Cancelling Halloween

The fallout from the October Blizzard is not all from the trees.  And trust me, this was a real blizzard.  12 full inches in Worcester between midday Saturday and early morning Sunday.  Around 3am the power went off.  The tree that did it still lies across Old Lancaster Rd, tangled up in its wires.  It was a long night by lantern light here at Del Boca Vista.

The towns of WoCo have cancelled their Trick or Treating, citing darkness and danger.  We can’t have that on this Night of Spooky Nights.

My argument is not about cancelling some Holiday I don’t care about.  It is truly dark and the sidewalks (if we had them) are all splintery.  What had me scratching my head was the notion that the city owned Trick or Treating to start with.

Is this something I wasn’t aware of when I was a candy beggar?  Or was this another corner of Nat’rl By-God Amerrca that we went and legislated?
If I trust my American History to Vincente Minnelli, then I know that Trick or Treating was invented by Edwardian hooligans armed with flour, and led by a fearsome Margaret O’Brien (dressed, of course, as a hobo).  It is the holiday when children run the streets dragging gunny sacks of hard candies, and the occasional dead cat which Huck and Tom could bring back to life with an incantation.  Teenage sleuths solved mysteries and creepy neighbor houses came creaking to life!  I also believed in a world where the society of children began their day at a tribunal called the bus stop.  So I don’t know what goes on anymore.

I did notice when towns began designating Trick or Treat day.  “We’re having ours on Friday,” say the neighbors, or heaven help us, Saturday afternoon in broad daylight.  The only think more senseless than Trick or treating in a COAT is Trick or treating in SUNGLASSES.  If Halloween were on a Saturday, you outlasted the last porch lights, you candied yourself into a stupor, you stumbled into church the next day looking (for once) like every one else blinking in the bright stained glass light.  If it was a Wednesday, it was the peak of the week.  The cafeteria had cupcakes.  If it was Friday, and you were on the brink of your teenhood, you had to choose between the last damn free thing in life…. or the football game.

So who is this Sanctioned Date rule for – you can only go door to door for candy on this designated day?  Or you can only GIVE CANDY TO STRANGE CHILDREN on this designated day?  (Here is your requisite Straight Dope look-up on candy in need of xrays).  So, if kids show up at my door on October 14th yelling Trick or Treat, can I throw the book at them?  Is it a misdemeanor or a felony to leave my porch light on with a plastic pumpkin full of “fun size” through December?

This is a moot argument.  I haven’t given out candy since before the turn of the century.  Kids pulled up in cars.  It gave me fits. 

  Hobos are awesome.

Boil eggs

 

Hurricane Irene is not my excuse for not having posted new material since July.  And until you pay subscription fees,  I will not make excuses.  But Hurricane Irene is very much my excuse for finally posting at all, because we in the Northeast learned a valuable lesson this weekend:  your hurricane prep looks just like your blizzard prep, with fewer clothes.  And Massachusetts, may I remind you of the periodic flooding we endure that we can never prevent, but can always manage to eat through.

We are sharing Power On/Power Off news on the social media.  If your Power is Off, you are not reading this essay, but come back to it later when you need to plan for the next big outage, regardless of season or the climate in which you live.  Meals without refrigeration or cooking are not as difficult as you might imagine; people do it all over the world.

More importantly, you can avoid most of the rushed aisles in the grocery store.

Water water everywhere – you should have a stash of water in your house anyway – however much you think you need based on your plumbing situation.  But get this, America.  If you are on town water/sewer (that is, it works by gravity, not by pump), and the streets are not full of debris…. if you are not under a boil order (and can’t boil nothin’)  turn on the faucet.     

I just noticed Mrs Piggle Wiggle is drawn by Hilary Knight and might be the sister of Eloise’s nanny.  Damn, there’s always another blog elbowing in when you finally get back on the keys…

Anyway, on the water issue, the gallon jugs will do.  You are unnecessarily buying cases of individual servings.  It is cheaper and easier to buy gallons.  Drink from a glass.  It doesn’t need to be washed.  It was water.

Keep a gallon per person in a closet until you need it.  It doesn’t go bad.  And it doesn’t need to be cold.  You can freeze a pile of it in plastic bags if you like, to use first as refrigeration, and later to drink.

