. As we approached land, Kim called over the radio,

“I’m having so much fun hitting all of these moguls!” Kim is kind of a daredevil. Her husband responded,

“DON’T HIT THE MOGULS! We don’t know what they are!”

I’m concerned about slush and Kim is flying over rocky islands.

The remainder of the ride was in the dark, and the sky was absolutely clear. The stars put on a brilliant winter show.

The day would have been without further incident except that while trying to get the snowmobile over a small but rather steep incline, it kept going and I stayed behind. Lying on my back, molded rather comfortably in a drift, I felt relatively peaceful.

“So that happened,” I thought. I looked up at the stars. Kim ran toward me, fearing the worst, so I got up, tried again, and was on my way before the men even knew what happened.

By the end of the day we had driven 111 miles.

We went back to the inn, changed, and ate Italian food at the fanciest restaurant in town, where the dress code remained snow bibs and boots. I slept hard, excited to hit the trails the next day.

And then I woke up, and I ached in areas I did not know could ache. My head ached, my shoulders ached, my back ached, but the worst was my hands. My hands had tightly gripped the handles of that snowmobile for 111 miles, and my joints had swelled up.  My thumb ached from holding down the throttle. 
We spent Sunday morning at the Old Forge hardware store after eating pancakes.  It has taken three days for the swelling in my hands to go down, though the wedding ring doesn’t quite fit yet.  That being said,

I’d totally do it again.





Oops.

 

John on a sled.



Scenic vista



Miles to go before we sleep...



Stillwater Reservoir



Hamlet of Beaver River



Norridgewock

Springeth Commenceth

Two weeks ago, with the exception of the Chinese guy that lives on the corner, we were the only people in the entire neighborhood who hadn’t mowed their lawn yet. (The Chinese guy couldn’t care less about his yard. Or his house. He lives alone and drives an early nineties Toyota Tercel that looks even worse than his lawn does. I think the car used to be grey. It is now a rusty copper color. He keeps a large house only because he needs a place for his large family to stay when they visit from China. I know all of this because the neighbor across the street told me. He’s become sort of my hero. The Chinese man, I mean, for not succumbing to suburban convention.)

We have been in contact with our trusty sixteen-year-old lawn boy and he has since been over twice. I am currently seeking a landscaping intern who would like to work on our flower beds. We can’t pay, but we will write a wonderful recommendation for a job well done. I will also provide lemonade: not homemade, but Country Time. I like their commercials. I want that house by the pond with the willow tree and swing. Life is easygoing at that house. No one worries about getting their lawn mowed.

Spring is in full swing. I know this because my nose itches and runs like a faucet. The kids spend most of the days in the backyard. Ella found a grease puddle left behind by our old grill. She painted herself with sticky brown grease. It’s probably safe to say that the clothes she was wearing are ruined. The boys freak out if they get dirt in their fingernails, but Ella- give her a mud puddle or a grease puddle or a gravel pit and she is the happiest girl alive.

We went to the Red Wings (baseball team) opening day two Saturdays ago. It was 39 degrees outside and it rained intermittently. We hung out for four innings before the whining commenced. (John threatened not to bring me next time.)

There is something lovely about baseball. It’s a subtle sport. I love watching my brother watch baseball. He keeps meticulous record of the stats during the game and scrutinizes each pitch, each swing, each catch, each slide into first.

I wish I was that passionate about something.

The only person I know who loves baseball as much as Josh is, of course, Caleb, who still cheers for the St. Louis Cardinals. He has currently taken up throwing his baseball against the chimney outside; it bounces and he catches it. We have lost two pairs of pants to grass-stains because Caleb loves to slide. In our grass. You know, the grass that was just recently cut.

It's been a rough spring in the clothes department.

Everyone has praised Caleb’s baseball prowess since he was two years of age. I’m afraid he’s gotten a rather large head about it. It’s been a source of embarrassment for me. Today, my friend Lydia came over for dinner. He told her he was very, very good at baseball.

“I’m very, very good at baseball,” said Caleb.

“What’s the hardest part about baseball for you?” she asked.

“I’m really good at hitting and catching.”

”Yeah- but we want to know what the hardest part about baseball is for you,” I said.

