The Girl Who Read

Friday August 29. 2008
West Hampton NY
Joyce & Marty's House

I remember the day I realized I could read. I was sounding out the letters of Dick and Jane and suddenly realized they made sense. It was a light that blinked brilliantly on and has continued to light up my life every day since.

What a joy to read! What discoveries to make! What mysteries to uncover! What stories to experience! What thoughts to provoke! What a great excuse to get out of doing the dishes!

I was the eldest of five growing up, and although my mother was an equal opportunity employer and gave all of us jobs to earn our daily ration, it seems to me that dish duty was mostly assigned to the girls. I do recall specifically that I rarely took out the trash, but always set the table.

But our parents put schooling before anything, so I found I could bury my head in a book, tune out the world, and never hear the call to help after dinner. The dishes would be done by the time I looked up. And from the dirty looks and exasperated headshakes I was awarded, I’m sure my sisters were on to me, if nor all four siblings.

“She’s so engrossed in that book, she can’t hear a word,” my Mother would say, passing off the drying duties to whoever was closest to a dishtowel.

Was my mother aware that his was a ploy? As I was growing up, I was sure I was fooling her. Then I decided she knew, but thought it cute of me to be so engrossed I’d rather read than work.

I even harbored the conceit, for a time, that she liked me best of all of her five children, so gave me this reading time as a gift. It didn’t occur to me until I had my own children that she actually wanted me to read and read and read. As much as I could. As often as I could. She, more than anyone, encouraged my scholarship, such as it was.

My mother graduated high school in three years and was Salutatorian of her class. My father thought she was brilliant. But she didn’t go to college because her family couldn’t afford the 5-cent subway fare to NYU, where she was promised a scholarship. This was the Depression and she had to go to work. That’s how it was.

She always talked about becoming a writer of children's books. She never did try, although we always came to her for writing help with our compositions. And we usually got A's a a result. But instead of reaching for her own dreams, she transferred them to her childen.

So if it took standing another half hour in front of a sink full of dirty dishes after she’d already put in ten solid hours, her hands red and rough from her chores, and if it took darning her husband’s socks at ten at night to save money, and if it took scrimping and saving so that every single one of her brood could go to college, then that’s what it took. She was the hardest worker I’ve ever known.

And if the first of these children wanted to bury her head in a book while all this hard work was going on, then this was a blessing and a sign that her dreams would happen. Not a lazy girl. A girl with a book. And that made all he difference in the world.

Thanks, Mom.
Betty

At the Beach

Monday August 25, 2008
Smith Point Park CG
Fire Island, LI, NY

I shouldn’t share this secret, but hopefully you won’t remember it tomorrow anyway. At the very tip of Fire Island at the end of William Floyd Parkway, in a town called Shirley, Long Island, there is a lovely little spit of land with bay on one side and ocean on the other. It also has camping, although if you’re not a Suffolk County resident, you can’t reserve ahead of time, so it’s first-come, first-served for all of us outsiders.

We arrived on Sunday night, always a good time because that’s when the weekenders leave. We got a great spot, with views both ways and the most heavenly breezes. The only problem is, we were allowed just two nights. We have to leave on Tuesday. Obviously, that’s when the real people arrive. And it will be Labor Day Weekend, the last hurrah of the summer, so they definitely will be coming.

Our best hope is to get on line at six in the morning on Tuesday and hope that when the office opens at eight there will have been a cancellation and we will be first-come for the left-overs. Please sir, can I have some more?

I can’t believe that I’m going to get up that early and wait in line as if I were 16 again and hoping to get tickets for some rock ‘n roll group that will be dead by now. I mean literally dead. I just heard that Jay Black of Jay and the Americans is having a 70th birthday party. Holy good night, I thought he was still 19.

I watched one of those oldies concerts at some arena in New Jersey recently, on Channel 13, our PBS channel, and I swear I saw defibrillators at the end of every row. It was a sea of white hair, but they were on their feet, hand-jiving and hip-swiveling as if it were 1962. Good for our generation! We haven’t lost it yet. The medics can take the day off.

John and I have even promised ourselves that we will go bike riding this afternoon and explore the beach. First, however, we have to have our after-lunch nap. And then we’ll need to rest up after that. I don’t know. There may not be enough time. We’re going out for Chinese, and you know you don’t want to eat that food late in the evening or you’ll be too full to fall asleep at nine p.m.