Which brings me to

Our obsession with refrigeration.  We haven’t had it all that long.  Some of our parents still say “ice box” because that is what it was called when they learned the word for it.  Most things we refrigerate will live as long as your power outage in your unrefrigerated fridge, even in the by-god South.  In Northern climes, we will stick food in the snow during a winter outage, but that’s mostly just a big F-You to nature.

I often think of a French ad man who marveled at the American practice of refrigerating cheese.  He said, “We would not keep our cheese in the refrigerator for the same reason you don’t keep a cat {pronounced ghaat} in the refrigerator – because it is alive! {pronounced aliiiiiive}.”  I think about this every time I take my cheese from the plastic wrapper from the plastic bag from the fridge.  I still refrigerate my cheese because sweaty cheese is sort of gross.  But cheese is already ripened milk.  There isn’t far it can go.  Kraft singles will never go bad, because unlike your cat, they are already dead.

Hard fruit-and-vedge can live on the counter – in fact, in a box of dirt, which is where your great granny kept it, “down cellar.”  Apples, pears, and stone fruits will hold up, and bananas are meant to be room temperature.  I would skip the lettuce, probably the cukes if your place is hot and humid.  But broccoli, squash, onions, carrots, radishes, peppers are counter-safe, more so if you do not buy organic.  They are loaded in preservatives, otherwise.

Your pickles, dressings, mustards… are going to be fine.  If you’re afraid of your creamy dressings, make a vinegar and oil.  Neither of those things live in your fridge.

If you know the storm is coming, here is the best advice I can give you:  boil eggs.  One or two per person per day for as long as you think the outage would last.  Boiled eggs will turn on you, as any parent knows in June, but it takes a long time.  Don’t hide them; just leave them in a bowl.  You will not starve, I promise, on what I have named so far.  Any honest bachelor who reads this page has eaten pickles for dinner before.  A meal of fruit, vedge, egg and cheese is more balanced than most days.

Now, you have kids.  “I have KIDS…” you are hollering at me.  Kids can eat whole food.  If your kids won’t, I won’t try to convince you otherwise.  They’re your problem. 

3 weeks with a broken stove convinced me I could do without it too.  But if you are anticipating a storm outage, take care of two looming problems by cooking food you think will go bad in a way that makes it “front of fridge” when the grid goes down.  Chicken is perfect for this, because cold chicken is  palatable and versatile, and left naked can survive a powered-down fridge for at least a day.  But don’t eat it until the power does go off or the all-clear sounds.  You’ll be mad. You won’t mind cold roast beef or pork on salads and sandwiches.  And canned tuna is so easy you can throw it in your evac bag when the sheriff comes in his rowboat.  Save that for last.

If you are caught unawares by a significant outage, use the stuff in your freezer as icepacks in your cooler.  Or just start eating.  I think you should worry less about losing food (which is deductible) than not having anything to go to.

Always ready / Always satisfying foods include

• PB & J (you buy that jelly off the shelf.  You could keep it on the shelf if you wanted)
• Breakfast cereal – what about milk?  You say?  Are you hungry, or are you just whining?
• Hummus – on anything, like a spoon
• Dried fruit
• Nuts
• Cheez-Its, of course
• Liquor.

A great idea everybody had

 

“Let’s meet at Walden at one,” Amanda had said.  Oh, how nice… It wasn’t the first sunny day we have had, or even the hottest, it wasn’t even the first nice-ish Sunday.  But it might have been the first hot sunny Sunday that wasn’t also a holiday weekend.  Whatever message was in the air, we all got it.  And there was no getting to Walden at 1.

 

  The sign originally said “re-open at 1:30.”  What really closes first is the painfully small parking lot.  For a while, they will look the other way at pedestrians and bikers who step over the non-barrier barrier fence.  But even after a time, the crowd is just to big to manage safely, and they will cap it at 1000 at a time as best they can.

You heard me.   

When you picture Walden, leave off Thoreau’s Walden – far from town, and all to one’s self.  Today it sits off our smallest east/west “artery,” which you could hear from the shore if it weren’t for the screaming  children.

And this is how our day turned into a quest for more pond.

I had to drive well past the entrance just to turn around (forcing me to wonder, as I often do when making this turn-around at a closed Walden, at least once a summer, “why don’t I ever tour the Gropius House?”  But I had people waiting for me in the prison rotary, so I pressed on.  We reconvened at the bakery – Amanda, Mark, and I.  They had already eaten, but since we didn’t know where our next meal might take place, I had a sammich and we sat by the creek and waited for the 1:30 re-opening, even though we had already seen the line of cars waiting to be let in, and no sign of people leaving the pond.