“Hitting homeruns,” he admitted. “Because I’m a small guy.” (I’m aware that we may have a very serious Napoleon complex developing here.)

He’s most proud about his baseball abilities, but boasts about other accomplishments, too. Whenever we have visitors, he pulls out his baseball medals, his piano trophy, and mentions that he is in a special enrichment program at school. “For the smart kids,” he says.

It’s so mortifying.

We’re working on teaching Caleb humility. But how do you go about telling your kid he’s not actually the greatest thing since sliced bread? After you’ve been telling him for years that sliced bread has nothing on him? Do you bluntly say, “Look, kid- there will always be someone better than you are????”

I tried to explain what “humble” means. I’ve been meaning to get a children’s dictionary, but in the interim, I took Caleb to the computer and logged onto an online children’s dictionary.

Humble: 1. Not proud, modest. 2. A pie formerly made from the edible organs of a deer or hog. (Ew. A pie made of venison or pork would have worked just as well, I think.)

Modest: Not thinking too highly of oneself; humble.

Note how the child’s dictionary used modest to define humble and humble to define modest. Not cool, children’s dictionary creators. Pure laziness.

But I think Caleb is starting to get the picture. He’s a smart kid. Not that smart, but just smart enough. I’m not bragging about my kid.

Caleb is also quite proud that his two of his pictures from art class are going to be displayed in the school district art show.

“My two pictures are called Self Portrait and… and…” he couldn’t think of the second name. Today he remembered. “Self Portrait and Landscape!” he announced. One of these evenings, we are going to truck out to the art show to see Self Portrait and Landscape in all of their glory.

But we will not be telling him he’s the next Matisse (we’ve learned our lesson since assuring him he’s the next Albert Pujols.)

Pics from spring thus far:

March: John taunts me with friends' baby. "See this Holly? You can't have one. Ha ha ha ha!!!!"

We take a hike to see how syrup is made.

Caleb drills stump: does not find sap.

April: Ella makes an egg. Eureka.

We are troopers.

Winter has left Daniel most pallid.

Ben swings.

And skateboards.

Caleb plays the theme to Star Wars at the annual Pops recital.

Afterward, we take him out for ice cream. Caleb uses his straw to get every last bit. I think this is ingenious and plan to do the same next time I have ice cream. Have already bought straws from store.

May: Daniel and Ella view a farm animal (I forget what it was) at Springdale Farm.

Ella pets fuzzy bird creature after stealing my water bottle.

Why I Hate the Adirondack Northway OR Life is Not Always Fair OR Wild Bobcats Attack!!!!

Warning: the following post contains a very sad story. I would say it’s definitely Old Yeller sad but not quite The Champ sad. I’m on a “write about the Adirondacks” kick. I really can’t say how long this might go on. This might be it. We’ll see.

I have a nice backyard. It is about a quarter of an acre, is completely fenced in, has some lovely trees, a small garden, and a large deck where the kids zoom around on their ride-on toys and occasionally fall off, wail loudly, and then do the whole thing over again. I enjoy my yard.

Compared to my mom’s backyard growing up, however, our backyard is a big fat disappointment. Our front yard too, for that matter.

My grandmother’s house is set on a hill, and in the winter, you can see the lake from the living room picture window when the leaves on the trees no longer impede the view. Their house was built right next to my great-grandparents’ home, formerly a white colonial with a barn where they once kept chickens. The yard behind both houses was endless and sprawling, flat until it reached another steep hill. My mom used to ski down that hill in the winter. From atop of Charley hill, you get a panoramic view of the lake.

The yard was complete with a rambling stream and what my mom always referred to as her frog pond. She recalls running down the hill, watching out for adders in the tall grasses, playing for hours by the pond as her Shetland sheepdog enjoyed the wide open space. Their home basically backed up to an Adirondack wonderland, a country paradise, complete with deer, a variety of chirping birds, and other wild visitors like skunks, raccoons, and wild bobcats that were always set to attack.

Rawr.

I’m kidding about the wild bobcats. I do know that a common form of Schroon Lake recreation was to go to the dump to watch the black bears forage for food.

