vive la jeunesse!

letter to spring

Dear Spring:

Since you haven't returned any of my calls, I can only assume that you caught wind of my love letters to Winter a few months ago. Yes, I took pleasure in his hardy embrace, and yes, I find him irresistible at a certain time of year--I mean, he's so burly and rugged and exciting. But we're not exclusive, Winter and I, and really, Spring, I do just wish I could look out the window and see your colorful blossoms, moist with dew. I mean, come on, Spring, is this silence, this evasiveness, really necessary? It's April 22nd, and my toes are freezing in my wool socks. The tea in my hand can't even take the edge off the chill. Winter has departed, but you, Spring, stubbornly hide yourself away, leaving us here in a seasonal purgatory.

And come on, Spring, I mean everyone sings your praises. In literary terms, you are Rebirth, Regeneration, Love; poor Winter has to get stuck with Death and Dying. Poets muddle through the cold season, pouring their darkest humors into their winter poems, in order to find their way back to you, Spring. Nobody looks out his window on a fragrant, sunny day in May and mutters, "Oh, God, it's warm and clear again."

So, with all due respect, Spring, I think a little perspective is in order.

If that isn't enough, then I'm willing to get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness. Please come back, Spring. Please?

not with a bang, but a whimper

Signs of the impending apocalypse (heard during my elliptical workout at the Y yesterday morning):

-- It rained dead birds in Esperance, Australia and then Austin, Texas, within the span of three weeks.

-- The latest teen fad is a game called "punch out," whose rules are self-evident.

-- Joe Torre, baseball's Gentleman Manager, just published a tell-all memoir. Guess that's what living in L.A. does to your sense of ethics.

budding photographer

Dylan, "Self Portrait with Grammy's Camera" (2008)

why i prefer my bike

After school today, the kids and I headed over to Cafe Ra in Wallingford to meet Bryan for lunch. Just before getting on to Route 15, I came to a traffic light, where I had just missed the left-turn arrow. I still had the green light, but noontime traffic was thick, and it didn't look as though an opportunity for turning was going to present itself. No big deal; I wasn't in a rush, and it's a pretty quick light. I could wait.

Now, by no means am I a tentative driver. I'm not aggressive; just generally impatient. Hey, I grew up in the Boston area; it's in my blood. But when I have my kids in the car, I don't take any chances. I'd rather suffer through another cycle of red-yellow-green than bear the guilt of putting my children's safety at risk.

So I was quite surprised when, after having resigned myself to waiting with somewhat forced patience, I was assaulted by the sound of an angry horn from behind. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw an older woman, probably in her late sixties, yelling and gesturing wildly. I looked back at the light. It turned red. She beeped again, this time with more emphasis.

I turned around to confront her through my back windshield. She looked me square in the eye and gave me the finger. This respectable looking upper-middle-aged woman in a shiny Mercedes. Flipping me off because I hadn't pulled out in front of traffic.

I didn't want to alarm the kids, but I did want to have a word. I threw up my hands and mouthed, "Where could I have gone?"

She screamed back, "I don't know! I don't know!" But this acknowledgment seemed only to fuel her anger. She fired up her other middle finger, so that while she was screaming and convulsing, she was giving me the "double flip."

"Classy," I mouthed. Her reply was the verbal version of the finger.

As I said, I'm generally not a patient person, so on some level, I should probably "get" road rage. But I don't. Haven't since I was in my mid-twenties, when I finally realized what a selfish driver I'd become: tailgating other drivers because I hadn't left myself enough time to get to where I was going and now blamed the slower cars in front of me for making me late; swearing in frustration every time I had to sit in traffic; speeding just because there didn't seem to be a reason not to. Somewhere during that time I picked up a book on the "Buddha within," and realized how much negative energy I was storing, and exhaling into the universe.