Back to the road we go.  But I’ve already spoiled the 2nd act by showing you that the pond is now closed until 4.  Mark cuts a U-turn right in front of the kid in khaki, who is some kind of state grounds keeper, but not a Ranger, so… screw ‘im.  I try the same move, and he steps in front of me, “Actually…?”  he asks, like a teenaged girl, “You can’t really make a U-Turn here.  People have had accidents and stuff.”

Son….?  They gave you a little hat and a whistle.  Why don’t you exercise your ersatz authority by directing this here traffic on a 2 lane farm road, where bare foot kids are tripping over towels from one side toi another, and you have left NO turn-off except for me to drive the GROPIUS House – this is a racket you’re running with them, isn’t?

Know why I said instead?  “Ok… like… put up a sign.”  burn.

MCI Concord’s parking lot turns out to be a very convenient place to meet people.  We reconvened and through out ideas.  I volunteered that I have a pool at my condo, but it is in Clinton, (as if we are not about to drive halfway there to the Hopkinton State Park). 

Listen, it may not be a 100 ft deep kettle hole, but it was warm and clean, and the crowds were spread much farther out.  We stood in water up to our necks and gabbed for an hour like we were on a patio drinking beer.  mmm. beeeeer…..

The ice cream truck played the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  In little tinkly bells that melded into America the Beautiful, and I did feel it was my Gawd Givin Right to have me a Richie’s Italian ice.  If this were a “Why Mass is Pissah” blog, this paragraph would just be about Richies, but instead it is about the wonder that where I come from, the ice cream truck would never play this song. 

A soak, a dig in the sand, and Italian ice, an argument about were we’re gonna eat afta’ –  the Sunday you wait for and can never really plan, but you can find if you just try hard enough.

Hope your summer is progressing the same.

There's got to be a morning after

That's not a conclusion; it's a prayer.

There's got to be.... right?


Despite New Englanders' 20 words for snow (and more that are not printable), writing about the weather just seems so cliche.  And a little tiresome.  I have been in the house since Monday, riding out the One-Two (the forecasters seemed to have settled on this name, and since it was like being eliminated on, it sort of fits).

Just now I am passing time before a 7:30am conference call, then I will leave for the office.  In the next 15 minutes I can try to relay to you what life is like where it snows every Wednesday -- every week of the year.

We don't really believe it will snow forever, but just now it is difficult to imagine that it won't.  It reminds me of that summer a couple of years ago where we had a raging thunderstorm every day at 5pm, until we began to travel around it.  "You leaving soon?"  (Looks at watch) "eehhh.. I think I'll just wait till after the thunderstorm, then get some dinner.  You?"

This week I had to ask one of the boys who works with me (and for whom I need to identify a collective noun, because not being able to write about them is limiting my best material.  Dodie calls the ones her husband works with Big Baby and Dumb Ass, and that is heading in the right direction).  I had to ask this kid what his travel contingency was for a project launch occurring exactly at the height of Storm One becoming Storm Two.

His answer began "uuummmm...." but then most of his answers do.
No plan, of course -- that's what he has me for.

I have enough contingency stress worrying about roof collapse and electrical failure than how he is going to get himself to work on time.

Uck - save it for the post-mortem, Bender.

Most of the past 2 days has been spent working remotely, which is both a blessing and a nagging reminder that there is no reason my job requires me to be there.  And if the company is looking to save money, I have a couple of ideas.

Left my boots at the gym.  That was a good move.  Of course, I have more -- we always have more.  But those were the best ones.  What we don't have are roof rakes, though one Home Depot began fashioning its own out of PVC and lumber, which would attach to a pole you could also buy or supply your own.  I want to applaud this Yankee Ingenuity except it came from the Boss, in one of her hourly reminders that she is better than you.  Yesterday a team-IM started, giving weather reports.  I said that we were under sleeting rain in the Mother Town, and she answered that her town had already had sleet for an hour.


Save it for the Exit Interview, Bender.

I hope you are getting the idea why I haven't been writing.

For more wild New England weather, click the "Talk About the Weather" Category at left.  And make me some Irish Coffee.  

Giving the people what they want

I have been in the house just long enough to not want to leave it anymore.  This morning... I might have.  A nice bike ride, a romp around the gym circuit.  But it was one degree.  So I stayed where I was.