In the late 1950s, construction of the Northway, an extension of I-87, began. Crews blasted their way through the north, dynamiting rocks and creating a freeway that would lead from Albany up to Canada, the only freeway in the Adirondack Mountains.

They bulldozed their way through my mom’s backyard in the 1960s.

When I was little, I used to pour over compilations of Peanuts comics. Perhaps you remember the ones where Snoopy believed a freeway was going to bulldoze right through his doghouse? He was really quite panicked about the whole thing. (As you would be too, if you had a doghouse you enjoyed perching upon more than anything else in the world.) Reading those strips, I could only think of my mom and her family, sitting at night in their living room, listening to the explosions going off behind them. I'm sure it brought back unwanted memories of the war for my grandpa. Teddy the Sheltie would shake and forever be afraid of thunder afterwards. The stream and the frog pond would dry up. They would become completely cut off from Charley Hill.

The funny thing is, after the Northway was built, my grandparents rarely used it. There is an exit to it in walking distance from their house. Instead, they took the winding back roads to Glens Falls or North Creek or Ticonderoga. I did not drive on the Northway until I was an adult, taking it over the shorter jaunt through the mountains because of inclement weather conditions.

I’ve never known that backyard without the Northway behind it. I used to lie on a cot in my uncle’s old bedroom, silent beneath the slanted ceiling of my grandparents’ cape cod home, and listen to the cars swish by on the Northway. I imagined they weren’t cars, but waves from the lake.

The Adirondack Park is so large. What were the chances the Northway would have to come right through my mom’s backyard, the home of people who had lived, breathed, and worked in these woods their entire lives? And whose parents and parents’ parents had done the same?

Alas, the Northway is now taken for granted. It was originally supposed to be built parallel to route 9. I don’t know why that plan failed. I do know that the “forever wild” clause in the state’s constitution was amended so that road could be built. “Forever wild- unless something comes up.”

Most people build their homes off of roads. Rarely are roads ripped through private lands. Such is the beauty of eminent domain, which I realize is at times necessary (or is it?), but it doesn’t make me hate it any less. I doubt that people who drive through the Northway give any thought to what was lost in its making. Instead, they demand more from it: cell towers that will enable them to gab instead of enjoying the scenic vista as they drive by.

Wow. I sound like an environmentalist wack-a-doo. Oh well, I guess I’m entitled to that one day a year. I’m totally thinking of starting a Facebook cause against eminent domain, however. You in?

And y’know what? When that kid walked into Alaska and injured himself and died and then when a whole BOOK and a subsequent movie were written about him, I didn’t hear one person call out for cell phone towers in the Alaskan wilderness! You may say, but Holly, I don’t think there were cell phones back then. To which I say, oh.

Honestly, I can’t imagine my childhood memories of Schroon Lake being greatly improved by the absence of that road. I still had a fantastic time playing in the backyard with neighboring children, creating crowns out of wild black-eyed-susans, learning to swim in the lake, hiking up Mt. Severence (a glorified hill, actually), and visiting with my grandfather, who I believed was the kindest and funniest man on the planet. I remember how dark it was at night, so dark you couldn’t even see the Northway and wouldn’t know it was there except for the occasional beam of headlights and the sound of a car on its way to who knows where. I remember that the crickets were louder there than anyone where else I’ve ever been.

I’m not opposed to the cell towers. Who cares. People live there, and deserve cell phone access like the rest of us. Anyway, there are already electrical wires entangled in the autumn leaves. And let’s face it… many of the homes (or shacks or trailers) aren’t so pretty to look at either. Especially the ones with tires and rusty trucks and the virgin Mary in a tub in their front yards. And I certainly don’t want to kick them out. Mostly.

I just hate the Northway.

I did often try to imagine what it would be like if that fence that protects us from the zooming cars was not there and the grassy yard went on, uninterrupted. Now, I imagine how much my kids would have liked the frog pond and how fun it would have been to climb up Charley Hill. What could have been shall never be. And all you can do is shrug and remember what my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Doty, used to drill into our heads: life is not always fair.