I've often felt that, when driving on Connecticut highways, I'm an unwitting participant in a game to which I don't know the rules. Bryan, who has lived here his whole life, is far more tuned in. He knows what other drivers are thinking, and, as it turns out, most of them have an underlying agenda, usually one that does not have Bryan's best interests in mind. Before moving here, I had no idea that a highway was really a complex web of mind games in which automobile operators sought to outwit their fellow commuters--otherwise known as opponents--by employing such tactics as the Variable Speed Maneuver, the Cell Phone Shuffle, and the Box-In. All of these moves are executed while the driver feigns nonchalance, which is probably why I had been naive enough to believe they were mostly just driving.

Crazy Mercedes Lady is in need of some guidance, it seems, as she hasn't quite mastered the mask of indifference--or was she employing some other, more devious strategy? So much to learn, so much to learn. . . .

you may be a redneck if. . .

Everyone knows Bryan as a car guy. Cars are more than a hobby for him; they are his life force. Our barn and driveway are filled with cars, most of them "projects," "works-in-progress," or "parts cars." Some of them are registered, and usually we have a spare car or two, just in case (I know this sounds frivolous, but with the exception of the GTV-6, which is completely apart at the moment, most of the cars are beaters with fancy brand names).

So there is much humor and irony in the fact that, although there are 5 cars in the driveway, we are down to one driveable car. Bryan's '87 BMW (in whose bumper I put a nice dent back in February) has been showing signs of revolt as of late. Ever resourceful, Bryan installed some kind of switch on the motor. "If the car stalls," he instructed last week, "pull over, pop the hood, and see if the red light is on. If it isn't, switch it on, and the car should start."

Let me back up a bit. It was already "funny" (okay, not so much to Bryan) that, Bryan's love of cars being what it is, we were driving a dented '87 model (okay, so it is a BMW, but still) and a big old down-home Chevy pickup truck. A far cry from the stately old Porsches Bryan likes to ogle on the web (not that we could ever afford one of those).

So today, just as I was leaving school, the car stalled. And wouldn't start again. I thought of calling a tow truck, but figured Bryan would have another solution. No surprise there. We got the truck, attached a bright yellow strap from the trailer hitch to the front of the BMW, and towed the car (me driving the truck, Bryan steering the sedan) from Quinnipiac back to our house. I kept my fingers crossed every time I took a corner, because as I was adjusting the rear view mirror, it came right off its perch, making it difficult to know for sure whether Bryan was behind me. Fortunately, after turning off Mount Carmel Ave., it's pretty much a straight shot.

Okay, so maybe towing our own car doesn't earn us redneck status, but it is something you don't see in this town every day, as was evidenced by the amused looks we received along the way. So, folks, if you ever need a tow, forget Triple A--just give us a holler.

(not so) exotic visitor

On Thursday, I was trimming the shrubs in the front of our house when I came upon this long-legged arachnid. He was perched on a parchment-thin web, and when he heard me exclaim, "Wow!" he moved on top of his prey, as you see him doing in the photo. I hadn't ever encountered a spider this glamorous in Connecticut. Bryan suggested that the spider had ridden in on an imported bush, and we decided that a spider so colorful must be poisonous.

On Saturday, my mom looked him up on the web. Based on the markings, he seems to be a Yellow Argiope, also known as a Garden Spider, or Writing Spider (apparently there is a legend in which the Argiope writes a person's name in zig-zag the night before the unfortunate victim's death). We were all a little disappointed to discover that the spider is actually quite common, distributed fairly evenly throughout the lower 48. But it was a neat encounter nonetheless, and the little creature takes quite a stunning photograph.

snail surprise

This afternoon, as Dylan was eating his sandwich, I brought in some lettuce from our garden for a lunch time salad. After a few minutes of chopping and slicing, I had a bowl full of vegetables we had grown ourselves: along with the lettuce, there were fat cucumbers, plump cherry tomatoes, snap peas bursting from their shells, and lush green beans. I garnished the salad with some craisins and walnuts. "Look, Dylan," I said proudly. "Almost everything in my lunch was grown right in our backyard."