12 hours later, I am beginning to think I could hole up until the rice ran out.  And you know the rice never runs out.

That blue figure  says minus 7.  7 beeel -- ow.  

  This is the kind of night where you just stayed wherever you were, or at the nearest apartment to where you were, because you couldn't face the bus stop.  Always keep a black blazer at work.  This is what we learned.

Now out here in ex-urbs, we wait for the plow, we keep lots of coffee in store, and we wander into crazy tasks like shredding 5 years of 401k statements from the old mill.  Funny story: I rolled that account into my others as soon as I could, but Schwab didn't close it.  Instead, they kept it open to receive my stockholder's class action settlement (Taylor v McIlvey... god rest his soul...).  Now they send me new notices asking how I would like to handle the $160.00 they deposited in it.

And I ran the stats on my new counter, conveniently located at the bottom of this page.  My old counter counted, and told me where people's internet service provider was, but lacked what any serious blogger wants to know:  what did I build that people are coming for?  And how well am I, purely by accident, optimizing my search engine competitiveness?

I am surprised to discover that my top 20 referrers these past 10 days are more like to come from Bing than certain other, more vocal, search engines.  But that's my style, isn't it -- fish in a less popular pond.  Grocery shop from left to right.

What mostly surprised me is that anyone visited this site at all in the past 10 days.  I should probably put something up for them.

Search String Referrers, past 10 days  (that is, something other than searching the name of this blog, or pointing directly from a bookmark) They are not ranked; each one was unique.

A Bing image search for the phrase "caftan cigarette" brought up one of my favorite posts the 70s series, including an unusual gathering of the Mattel elite dressed by Edward Albee.

The phrase "what did girls wear on soul train in the 70s?"  I would think this was a Halloween costume search, except it was in January.  Fortunately, the pic is pretty accurate and not too over the top.

Kosmix is a search engine I never heard of that listed one result for the term "corset" as my post Middle-Aged Ladies and Their Girdles.  This is consistently one of my most frequently visited posts.  I can not tell you why, except that we are all doing a lot of girdle searching.

My buddy Jay at HR Clean-up, and a frequent guest on our little show here as one half of the Tarleton Twins, named DrawingIn one of his top-10 reads, so I pick up a few lookie-lous from there.  He has been more active than I have of late, and much more meaningful, so give him a drop-by, would you?   Jay was just quoted in this week's Boston Business Journal.

More Bing: Cheez-its fun facts.  Well, naturally.
Another for the image "Yuppies," and I have stolen that poster myself.

And lastly, "Mr Peabody cartoon," named here as a tattoo I would get if I believed in tattoos.  I have upped that list to 6 since I saw this: 

Stay warm, America.

Royal Appearance: a locked door mystery

I have been telling you for years that I am the kind of friend you can ask on errands.  That I will sit in the bleachers with you.  Up until they stopped allowing it, (and I moved out of town) I was know to meet you at Logan and entertain you through your layover.
So what a delight to have The Baroness take a page from the book of Caroline, and arrange her flight home from Buffalo through Boston, so we could have an old-fashioned all-nighter.  Cue the Dreamgirls:  one night only../one night only….

There is always a lot going on in this great city of ours, esp in the summer when it is basketball playoffs, inter-league baseball, USA/England in the World Cup, and Boston Pride Weekend all on the same day.  The last one is sort of a sport.

At the Westin Waterfront, though, we were far from most of the action, and there is something to be said for being a gigantic fancy-pants hotel without traffic, sirens, and panhandlers.  I hung out in the lobby, wrote a few letters, and watched some soccer, like I know what that is.

And, oh did the plans go agley.

Flights delayed, for no reason that made sense to the pilot, so when he finally got clearance (Clarence) he made the jump from Buffalo in under 30 minutes.  That takes a Bostonian.  I had moved to the bar, where I was chatting up the bartender about the Philadelphians who had moved in, including one family with a golden retriever, because this is a pet-friendly hotel.  Does the dog have a massage scheduled for the morning?
When Baroness finally arrived, she had the look of a Preferred Customer who needed to be upgraded to a suite, and so we were, then headed straight to City Bar for a rather late night dinner.

You know what’s funny about the second Manhattan?  ev-ry-thing.

