Summer Reunion

The morning of the reunion begins early.  I wake to the shrill caws of the seagulls who are the first to arrive.  Their cacophony might become annoying later, but not now.  Now I can almost decipher an excited “welcome back” in each cry.

I get up and go onto the deck, opening the salt-pitted screen door and letting it slam shut as an announcement of my arrival.

The sun arrives slowly, appearing to be reluctant to join this reunion.  Maybe its undecided about the appropriate time of arrival.  Then suddenly it shoots a path of brilliant yellow rays that penetrate through the thick morning fog to brighten the day.  Suddenly, this guest becomes the center of attention.

I gaze out to the beach and see it as a pebbled dance floor that lies just beyond the brownish-green reeds of beach grass.  The blades of grass are still now, but will later sway gracefully to the beat of the gentle offshore breeze that usually arrives around midday.  Small pieces of dried black and brown seaweed have haphazardly collected on the sand.  From a distance they resemble crumpled party favors or torn streamers left over from a previous gathering.

The music today is the rolling ocean, white sudsy foam followed by a sea of tones of green and blue, playing rhythmically for me as I stare straight ahead.  The sound starts slowly, then flows to a crescendo.  The crash of the waves resemble the clash of cymbals coming together.  And then, the music softly retreats.

Seating must be arranged for later so I get busy arranging the stark white deck chairs, one or two of which will serve as drying racks for a kaleidoscope of colorful, sopping-wet beach towels.  As I continue my preparations I descend the deck stairs to the white -washed bathhouse used for  storage.   Chips of peeling white paint tell of another relentless winter.  Once there, I struggle to untangle the maze of mesh and aluminum beach chairs that were tossed in hurriedly and carelessly last September.   These will be the chairs for the guests that will soon arrive, armed with umbrellas, Frisbees, sand pails and sunscreen.

I carry the chairs over the rickety, sun-bleached boardwalk to get to the beach, careful not to trip on any of the warped wooden slats that need to be replaced. I note that some rusty nails have sprouted since last summer.

Suddenly, I drop the chairs in a pile in the sand.  The final preparations for the reunion can wait, most of the stage has been set.  Right now I need to bury my feet in the soft, pale white sand that is now early-morning cool and damp, but will later warm my soles. And I remind myself of how lucky I am to have another summer at the beach.

My Crime of Passion

I guess I deserved the silent treatment I got at the end of that day, although I didn’t think so at the time.   I was just an adolescent pursuing my passion.

I was approaching age 16 and obsessed with the thought of getting my driver’s license.  This would be one of the most important birthdays of my life–the birthday that would give me more freedom than I had ever known. I would finally be able to drive and continue my love affair with cars, an affair that had started at a very young age.

I know when this passion began.  I have early memories of riding in my father’s Plymouth.  If it was just the two of us, I would either sit or stand right next to him, waiting for that special moment when he would let me help him steer.  He always retained control of the car, but somehow he could convince me that I was the one driving.

When my great Uncle John entered his 90’s, someone in the family insisted that his car (as well as he) be taken off the road. His car suddenly appeared in the driveway next to our house. It was an old Buick, circa 1949, dark grey with suede upholstery.   The inside smelled musty with a faint odor of gas even when it wasn’t running. Our driveway was  just long enough for my brother and I to test the car out.  We’d spend hours going up and down the driveway, perfecting our revving skills as well as learning to back-up in a straight line.  We were both fast learners so the driveway quickly became too limiting. Our house was at the end of a street, the last house before a large field and woods. Part of the field was mowed in the spring for pick-up baseball games so it became our own miniature Indy 500 track.   It was a perfect place to get into second gear and conquer difficult turns, including that 3-point one that would be required during the driving test.

At some point around my 16th birthday, Uncle John’s car was taken away to it’s resting place and was replaced by my aunt’s car, a green Plymouth, a car we had dubbed the “Green Hornet.”   Her car had no radio, but we never lacked music.  I would pretend to turn a knob on the dashboard and she would sing.  Looking back, this was much more fun than actually having a radio.

Unlike my uncle’s car, the Hornet was registered to be on the road making it less available for the private driving time I was used to with the antique.   But it also meant that we had a second car and on Saturdays in the summer my father and I would be able to get an early start to the beach, my mother following later with the supper.

One Saturday, my father’s best friend met us at our beach house to help with a painting project.  He brought his daughter who was a year older than I was and already had her license, something  I envied.

After sitting on the beach awhile I thought about the beloved Green Hornet that was in the driveway.  I showed my friend my skill in backing up, revving forward, and then backing up again. And turning around in a small space.   At the time I thought she was pretty impressed.

I’m not sure how long I struggled with my devious idea, probably not long enough.   I convinced my friend to get behind the wheel and take us for a short ride. My plan was to leave the driveway as her passenger, and when we were well out of sight of the cottage, I would take over the driving.