Then, as I went to pick up my bowl, there it was: a snail, lounging casually on a piece of lettuce, its slimy body stretched out to its full length so that I might admire its dimensions. Somehow the Escargot Special seemed a little less appetizing than the salad I had envisioned. But it was a welcome bit of comic relief.

21 for a night

Before this past Monday night, it had been several years since I had seen a show in a venue as large as the Comcast Center (formerly Tweeter Center, formerly Great Woods) in Mansfield, MA. And the last time I had seen Pearl Jam there was in, I think, '91, during the Lollapalooza tour, when they played with the Red Hot Chili Peppers and several grunge-era bands (Soundgarden? Alice in Chains? Who can remember?). So I experienced quite a bit of culture shock as I entered the grounds of the outdoor stadium on a sweltering June evening, surrounded by an eclectic mix of fans: middle-aged couples of respectable income; bandana-sporting transients from Seattle and Vancouver; testosterone-laden twentysomethings from the 128 belt, and the four of us: Bryan, my sister Kaytie, her friend Jess, and me.

I confess that I was almost giddy with anticipation. Pearl Jam tends to sell out shows in about 10 minutes, so in all honesty, I'm so out of the loop these days that I don't usually even hear about a show until it's too late. And I generally try to avoid large concert crowds, which means that when we see shows, we tend to go to quaint little music spaces such as the Calvin Theatre in Northampton and the Somerville Theatre outside of Boston.

I'll spare you the details of the parking lot (not much has changed, except that there is now a "premium parking" lot where you can pay $40 and be in and out, as opposed to waiting in a long line of cars. Extortion!).

As we filed slowly up to our seats, sweat and beer and cigarette breath surrounding us on all sides, I wondered, "Was it always like this? And what exactly am I doing here?" But once I was able to breathe again, and once the band took the stage, there was no question. I didn't stop to think "am I too old for this" as I whooped and danced and sang along to old classics like "Elderly Woman behind a Counter in Small Town" and new protest songs like "No More War". And as Eddie Vedder belted out, in his hypnotic baritone, the opening lyrics to "animal," and I leaned over to Kaytie and yelled, "How does he do that?" she responded, "I don't know, but it's funny how easily I can be reduced to a lovestruck adolescent."

And as corny as it is, I had to agree. "I know!" I squawked. "I want to marry Eddie Vedder right now!" And we both swooned over his long, sweat-soaked locks and scruffy beard. The man is sexy, there's no question.

And now it's too days later and I can recollect my emotions with tranquility, as Wordsworth would say, and reflect with amusement on my silly girlish declaration. But it's fun to be 21 every now and then, and what better outlet for that energy than a Pearl Jam show? A little bouncing and howling every now and then keeps it fresh, no?

And in keeping with the decadent spirit, Kaytie and I, staunch advocates of the "whole foods diet," punctuated the show with a mustard-covered hot dog. Guess that's what passes for radical in our world these days :]/

hail to thee, blithe spirits

riding in cars with noise

Something happens to me when I get into the car without my kids. When I put the key in the ignition and back out of the driveway, away from the endless loop of "Mom?" and the cute but sometimes tiresome questions about who makes the road and why the sky is blue and when can I go to the bathroom, I am suddenly overcome with a craving, a need for really loud music. And generally really raucous music. Yes, my musical tastes have mellowed and matured as I've gotten older, but when I'm alone in the driver's seat, I am suddenly nineteen again, at a Lollapalooza concert with my long crimson hair and nose ring, rocking out to the Smashing Pumpkins or the Beastie Boys or Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (who I still love, by the way). Alone in the driver's seat, I summon my old pals Pearl Jam or the Red Hot Chili Peppers and press the "+" on the volume button until electric guitar is streaming wildly from the speakers. On the road, especially the highway, where I'm less likely to be spotted by a parent of one of my kids' friends, or a student, I can bellow along to Eddie Vedder with feverish abandon, until my throat is scratchy (this used to happen often when I was commuting back and forth from Burlington, VT every other weekend to visit Bryan here in CT) and my ears are ringing and I'm out of breath.