I took the living room side of the suite, with the convertible sofa that was not made up, so we called for Robert from housekeeping  to come and put our drunk asses to bed.  Baroness took the bedroom side and shut the door between us.  Her side had a knob.  mine… did not.  


(ummm…h’loo?)

Habit and a hangover conspired to wake me at 6am.  I drank water, watched infommercials and dozed until about 9, when I considered coffee, which was on my side of the room, but they had neglected to stock the cream and sugar.

At 10, Baroness knocks on her side of the door, and comes in to find me fully dressed and reading in a chair.  She said, “I couldn’t tell if you were awake.”  “I don’t have a doorknob,” I said, as the door slipped out of her hands and clicked shut with her on my side of it.

Room key?  yes.
Safety latch on other door?  also yes.

No one handles the staff like Her Grace.  From her I have learned in life that everything is someone’s area of expertise, and that if it happens to you, the law of large numbers assures that it happens all the time.  And that people love to help.  Hotel Security wants you to think that safety latch is impenetrable but of course there is a tool that solves problems like these.  Still, we played along while Security called Maintenance and distracted us from watching how it is done.  It’s not a great story; I’m just telling you about the weekend.  What are you doing?

From there to Henrietta’s Table.  No celebs, but one heck of a skillet brekkie.  It began to rain with purpose while we were there, so we waited it out, then spent the afternoon in Harvard Sq shopping for my wine tasting party later that day where I needed to beat a $20 budget on a bottle of Spanish and an app.  We came in at $21, but only because of the tax.   A tempranillo and a manchego that I am now hooked on, plus 2 ciabatta rolls I could slide and make go farther.  Plus, they were passing truffles around in Cardullo’s like it was a cocktail party.  And it was still raining, so why not stay where it smells like almonds and chocolate, and where the deli man was willing to estimate a quarter-pound of cheese before lopping it off? 

  We watched some buskers, we flirted with the guy selling Spare Change, we cruised through The Coop for Harvard souvenirs… I giddily ducked into Harvard  Books and bought $50 worth of I don’t know what.  I’m not sure which of us was the out-of-towner.  

Times like this will really confuse your memory about living in the city.    I think I do know though that it’s a nicer place to visit when you don’t have to live there.

Here comes Patriots' Day

The federal government tried to appropriate the term "Patriot Day" for September11.  Massachusetts, Maine, and a thousand re-enactors shrugged it off.  here in the Bay state, Patriots' Day (with the S - apostrophe) is still big news.  Besides the Marathon, which is its own kind of skirmish, the Yanks and Redcoats take to the woods in the early hours to declare each other "dead men."  (but politely, 18th C style.  You, sir, are a dead man.  I invite you to eat lead.  One moment while I pack this musket.  Then you, sir, will meet your divine maker,  Cuppa tea?)

Yesterday as the temperature hit 90 degrees (uninvited, we might add) I pulled off the road on my drive home down the Battle Road and decided to have a walk.  It was much cooler in the trees, and being near-dusk the wildlife was active, and the birds in high song.

Due to the recent rains (perhaps I've mentioned it), some of the paths were carved up, and the meadows very slushy.  But on days like yesterday New England calls in sick in order to hike, bike, ride in the outdoor air for as long as it lasts.  Which is never very long. 

Minuteman National Park turned 50 last year, and is all cleaned up for its big weekend.  Patriots' Weekend is actually next weekend, but the NPS maximizes school holidays by spreading this out over the next two weekends.  This also gives you time to plan a trip.  Unfortunately, I do not have the day off, so I can not entertain you.

This Saturday, the town of Concord will rally, and Paul Revere will be captured in Lincoln.  This is done in the afternoon, when the cafes and souvenir shops are open, rather than at midnight, when it happened.  But for the most part, the NPS does these things in real time.

Saturday the 17th the park is overrun with re-enactors, and this is the best time to visit if you never have, especially if you have kids and they think history is lame-o.  An may I say that Revolutionary re-enactors are more dreamy than Civil War re-enactors.  (If you need your own incentive).  If you have little-little kids, and you are up too early on a Saturday anyway, prithee come thither to the North Bridge for the shot heard round the world at about 8:00am.  A few skirmishes in the day.

Patriots' Day is for the early risers and the lovers of cold New England dew.  Whether you are a Marathoner or a re-enactor, Monday comes in the dark.  I'll confess I have never done this event -- firstly because I didn't have a car for 13 years, and was trapped inside the Marathon route, and since then because one rarely gets this day off anymore (unless you work for the state, the bank, or the Beth Israel Breast Imaging Unit of Lexington).  But here's how you do it, if you think you have the breeches.