Minutes out of the driveway I was at the wheel, cruising down Atlantic Avenue, passing the carnival rides, the honky- tonk bars and restaurants and finally getting to a less busy strip of road near the State beach where I could really pick up some speed.  This area was wide open and less crowded, making it easier to see the oncoming cars.  And for them to see me.

I was an illegal driver but I was an alert one, keeping my eyes on the road, watching the car in front of me and still scanning right to left- anticipating any unexpected event.  The unexpected event that day was making eye contact with my mother and my aunt as they drove toward me with the other oncoming cars.  I don’t remember who was more shocked that day, my mother or me.  What I remember most is the extreme anguish I felt on the drive back to the beach house where I would receive my sentence.  On this ride I was the passenger.

My Brief Life as a Good Scout

I still don’t know what was worse–watching my parents walk away or being forced to hand over my contraband.  Both were heart breaking.

Within minutes of my parents leaving, my Girl Scout Camp Leader confronted me and made me turn over my comic books.  I remember feeling that ache you get in the muscles of your throat when you are  struggling not to cry.  I was determined not to cry in front of my leader or my  fellow scouts.

I wondered, how did I get here?

“You’ll love it, just like your sister did when she was your age,” my mother said. My oldest sister had attended the same camp several years earlier  and apparently had given it rave reviews.

My mother filled out the registration forms and took me to the doctor for the required tetanus shot. The shot hurt, but not as much as my first day at Camp Hoffman.

The camp was only 50 miles from my home, but to a 12 year old it seemed like the other end of the earth.  How could they leave me here in the woods, alone and friendless?

My sleeping quarters consisted of a cot located inside a raised tent that was supported by two-by-fours.  The cot was equipped with a torn mosquito net (a bad sign)  and an army blanket that looked and smelled like civil war issue (another bad sign).  There were five other girls in my tent and a total of thirty in my unit.  I’m sure they were very nice girls, but they were nothing like the  friends I had left at home.

Each day was predictable. I was always chilled when I woke up,  in spite of the army blanket.  Once out of bed, there was the walk through the damp leaves and fallen pine needles to the pavilion where we took our meals. Each scout had a task at  meals.  I remember being puzzled when I was assigned to “gleaning.”  I had never heard this term.    I  quickly learned that it meant scraping the remains of all the other camper’s meal  into the garbage. Pretty disgusting.

If it wasn’t raining we’d go to the pond for swimming lessons.  I remember the water as being bone -numbing cold and the pond’s bottom as mucky, unlike the ocean that I was used to.

Usually the afternoons included a hike somewhere.  There was always an offensive scent in the air that was a combination of bug spray and pine sap.  The hike was followed by “quiet time.”  I was never sure of what I should do then.  My comic books had been confiscated so I had no reading material.  At the time I didn’t keep a journal.  Maybe I wrote letters or postcards.  Now  I realize that our  “quiet time” was really “break time” for the counselors.  Who could blame them?

At  dusk, the nightly campfire ritual would begin.  I was neither a singer nor a joiner so the fireside songfests were always interminable.  But I knew if I could just get through it as a “good scout,” I would be rewarded by returning to my holey mosquito- net cocoon,  knowing that I was one day closer to going home.

The night before my rescue, I was in an unusually good mood. It was customary to play tricks on the counselors on the last night.  Finally, I had found something that appealed to me.  I’m sure my mood was also lightened by the fact that the next day my parents would arrive to take me home.  I would do my best to convince them that I was thankful for having the chance to try camp.

Thirty years later, while reminiscing about growing up, my sister and I talked about our Camp Hoffman experiences.  Imagine my shock when I learned that she also had hated camp. But like me, she was  a “good scout”.  I think it’s a familial trait.

And my mother was right.  I really did end up loving camp just the way my sister did when she was my age.

A Costa Rican State of Mind

As I begin my fifth week in Costa Rica, I continue to envy the way Costa Ricans approach life.  Most vacations require at least a week to de-stress.  Here it happens as soon as you land in Liberia.  It might have something to do with the balmy breeze that greets you, but I think it’s more than that.  When you step off the plane you feel more than a breeze. You feel that you have entered a new world of civility and respect.  The Costa Rican people are very welcoming and after my third visit,  I have come to realize how sincere they are in their pride for their country and their way of life.  As I did last year, I continue to ask myself, “how can these people be so happy, with so little?”

I shared this observation with an American soon-to-be ex-patriate who has been coming to Costa Rica regularly, and plans to move here permanently.  He explained the Costa Rican state of mind to me with this story.