Planning is everything.
Betty

Canine Camping

Clinton CG
Clinton, CT

One of the advantages to traveling in a motor home is that you can bring your pets with you. It isn’t always an advantage: if your pet is like mine, you will become his personal travel companion, his plush and comfy luxury seat, your lap a First Class accommodation, with the assumption that you will be more than happy to scratch from end of the country to the other. You will see the scenery along the way as if you were seated in a theatre behind a lady with a very large hat, craning your neck to see around his eager, panting (and oh, let’s not discuss the breath) and constantly moving silhouette.

My favorite moment comes when he changes positions, and before he settles in, he sniffs the place on my lap where his butt has just been. Oh spare me, please.

Which reminds me to mention that most of my fellow travelers seem to bring dogs. I haven’t seen one single cat since we started. Maybe RVers are genetically fond of dogs. Of course, I haven’t been in any other motor homes, so maybe the cats hide. Then again, maybe cat people are house people by nature, and only take vacations reluctantly. And when they do go away, they can leave their babies at home, happily peeing where they shouldn’t, as in my friend Jane’s case. Her cat Thalassa used to use the bathtub if left alone. It always made for a really fragrant return home.

Dogs, on the other hand, are easily spotted in campgrounds. They lounge, dusty and panting, outside each camper with their toys, their water and if they’re lucky, their big puffy bed, arfing, woofing and grring at anybody who might deign to trespass on their 12 feet of frontage. They are big, sloppy things, hulky, happy dogs who are good with kids, and who sport names like Thunder, Joe and Moose. Our dog has a big-dog name, Zeus, and he thinks he’s a Rottweiler, but he’s really a skinny Jack Russell and a major tail-wagger. He just wants friends, attention and food, not necessarily in that order.

But there are other kinds of animal-lovers in this world. What about the gerbil people? The rabbit fanciers? The Teddy Bear Hamster crowd? Do their owners tote little cages and exercise wheels as they travel? Do they keep these pets in the camper – or heaven forbid, down below in storage? Do rodents take to travel or do they get carsick? How would you know?

“Oh honey, let’s stop for a while. Priscilla and Rodney are looking a little green around the whiskers.”

These days, people give their kids monikers like Apple and Butterscotch, and their pets get real names, which tends to really throw you when the pets die at, say, age 8 and they mention this fact at a party, for instance. “We buried dear Carl today. He was 7½ . We’ll miss him so much.” And you’re at a party? Ooooh, cold.

But right now, Zeus is panting his fetid breath at my knee and making the squeakiest of noises, which indicates his need to be walked. So I’ll grab a plastic baggie, hook him up to the leash and take on yet another of my favorite chores: poop scooper.

Betty

Native Pleasures

Friday August 22, 2008
Mohegan Sun Reservation
Clinton, CT

One of the best things that ever happened to me was that the Native Americans got sovereignty in Connecticut. I believe that’s the right term. Anyhow, that allowed them to erect a monumental casino in a non-gambling state and make so much money with it that they erected a second casino just down the road, which is where I am at this very moment.

I would say that for me it’s a return to civilization, but you’d probably think I was nuts if you saw the crowd. That’s not very nice, but remember that I am including myself in that group.

This is not the glamorous group in ermine and pearls who frequented Las Vegas once upon a time. This is the short-shorts and tank top crowd, and that’s just the men. They come to smoke, gamble and eat, in that order. There’s not a whole lot of drinking. You want to be perfectly sober when you throw the mortgage payment and the baby-food money on that table. You want to be in your right mind when you cash in your life insurance policy and say the heck with the damn cancer as you light up another smoke.

But despite the fact that I contributed to the wealth to the tune of $100 in just under twenty minutes – blame my guilt over the miscegenation of my forebears, even though they were digging up taties in Ireland when this all went down -- I had a great time.

I paid twice the normal price for a pedicure in the spa and scraped the polish off two toes on my way out the door. I had a warm martini in a noisy bar, and went on to a lovely dinner that I could not eat because I was so full of pretzels from the martini bar.

But what made it all worthwhile was enjoying it all with our good friends Pam and Dick who were there for the Beach Boys Concert. We decided not to go, but later regretted our decision when we heard that everybody there was our age and that they were throwing beach balls around the concert hall. I always hate missing a chance to be silly.