View from Charley Hill

View from Grandma's Front Porch

"The Adirondack Experience"

The twins and I have just returned revived from a weekend of Adirondack fresh air. That’s actually not quite true. As I write this, Daniel suffers from a fever. Ella has goopy eyes. Things are going downhill fast over here.

Just the same, the weather up north was cold but pleasant, the pine trees fragrant, and the foliage, though past its peak color, was still quite brilliant in some spots.

There’s lots of news up in Schroon Lake, NY, which is in another large area of NY that is not New York City. Big news, actually. A cell tower is being constructed upon a hill close to my grandmother’s home. We asked our aunt and uncle when the cell tower would be completed.

“They’re just putting the branches on it now,” was the reply.

Perhaps you are familiar with the time-honored tradition of adhering branches to cell towers. I was not. This was apparent by the quizzical expression on my face. It had to be explained.

You see, the Adirondacks is a rare and enchanted place where little villages are interspersed inside the largest state park in the country. This is all lovely, but LIVING inside a state park means that your cell towers should not seem like non-state park cell towers, which are, let’s all just admit, ugly.

I had heard of this problem before. The APA (Adirondack Park Agency) makes a big stink about anything that might disrupt the natural landscape, including cell towers and other technological eyesores that pop up. However, recently a Jewish couple ran off the road and got stuck on the Northway… the husband froze to death after their car ran off the road. NO CELL PHONE ACCESS! This was a problem not only because, well, he died, but because he wasn't able to be buried within 24 hours of his passing, as was his religious custom. Hence, a Schroon Lake cell tower! What excitement for Schroon Lake teenagers! And hikers who like to talk and walk! And people named John Mark!

I would have thought that camouflaging the cell tower with paint would be sufficient, but apparently not. It shall be made to look like the strangest tree you ever did see. And that’s NOT ALL! Here is another example of where your tax dollars are going:

On the Northway (stretch of road from Albany up to Canada) are scattered rest stations. The cell tower will not be built on this state-owned land, however. Instead, some dude with lots of land is renting out space for this treeish cell tower at the fair price of about $1400/year. Why, you may wonder, would the cell tower just be built in an area that wouldn’t cost New York State a million bucks within the next 100 years? Because, imagine if you will, a New York City couple in their rented Prius driving north on the northway to go to a charming B&B in Schroon Lake. They decide to pull over to take a whiz at the rest stop. There, seemingly glaring at them, is a massive cell tower that is donning a tree costume. The horror!!! Their whole trip might be ruined. Heck, sleep for years might be ruined… think of the nightmares you might have if you spotted a cell tower dressed as a tree!

The APA will not allow cell towers to appear in public places because it might ruin the “Adirondack Experience” for some tourist.

The visit with grandma went pretty well, I think, though she may or may not have implied that I should contact the Supernanny for help with my children. This may or may not have had something to do with dinnertime, which, by the way, I HATE.

The twins weren’t terrible the whole time. Actually, they did very well on the five hour drive up there, but one of them was a complete monster on the drive home. In fact, the drive home is making me question their Halloween costumes for this year. I have already purchased plush Minnie and Mickey costumes, which are adorable, but I’m thinking a lovely angel costume and a red devil costume, complete with horns and a pitchfork, might be more fitting for this particular year.

Today, I was driving while my sister and mom were sleeping as we passed the “Leaving Adirondack Park” sign. I had to face that melancholy moment all on my own. We ventured down Rt. 365 through the town of Holland Patent, which may just be the town I hide out in if I ever decide to run away and form a new identity as a mysterious stranger in an idyllic small town, and soon popped back onto the thruway back to Rochester, flat-landed city that it is.

Home again. Sigh.

Loon Lake Marina

I call this one "Reflection of my Soul in Foliage"

Schroon Lake Boathouse Theater

End of Summer Rant

I’ve been very social this week. This is unusual. I think Ella has been inspiring me with her insatiable zeal for…well, anybody, really. She loves people and believes she is the reason for every party. And when she gets there, she kind of is. This won’t be so cute in a few years.

All my children are social beings, although not to the extent that Ella is.

I do not know where these people came from.

Anyway, I’m not dealing well with the whole summer being over thing. I kept waiting and waiting for summer to begin and now it’s October. It seems we have skipped the most funnest season, and I am royally irked.