An American tourist was walking the beach one morning and noticed a Costa Rican fisherman unloading the fish he had caught from his early morning run.  The tourist bought some of the fish and found it so delicious that he returned another morning and purchased some more.  On the tourist’s third morning to buy fish, he suggested to the fisherman that he try to bring in more fish, and sell it to local restaurants.  The fisherman replied, “and then what?”

The tourist went on to tell him how he could essentially start his own business, and sell enough fish to restaurants to hire more fisherman to work for him.  The fisherman replied, “and then what?”

The tourist explained to him that, because his fish was so good, he could export it to other places.  In fact, he said, you could start exporting your fish to Florida!  You would have a successful business!  Once again, the fisherman said, ….” and then what?”

At this point the tourist got excited and pointed out to the fisherman that if he followed this plan, he would make alot of money and be able to retire at an early age.   The fisherman gave this some thought, but again asked the same question, “and then what?”

“Why can’t this Tico see my point?”  thought the tourist.    He pressed on and said, “ you’ll be free from work, you’ll have time to enjoy life. You can just spend your days going out on your boat to fish.”

The fisherman smiled contentedly and replied, “Senor, this is what I do now.”

My Neice Kept My Computer from Crashing

I haven’t written for quite awhile.

I’ve been  pretty frustrated with the appearance of my blog and how limited I was in what I could do to change it.  I spent hours trying to rearrange things, change headers, etc., all unsuccesfully.  But  my frustration didn’t end there.  There was Facebook and the challenge of learning the difference between a wall and a poke.  And for some crazy reason, I also thought I’d change my e-mail address so I downloaded gmail.  Was pretty proud of myself for about a minute.  Then I started having all kinds of trouble with getting my messages forwarded from my old address, importing my contacts, etc., etc., etc.  I could go on, but I won’t. I’ll just say that the situation was approaching crisis mode.

My computer was about to crash, (I mean this in a  literal sense,  since I was about to heave it out of my third story window into the cold waters of Hingham Bay,) when my niece and her significant other came to the rescue.  They are both extremely talented in technology, my neice being a graphic designer, and Norm with a career in social media.   I watched them in awe as they navigated wordpress, searched for stock photos, uploaded, discarded, and uploaded again. A click here and a click there and amazing things happened. They were both very patient-  perfectionists really,  when it came to making my blog more appealing to the eye.  In fact, they would both probably still be here  working if the pork roast hadn’t been ready.  Cooking a meal for them  was an inadequate gesture of thanks for saving me from committing an act of technology violence.

And so, thanks to this talented duo, my Mac has survived to live another day.  And so have I.

Summer’s End

Wondering where the term  ”endless summer” came from.  We all know that it ends, and much too abruptly.  I always get a bit melancholy  this time of year.  This week I had the treat of using my friend’s beach house while she traveled to Paris.  The house is right on the beach, so I fell asleep to crashing surf.  The days were a bit nippy, but not enough to really signal the end of summer.  I ventured out to a local coffee shop one morning, and the end of summer really hit me.  Found my inspiration for my next poem for my class.

The Sands End Cafe

The streets empty.

A seasonal quarantine.

You find a place to escape air that bites,

with the hangers-on that never leave.

A storm door opens to a table of women

still wearing visors and sunglasses

blocking the mock fall leaves on the window sill

and the taunting face of a jack o’lantern.

Weather-worn men are full-timers here.

Bears gathered in a cave.

They are veterans of the catch,

their bubble-blistered hands:  their medals.

Tunes from an unseen radio are barely heard

above the din of salty exchanges.

You are greeted with silent stares.

You are an intruder, a voyeur with no past.

You sense no danger, yet want to escape

the peril of being a pariah.

The door slams shut as you leave,

this haven is claimed by others.

It’s their eye of the storm.

First Day of School

I often have a recurring dream where I’m back in school and have either forgotten my schedule, or have no idea of where my classroom is.  The first meeting of my poetry class at UMASS Boston was this morning.  The shock of having to put shoes on and dress appropriately was nothing compared to my experience getting to class.  I had anticipated heavy traffic since I was leaving right at the morning rush hour, so I gave myself plenty of time.   Apparently, not enough.  As I inched my way toward Morrissey Boulevard I frantically checked my watch to see just how late I would be.  I relaxed when I approached the University with a whole 10 minutes to spare.  Didn’t realize that students with parking passes get first crack at the parking lots.  Here I was passless, trying desparately to get into one of the many, many parking lots. The spot I found was in the lot furthest from the building where I was headed.  No surprise there.  I was breathless and sweating by the time I arrived at McCormack Center, which was the location of my course.  I checked the room number for the tenth time and was proud of myself when I deduced that Room 214 A must be on the second floor.  Surprise here.  My course was actually on the third floor which I found out by running into two elderly women who were on their way to the gym.  They must have sensed my frustration and anxiety as well as being tuned into the particular program I was looking for (courses for retirees).  They sent me on my way to the third floor……why didn’t I think of that?  I entered the classroom 30 minutes late, as embarrassed as I was as a much younger student screwing up on the first day of school.  I wonder what I’ll dream about tonight.