Battle re-enactment in Lexington begins at about 5:30. Back at the bridge at 6am for a 21 gun salute.  Oh it is on.  Sun will be up in about 30 minutes.  BYO DD.  Parade at 9.  Lots of video on You Tube, though much of it is unsteady, given the crowds, chill, and level of equipment.  This one gives a good flavor, I think. 

Office Dress Code BINGO

In time for tomorrow's unseasonably warm day in the office, The DrawingIn Room presents...


Dress Code BINGO fields - make your own card!

B column:
flip-flops
mandles
pedicure
shoeless
sockless

I column:
cargo shorts
madras shorts
cut-off shorts
short-shorts
beach volleyball uniform

N column:
Jams
Grateful Dead skirt
FREE: Capris
denim mini
long shirt/no pants

G column:
tank top - male
tank top - female
midriff
tube top
shirtless

O column:
terry cloth
seersucker
linen
visor
no shave - this has nothing to do with the weather, but tends to go along with Too Casual

ENJOY

Getting there is half the fun

Have you had enough of hearing about the flooding yet?  Times like these remind you of how much we take for granted our ability to shrink our vast country into hour increments through the miracle of transportation, when not so long ago you actually needed a 2 week vacation just to get anywhere.  The New Boss is on business travel to Nacodoches and she was delighted that a friend who "lives close" was going to meet up with her.  "Texas-close?" I said.  Because in New England, we will take 2 hours to get to work, but that's not because of distance.  We hate to do anything that's wickit far.

I was recently berated by some high school friends when I didn't meet up with them at a local (for them -- 600 miles away from me).  They said "So-and-so came, and she lives in New Jersey."  I said, "Let the record reflect that I live 7 hours north of New Jersey."

(New Job - PTO) + Death of a friend + 12 hours travel distance X 1 set of railroad tracks North to South.   I had gotten a dream itinerary -- couldn't believe my luck: Depart MA from the 128 station at 8am and arrive in Richmond at 7pm.  Return departure at 7pm, arrive in MA at 8am, where I am parked 30 minutes from work.  I would read a book.  I would watch a film.  I would wear a cloche and sip champagne.  in my head....

Oh, but then there's this.  It's a little hard to make out, but it was shot from an Amtrak window on Wednesday.  Shortly afterward, service was suspended.  The sad recording on USA-RAIL says the call volume is so high, could you please call back when you are 48 hours from your travel?  Refunds are cheerfully offered, and reroutes as well, if you can take one of the 3 trains a day leaving from New Haven.  You should arrive back at your destination about 3am.

Go ahead.  come upstairs.  The sun should be up in about 4 hours.  New Haven is perfectly safe for middle-aged ladies travelling alone.

I actually miss a lot of funerals this way.

 

You caahn't get there from here

Road Closed.  Seek Alternate Route.
("good luck with that," the roadside signs should flash)


And so the rains came.  For days.
Monday was the scariest, because the roads hadn't yet been closed, but certainly should have been.  These thickly settled Massachusetts towns rest along narrow 2 lane roads that meander past streams and brooks, reservoirs, and yes mill-driving rivers that on most days one just drives over without much thought other than worrying over the color of the duckweed or fooling yourself that one of these weekends you'll try renting a canoe. 

Then comes a day when you are driving through it, with no alternative in sight -- 100 cars in both directions, as far as the eye can see. 


I've been through a few of these by now -- some much worse than others, worse than this week's even.  But not until this week did one make me think about quitting my job.

This is the map around which we center our lives of quiet desperation.  The rings are 93, 95, and 495.  The long east/west road at the center is the Mass Turnpike.  Above that Rt 2.  Or, as we like to say, Bleepin' Root Two.  A necessary evil.  Four lanes of state roads full of stop lights, Jersey barriers, a Stephen King-worthy State Pen, and the kind of rotary that makes the rest of the country throw up their hands.  (It's a simple explanation, really: the road is 300 years old.  And we were British at the time.)


Rt 2 got the ARRA money!  And what an exciting summer it was with one road constantly down for paving, and tunnels being installed for migrating animals.  The area I have shaded above contains the even smaller back roads that daily commuters use to avoid as much of Rt 2 as they possibly can.  When it all works, the traffic moves steadily.  Not very quickly, and with the occasional school bus stop.  But it moves.