The trees in the backyard will throw up all their leaves soon. It was only a few months ago I finally got rid of all of the leaves from last year. These depressing turn of events make me want to curl up under a blanket and read Chekhov while eating popcorn saturated with real butter. REAL BUTTER! I think you can understand how serious this situation is. So, because I don’t want to gain 50 pounds or let my house be completely decimated by my children while I am under blanket, I’m trying to stay positive about the changing of the seasons. I’m a busy woman with lots to do. No time to mope and curse the people who invented daylight savings time… must stay connected with the general population! Must remember that spring is only, like, seven months away! Must remember that fall used to be my favorite season, what with the pumpkins and the cider and the changing leaves and all that crap.

One of these days I’m just going to up and move to Hawaii and that will be that. Pale skin, four children, volumes of Chekhov and all.

So… some of the things I didn’t get done this "summer," or our extended spring.

There was my hike the 46 high peaks of the Adirondacks project. I wanted to get at least three in by September. Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha. Hee hee. Ha.

Run a 5K.

Start my thesis.

Clean out the garage.

Have a garage-sale.

Get involved in my new church.

I remain an unfit, disorganized woman with an overload of clutter who is spiritually disconnected and disillusioned and who really needs to take a good long hike in the woods, preferably up a mountain. And I can’t get my stinking mini-van into the garage, either, which really makes me peeved.

In the spirit of the fall season, and because it is supposed to rain for the next one hundred years, I decided that today I would go to the Apple Festival and then later, take a walk with my family along the Genesee River. I accidentally fell asleep and so the Apple Fest thing didn’t work out so much, but we did have a lovely walk.

I must warn you and I have been experimenting with picture effects on the website Picnik.com. If these pics look a little too Maxfield Parrishesh, it’s just because I got a little excited about the “VIBRANT!” effect.

50 feet into our walk, this happened.

This is the bestI could do. Not one of them is even looking in the general direction of the camera.

The mighty mighty river.

The mighty mighty boardwalk.

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring?

Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats- eternal optimist. We would probably not have gotten along. At least, not today.

Going to the beach with 4 kids is not for wimps

We went to the beach today.

What a hassle. There’s the gathering of the beach supplies, the slathering on of sunscreen, and the horrific mistake of accidentally viewing oneself in front of the mirror in one's bathing suit. (I admit that this trip to Hamlin was in part a testing of the proverbial waters to see how people would respond to me in a bathing suit while on cruise. No one seemed to notice me or care… and there were actually a lot of mommies with, um, flab, who were wearing THEIR bathing suits too.)

We generally had a good time. Since Ella can sit and play for hours upon hours in the sandbox in our backyard, I figured that the beach would be like a fantasy gone wild for her. I imagined that I would lounge on the beach blanket reading a magazine while she played happily next to me in the sand.

I could not have predicted that her preferred beach activity would be to throw little pebbles into the water or at people and that all attempts to get her to stop would fail.

I should have predicted that she would wander off any chance she got in order to join other groups of individuals who were immersed in their own beach activities. She invaded a family sand castle-making party. She plopped herself right next to the daddy and threw sand into their castle's moat.

She joined up with a group of pre-teen boys who were burying themselves in the sand. This activity appealed to her. She “helped” them by, what else, throwing sand on them. She found ways and reasons to throw sand that seriously made me question what I thought was a lack of intelligence in this unique little two-year old.

When I spend time with Ella in a public place, I often end up feeling somewhat insulted and neglected. Sometimes I think she would like to be a part of any family but ours. I ended up spending a good part of the afternoon chasing her around and prying her from picnics, mothers who were sitting in the sand chatting with one another, and groups of kids who were making various sand creations.

John is a horrible beach companion. I mean, really. If you go to the beach with YOUR FAMILY, is it appropriate to put on your headphones and listen to your iPod?