Guess I Write When I’m Infuriated……

It’s been a l-o-n-g time since I’ve posted anything. Hope I’m not the only one in the world that starts a blog and fails to  post regularly.  If, by any far- fetched chance there’s anyone out there who has been wondering where I’ve been, and been hoping that I would soon pick up my  laptop again, this one’s for you!  I doubt that is the case but I’ll sound off anyway because in reality, I think blogging is really just an outlet for the blogger.

The source of my  infuriation is what happened at President Obama’s speech last night (note that I’ve bolded the word President) .  I take that back.  My infuriation meter has been climbing all summer as I’ve watched snippets of the town hall meetings that were held around the country about health care.  Not sure that these meetings can be considered typical of “Town Hall Meetings”.  In my town, our meetings sure get testy, but  require protocols for speaking (Robert’s Rules) and have vehicles in place for speaking, commenting, etc.  People aren’t always civil, but they are controlled (often shut off) by a moderator.

The meetings that I witnessed on television were hardly civil,sometimes nasty,  certainly not controlled and were similar to cat fights.  So much for the concept of democratic “town meetings”.

Last night  when the President of the United States addressed the joint members of Congress about the proposed health care policy, some members of the audience must have confused this historical address with…..just another town meeting.  I’m not a historian but I think it would be hard to cite another instance when a President  of the United States was treated with such disrespect in a public forum. In my career I’ve been in a leadership positions (albeit very lowly) and have never been called a liar or had my remarks ridiculed in one of my speeches or addresses.

The lack of civility toward our nation’s leader last evening has left me wondering if an undercurrent of racism in our country made it “ok” for some members of the audience to withhold from our current president the courtesy and respect that others (some of whom have been very unpopular) have received.    I  really hope I’m wrong.

When Does Taking it Easy, Become Too Easy?

I just subscribed to Bookswim, which is a book version of NetFlix.  Same idea:  go online, reserve some books, they arrive with no shipping charges and you can return them anytime.  Now, not only can I skip those trips to Blockbuster, but I can forgo  my trips to the bookstore.  I’ve discovered the convenience of iTunes, and can even have steady streaming of all types of music through my iPhone, which can attach to my speakers.   While I haven’t taken advantage of it, the local grocery store will deliver anything that I order online.  After deciding to resume piano lessons, I purchased an instructional DVD set that I discovered on the internet.  No need to travel to a piano teacher’s house! I don’t even have to suffer from a cold blast of frigid air or  pouring rain when I go to  my steps to get my morning paper because I can read it on my computer providing I’m careful with my coffee, orange juice and the occasional sticky bun.  I’m  beginning to realize that it may never be necessary to leave my house again! I’ll have to be careful , because it could be easy to become a recluse.  But that won’t happen to me…..I still have to get out of the house to go the gym since I don’t have a personal trainer.  I’ll need the gym even more often, since enjoying all of these technological conveniences will certainly limit my walking and exercise.  Thought:  could there be a downside to technology?  I think I’ll download a book on this topic to my iPhone and find out.

An Adrenalin Adventure

Went on a major excursion yesterday to the cloud forests of Monteverde.  It was a three hour trip from here, 30 miles of it on dirt and gravel roads.  (Luckily, we booked a tour for this).  I had read about Monteverde’s lush tropical jungle, but to be honest, I was more interested in the fact that it was known for having the best canopy tour (aka, zip line) in Costa Rica.   I’d always wanted to experience flying through the jungle on a cable, and this was my chance.  My three visitors were up for it too, which made it a bit more fun.  I had watched a video of zip lining and it appeared to be quite simple.  After putting on all the necessary gear for this, I realized that there may be a bit more to it.  I was right.  I was always in a harness, but was required to hold onto the cable above my head and as far back as possible to avoid spinning around in the air.  Holding the able also allowed me to “brake” as I approached each landing or platform. We zipped through 13 platforms, the last one being the longest and having the most spectacular view.  By the end, I was comfortable enough zipping to observe the forest around and beneath me.  A surprise awaited us when we were nearing the last few platforms.  It was  a tarzan, or bungee jump that was incredible. It’s hard to explain what this was like.  My friends tried to capture our experience in pictures, but there is a great video showing a canopy tour at the Swiss Travel website http://www.monteverdecostarica.info/monteverde_tours/Aventura-canopy.htm.  Looked at it this morning and it explains why my muscles are sore.    The second half of the day was a bridge tour, which was a guided walk through the forest.  It was a great “cool down” activity after an unforgettable adventure.