And so the rains came.  And so the waters rose, in the Assabet, the Sudbury, the Nashua, the Concord.  Behold the sinkholes, potholes, guardrails with nothing to guard, train tracks that can not support trains, lost shoulders, pastures, ponds....oh...my.  You can see how they powered the Industrial Revolution.




(Nice Mill footage at 4 and 5 minutes)

With the roads awash in that yellow-shaded area of the map, all traffic that usually fans out along those wooded river roads was now on Rt 2.  All morning.  Every morning.

7am-9am; 5pm-7pm.  Standing... Woodstock...Great James River Raft Race traffic.  

I can think a lot of things with time like that on my hands. Mostly it was "this is not worth it."  And I thought the 90 minute standing bus ride on the 111 to Chelsea (which one Good Friday famously crashed through a telephone pole and into a building, but that is not the story I am telling)  I thought that commute was worth it.  So I am not just being a big baby.  I am just assessing the ROI.

Now it is Friday night.  I see that roads will still be facacta through the weekend.  Then, presumably, we are back to normal.  Until I get to complain about my commute on Patriot's Day.

Beach Bummed

Once again, Pete and I are thwarted, and the summer comes to an end without a beach day.

We have a very short summer. It is shorter in the years when it rains through half of it. Friday's day off was planned for about a month, and this is always a gamble, but my plan was...unless otherwise impossible, I would spend that day off on the beach.

So guess what.

I convinced Pete to come with me -- she had the day off as well, and except for a trip to the vet's, no other obligations. It is hard enough to take 1 cat to the vet, much more so 2, so I said I would help cart cats and then we would go to the beach. Though we are middle-aged ladies, we are not yet at an age where we will get up for shell-walking and beach before lunch. When we arose to a 57 degree morning, I shot her a quick note that said no to fear. Partly sunny and 72 was expected. Not a perfect beach day, but serviceable. Cats, lunch, beach.

We walked into the restaurant under blue skies and puffy clouds. We walked out into a rain-spattered parking lot. And yes, the chick-sand was worth it. We scanned the horizon and consulted. We had the car packed, we were in our bathing suits, I had 12 weeks' worth of Economist magazines that needed reading. So we went.

We like Cape Cod beaches, because Pete is a South Shore girl and we are already closer. I do enjoy Manchester, but North shore is best during the heat wave, which had already passed. (by that we mean 3 days at 90 degrees or more. We do get 3 of them, and we get them together, and then the leaves turn and everyone makes cider donuts) Either cape is far from where I live, so off to the bridge we went.

There is a Hurricane coming (get happy) so there is already a little vacation traffic trying to get ahead of it. Pete insists that the sky is brightening up over there (and there and there) and if I would put my sunglasses on I would see it too. We encouraged each other like workout buddies to get all the way to Scusset, even negotiating what we would do if they were still charging an entry fee (they weren't) or if it wasn't "actually" raining (it was). Other parties were arriving, and we took their cue as permission to continue. We identified my beach umbrella as potential shelter. We walked down the boardwalk to get the lay of the land.

So very sad. Too dark, too cold, too wet to enjoy. Even Twizzlers and the CVS off-brand Pringles would not make this a true beach day. Defeated and pouty, in our needless bathing suits like little girls who wear their Halloween costumes all day, we returned to the car.

The tropical rains have arrived today. True Cape vacations are a total wash, and the cottages with board games and reception of the Kennedy funeral will survive the boredom. Here in Del Boca Vista, I am pausing in a houseclean. I have read one of the magazines (from June: Iranian elections and the President's speech in Cairo). I have made a list of all the indoor things I could do before Monday. I won't complete most of them either.

Time to buy the rock salt.

Why we drink

The lost trees of worcester

The December ice storm was not the worst of it. And it was plenty bad.

All along Rt 2, and in the wooded areas of Central Mass, the trees are bent and broken and there has been plenty of clean-up to do. Most of them hang where they are; others are trimmed back hard from the road and the leftover pieces kicked aside. It is a spooky drive west between 495 and the Connecticut River. But that was not the worst of it.

The worst of it are blocks of streets, entire neighborhoods, cutting down their trees under order of the state. Like Travis shooting Old Yeller, they do what they must -- bravely and through tears. 63 sq miles of trees are now in receivership of the Commonwealth. And nearly every tree must go. If you don't... someone else will have to, by court order. And that just ain't fittin'.