Caleb and Ben LOVED the water. They swam and splashed and had a jolly good time. I watched from the shoreline and worried about objects I saw in the water. I pulled out a band-aid, much to John’s dismay (OH THE HUMANITY! AND THE DISEASES!) and panicked when I saw a small, dark brown, floater. Turns out it was a small, dark brown piece of driftwood. Good thing. I was about to bail everyone out and run for the dunes. (On the walk out, I did spy a used condom in the sand. Or maybe it wasn’t used. I didn’t inspect. In fact, I’d rather not talk about it at all. It is very disturbing to see such a thing where children tend to frolic.)

Daniel had a few brave moments in the water, but eventually succumbed to Ella’s pebble and sand throwing activities. Except that he picked large pebbles. Some might call them rocks. He may have thrown them at people.

All in all, a generally good trip. I might even call it a success. Ben actually went under water on his own at one point, so yes, definitely a success. And today, I must admit, IIIIIII FEEEEEEL FIIIIIIINE!!!!

ACK! Caleb's short pockets are hanging out in an indecent fashion!

Daniel is pissy because I told him he can no longer throw rocks at people. Note the hand holding the iPod in the corner....

WHAT IS UP WITH THAT???

La la la... I like to throw sand... la la la...

There was this incredibly adorable child there...

NO there aren't any pics of me at the beach! You know by now I suffer from depression, right? Sheesh people!

Summer in July. Go figure.

Summer came today. I know this for sure because

Ben's hair got all curly in the heat and humidity.

Look at those curls, man. Ka-boing!

Daniel went shirtless. Boo-ya.

Ella got really messy outdoors instead of indoors.

What a ham.


Well, Caleb's obsessed with baseball all the time, so I guess that's not really a sign of summer.

My passport came in the mail today. We just booked our cruise. We are leaving August 22 from New Orleans to a couple of spots in Mexico and then back to New Orleans again. I'm totally pumped. I plan to eat, sleep, read, eat, swim, and terrorize Mexican natives. It's going to be totally sweet and awesome.

I've never been on a cruise. As with anything, I have some anxiety. This will be the longest I've been away from Ben and the twins. John surely won't have fun on our anniversary adventure if I'm in our small cabin sobbing with snot coming out of my nose just because I miss Ella's little voice, Daniel's chubby hands, Ben's sparkly eyes, and Caleb's infectious smile.

My other three anxieties are almost as concerning. Don't get me wrong, I meant what I said... I'm looking forward to this trip, but WHAT IF:

1. I get seasick. This is obviously a valid concern considering very recent events you may have read about. In my life, I have puked in a car, a train, and now a plane. I have barfed in each component of the transportation trifecta. It only makes sense that a big boat will be next. Put me in a helicopter and we may have a world record.

2. We would like to take time to explore New Orleans after the cruise is over. The question is: where do we put our luggage while we wander about the city? This conundrum is already plaguing my mind. I'm going to want to tour those crazy New Orleans cemeteries and eat jambalaya in the French Quarter, but my suitcase is going to be anchoring me down in one, probably boring, location.

3. Two words: rogue waves. I know, I know. These monster waves are only supposed to occur far out in the ocean. Let's just say I have my own theories about the disappearance of ships in the Bermuda Triangle. I should never watch nautical movies. They freak me out.

I won't even get into the sharks that will be probably be stalking the ship. You might think me paranoid or something.

It will be good for John and I to get away. I recommend it to any couple inundated with children. It will be wonderful to be alone for a while. Me, John, and the hundreds of other people on the cruise ship.

I heard there will be shrimp cocktail on board. I end on that happy note.

Will Write for Cruise

I started "writing for money" in February, I think. I haven't made all that much money, really. But like any other home business, it takes time to gather clients, form a good reputation, get things together. The great thing about freelance writing is that there's really little to no overhead cost. It just all takes a lot of time. I find myself doing 25% writing and 75% searching for jobs that fit my qualifications, networking, waiting for websites to boot up.

A lot of time is wasted waiting on slow websites.

A new problem has arisen! Two of my clients have dropped off the face of the earth! I don't know the protocol for this... how long before I flip out and send the marines after them? I don't mean to sounds stingy and all, but I want my money, man. There was talk of a cruise for our ten-year wedding anniversary. A cruise! With a big boat! And salty waves! And shrimp cocktail!

I wanted to contribute in my own small way.

This is my first annoyance this past week. The second is the fact that my oldest child is not getting enough sleep.