And there is another kind of freedom that comes with these solo car rides: the freedom to swear, to --dare I say it?--yell the "f" word as the lyrics require. Now, I'm not given to dropping expletives in my every day speech, but there's something liberating about being able to belt them out without fear of having them repeated back to me in toddler-ese. In the car alone, my inner twentysomething is released, and it feels soooo good. Each tune is like one of Proust's petite madeleines: my whole body shudders with the memory of a city where I once lived, a mountain I once hiked, a friend I once had. The other morning, on my way to physical therapy, Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" dropped me into 1984, when I was on the cusp of adolescence, fervently writing fiction on my typewriter in the basement of my parents' house, imagining novels drawn from Springsteen's motley characters and New Jersey backroads; driving later that afternoon, Widespread Panic's "Travelin' Light" transported me to Red Rocks Stadium in Denver on a hot July day in the mid-90's, the air pungent with sweat and draft beer and sweet gange fumes; on another drive, Pearl Jam's "Rearview Mirror" has me driving a minivan from Boulder to Portland, Oregon with five other folks from Sierra Club, on our way to a conference. At twenty-two, the Age of Narcissism, I didn't need to be alone in the car to sing without restraint, to let the lyrics punctuate my mood: Saw things clearer/Once you were in my/Rearview mirror

On the way home from nursery school, of course, we're back to the Wiggles or "Baby Bunglebee," as Lexi likes to call it, but that's okay, too, because, truth be known, I'll sing along to anything. Well, almost anything. And belting out "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" requires a certain shrugging off of inhibition, too, and there's no shortage of memory-association with these innocent tracks, whose words seem to have been preserved in the far recesses of my brain all these years.

After silence, that which comes closest to expressing the inexpressible is music. --Aldous Huxley

kid-ness

Free man, you will forever love the sea!
The sea's your mirror, you observe your soul
Perpetually as its waves unroll
(Baudelaire, "Free Man and the Sea")

There's almost nothing I enjoy so much as watching Dylan and Alexa on the beach. The wide open expanse of sand and sea seems to incite in them a primal joy that ignites their spirits from the moment their little toes touch the shore. And those same little toes are impervious to the water's icy chill: while I quickly withdrew my own foot about a nanosecond after I decided to test the temperature, they raced toward the waves without hesitation, not stopping until they were waist-deep.

Alexa became one with the ocean: she emerged with hair full of sand and seaweed, her skirt and diaper soaked through, her skin glistening with salt and granules. "That's a big pool," she declared happily.

It was Dylan who initiated the impromptu yoga session (see above photo). I guess the sound of the surf reminded him of those "sounds of nature" yoga cd's.

I used to worry about how being a parent would inhibit my innate love of spontaneity. All that planning: diapers, food, extra clothing, bathroom stops, et cetera. But we drove out to Hammonassett State Beach on a whim, in the middle of a Friday afternoon. I threw a few necessities into a bag, grabbed the sunscreen, and we were off. And as I sat back on the sand watching my children frolic, I realized that while I can't exactly run off to Colorado or even New York on a moment's notice, I can still derive great pleasure from basking in Dylan and Lexi's unbridled joie de vivre. It's spontaneity of a different nature: the thrill of being "surprised by joy" in observing the simple beauty of kids at play. None of the photos I snapped accurately captured the vivacity of the moment, and by summer's end, the kids will likely have forgotten the trip altogether, but for me, so much of what makes the memory precious in the pure sense of the word is that I'm acutely aware of the fleeting nature of little kid joy. Before long, Dylan will be checking out the chicks in bikinis, and Alexa will be worried about how her behind looks in her own two-piece (which, by the way, had better not have anything scrawled across the butt! God, how I hate that fashion trend!).

But there's no point in dwelling on the future when the present is so much fun.

Live in the sunshine, drink the sea, swim in the wild air. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

just for fun

Couldn't resist dressing them up for the holiday (and believe it or not, the bottom photo is a candid one)