The culprit: asian longhorned beetles

The expert opinion: "the only proven method of control and eradication of this destructive insect is the complete removal of infested trees (to include stump grinding) and the removal of select adjacent host trees that have a high risk of being infested."

The footage.

As you look at the piles of branches, note the size of the trees they came from. In this neighborhood, most of the growth is far above the rooftops. I thank Historyteacher50 for shooting the scene I was looking for. I drive past a view like this several times a week, and in some neighborhoods, there is not a single tree left.

This is a Googlemaps view of West Boylston St where I work. The circled hillside is bare now.

The replanting has begun. The neighbors are trying to move on. With a sense of humor.

Even though it is clearly the end of everything we hold dear. Put it on the list.

For one brief shining moment....

The rare moment in the New England spring, when the sun and the temperature peak on the same day, brings everyone out into the open. Days like this are when I miss living in the city -- enough to carry myself there 2 days in a row to experience it.

Knowing it is still too muddy and snow-deep to hike, my only other desire on a 60 degree blue-sky day was to wander the streets until I was too tired to go anymore. When I lived in Boston, this was a regular occurence, since I had no car and no money and the best thing you could do to fill a Saturday was walk to the North End, buy a cannoli and walk back.

I did not know gritty 70s Boston -- I moved up after the Kevin White revitalization years, and the Massachusetts Miracle. 80s Boston was still an island to its own, though -- local establishments and insider tricks. Where The Limited coming to town was such a novelty it got a 4-story building at Faneuil Hall. (That building, I learned yesterday, is now an Abercrombie. So I guess thinks only change in proportion to their times.)

But of course the times have changed.

And now a trip to the city requires some planning, and a little more cash. Though I can still pass a day spending nothing but transportation fare (tolls + parking + T fare, so it ain't 85 cents, is what I am saying...). I decided to walk the new Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy Greenway - the $10B worth of grass they laid over the central artery.

I now live 35 miles from the city, and the decision to drive in or park-n-ride is based more on financial output than convenience or even stress. Now that the commuter parking is $7 and the T is $2 one way... one is not really saving time or money. After all, I know where the 10-hr meters are in Brookline, and on Sundays, they are free. So I drove in. So did everyone else.

On days like this, after the dark cold night of winter, Boston explodes into the streets. My ordinarily 1 hr drive became 2, but I had NPR on and the sun on my face. It was almost as good as hiking. The C line is notoriously slow -- I have run faster -- but I was "Livin' in My City" -- recalling years of afternoons spent just like this, with a lot less money and a lot more stress.

I got off at Govt Center because I like the approach from the brick summit down to Faneuil Hall. Ben Franklin stands there waiting for you to cross the street -- well, it's this guy, who will charge you for taking his picture. I wonder if he charged these people.

I charged into the thick of it -- through the Hall, through Quincy Market, and out the other side, where you used to be faced with a Frogger race to get to the North End. You deserved that cannoli.

Now you walk across the street. You just....walk. You look "both" ways, not 5 ways (including both a squat and a tiptoe). And you cross the street. It's the FUTURE.

My preferred North End stroll (with or without stops for cannolis). Columbus Park first, follow shoreline as best you can. Salem st. Weave in and out getting lost for a while. Hanover st to the end -- stop at the Peace Garden. get this: I found out over lunch that The Boss's grandfather built the Peace Garden. Well, of course he did. Awesome runs in the family.

Yell "Anthony" down Prince St. Oh, go ahead, everyone does it.

Find All Saints Way. This takes effort, so get some espresso beans to carry with you to find your way back. If you prefer more structure, and a guide, here is another opportunity.

Maybe next weekend. Today it snowed 3 inches. {sigh}

God made snowstorms so...

... people would watch David Lean movies.

Spent our March snow day watching Ryan's Daughter. This is why you can't remember if you have seen Ryan's Daughter.

Because you have seen Dr Zhivago. Not your fault, really, if you can't tell Sarah Miles from Julie Christie, even in this 2 shot.

One has snow. One doesn't.

Oh, check THIS out.

David Lean has some kind of Hitchcock-thing for the wide bottom lip and crystal eyes.

The one with the sand was Lawrence of Arabia.

I hope you don't log on here to find anything deep and meaningful. That's out of stock right now.

Any more questions?

When opportunity comes knocking...