He finds excuses to stay up late. He worries about things in bed. Sometimes I hear him giggling at ten o'clock at night. I run up to see what the commotion is all about... he states that he just told himself a funny joke. Then he tells me the funny joke. Guess what? It wasn't really that funny.

I know he's overtired because I know how I act when I'm overtired, and Caleb acts the same way. Here's is a conversation with Holly when she is sleep-deprived:

John: Hey baby, what's for dinner?

Holly: (Dissolves in tears) DINNER??? I didn't make dinner! Why are you putting all this PRESSURE on me? You just... just (sniffle)... just make dinner for yourself. (Sob. Gets quiet.) (softly) and could you make me some too?

Here is a conversation I had with Caleb yesterday upon returning from the drugstore:

Holly: Did you see the rainbow? It was a full, gorgeous rainbow across the sky.

Caleb: (Dissolves into tears.) I didn't see the rainbow(Sob)...I never saw a rainbow (gulp) before... I wanted to see a rainbow sooo bad(Choking sob)... I WILL NEVER SEE A RAINBOW EVER NOW!

One should not get that upset about not seeing a rainbow. One might be described as "overtired" or "overwrought" or an "emotional wreck" when one behaves in such a manner.

I'd love to know how to get him to sleep at night. I'm afraid he's prone to anxiety like his mama... but he's only six! Was I anxious when I was six?

Thankfully, after Caleb's breakdown the sun broke through the rainclouds and another rainbow bloomed across the sky. It was so clear, you could see each distinct color. (Roy G. Biv in the full monty.) It was a complete rainbow, a magnificent arch. Another, lighter rainbow appeared above the first, and Caleb got to see it. He saw it all. Now he can put down "saw a double rainbow" on his list of amazing things he's experienced...

Picnics are Great, Allergies are Not

Ahhh June. The days are still getting longer! I am totally pumped about summer. I can't wait until I don't have to pack Caleb's lunch anymore. That's pretty much going to be the most awesome thing about summer. I will no longer suffer from panic attacks at 11pm because we have run out of juice boxes to put in Caleb's lunch. Caleb is a boy who likes his routine. Give him milk money and he'd go nuts. "What if I lose it? What if they don't let me get in line? What if I don't like their milk?" "They" tell me he's perfectly normal. Yes, I've asked.

I can't believe someday I'll have to pack FOUR lunches. I'm seriously thinking of homeschooling for that very reason.

I have a bone to pick with trees. Yes, trees, specifically cottonwood trees. We were at a teddy-bear picnic on Saturday and that stupid cottony fluff made my mascara run. I was a raccoon with severe allergies. It's strange; all winter I long to be outside and when summer officially comes, I'm whining to go inside, out of the hot sun and away from allergens. It was the most gorgeous weekend though. I got my fair share of vitamin D, thank you very much. Here are some pictoral highlights: good times and lots of noodle salad...

Caleb's end-of-the-year Kindergarten program was on Thursday. I have circled him so you know where he is. I put an arrow to where he stood when he gave a moving oration of the Gettysburg address. Okay, not the GA, but he had LINES that he delivered with dramatic flare, I thought.

Ella and Daniel behaving for once at the teddy-bear picnic. If you look closely, you can see the cotton fluffy icky stuff laying like snow in the background.

Later that day we went fishing. There was a lot of goose poop about. The twins were keen on swimming, but we went for a walk instead. By "keen on swimming" I mean they ran toward the water like loony-birds while I screamed "stop stop stop stop!!!" to no avail.

After the park excursion, everyone was good and dirty and stinky. Ella loves to wash Daniel's hair. She really gets his scalp squeaky clean.

The next day we spent the day outside and there were smores involved. I seriously don't know why we bother bathing the children. At the end of the day she smelled like sunscreen, bug spray, chocolate, and someone's perfume... she gets passed around like a doobie since she's so small and therefore very portable.

Hello Romeo. Daniel picks up babes wherever he goes. Yeah, literal babes! They look a little guilty here, do they not?

Strangely, no Ben pictures this weekend! That's okay. He had a funky rash on his chin you would not have wanted to look at.