We slept in the parking lot. (Remember, this is an RV story). And in the motor home just behind our bedroom window, a little puppy yipped non-stop for over five hours. YIP-YIP PAUSE YIP-YIP PAUSE YIP-YIP ETC. And guess whose owner decided to stay out until three in the morning? I hope they lost their shirts. Not really, but I was glad to leave the little yipper behind all the same.

Later that day, we were at Dick and Pam’s when they got the news that their daughter Sarah had just gotten engaged in California. That news was almost better than breaking the bank at Mohegan, but if I had broken the bank, I sure would have sent them a nice big engagement gift. As it is, they’ll have to be happy with a nice big card. Fixed income and all that.

Besides, that $100 I lost was the food money for the week. John will just have to learn to love Cheerios for dinner.
Betty

The Imp Among Us

August 21, 2008
KOA CG
Middleboro, MA

I am slowly coming to the conclusion that we have a dybbuk. Or a poltergeist. Or a leprechaun. Or some other devilish spirit who has decided to go RVing with us.

I was inclined to believe that, okay, hitting the jet ski, and the boulder, and the cop car were all products of our inexperience. As were the upset of the picnic table, the little plastic figure of the child holding a flag, and several red cones on several occasions. And I accepted with my usual grace and aplomb the failure of the horn, the brake fire in our tow car, the copious leak in the corner of the bedroom, the refusal of the satellite to work, and the death of a complete set of china due to unplanned contact with the stone floor in the kitchen. I don’t even blame the pole in the closet that keeps bouncing all the clothes to the floor.

But now things are disappearing. First it was the scale, which I rely on daily to keep me honest. That stayed out of sight for two weeks, until we went to Target and bought another one that mercifully gave us each a three-pound weight loss. Unfortunately we found the digital scale and discovered a three-pound weight gain. Okay, it was five, but who’s counting.

No sooner had found the damn scale than my camera’s battery charger went missing. I remembered exactly where I had put it – not in the bag where it’s supposed to reside, but in the corner of a cabinet (another hurry-up decision, when will I learn).

When my camera died, I reached in for the charger and it was nowhere to be grabbed. Frustrated and angry with myself, I pulled every single cabinet apart. I restacked all the DVDs, books and games, none of which we’ve played yet. I refolded all the towels and washcloths, which we have used, I’m proud to say. I restacked what dishes remain and what glasses haven’t broken (I’m down from 6 to 2 wine glasses.) I repacked every single atlas, map and guide John brought along – all 62 of them. And I still haven’t found the darn charger. It’s smaller than a cigarette pack, but certainly not tiny, so why can’t I find it?

Yesterday I bought a universal charger and it took me over an hour and a half to figure out how to use all 17 parts together. Now I’m deathly afraid this too will take off for places unknown and I won’t be able to take another picture this whole trip.

Yesterday, however, sealed the deal for me. For the first time since we left, we were going out to a restaurant with another couple, so I decided to haul out the bling. I pulled my jewelry box out from its hidey-hole, and no, I won’t reveal its location, and pawed through my stash. I selected my favorite gold watch – as a matter of fact, my only gold watch – took off my $59 fake Chanel and put it in the gold watch’s slot. Then I put the jewelry box away. When I turned around, the gold watch was gone.

A complete upheaval of every drawer, every surface, every nook and every cranny was fruitless, as was a second, third and fourth search of the jewelry box, just in case. I am at an age where I don’t trust my recent memory all that much. But, still, no luck. I found nothing, nada, ninguno, nil, no, no, nanette.

Where could this favorite watch be? Hiding in a cubby with the battery charger? And are these two in communication with my errant scale, getting tips on eluding the search party?

Or have I unknowingly channeled a mischievous spirit, who is at this moment enjoying my discomfiture, charging his or her spectral camera for exactly 30 minutes according to his or her new gold watch. And all the while, smiling with impish satisfaction, because he or she hasn’t gained or lost a pound since we got in this RV.

Betty

Trailer Trash Talk

Wednesday August 20, 2008
KOA Campground
Middleboro, MA

We hired a guy to come to the campground and attempt to fix our satellite, which has never worked. This will be our fourth attempt and third outside person to come. We thought he’d forgotten, but Gilberto arrived at 5:30 and brought his tools with him. He’s about 4’10”, in other words, average size for a person from his part of the world, and he has a voice that sounds like Topo Gigio, the little mouse character who made the big time when Ed Sullivan brought him over from Italy. Topo was a sensation in the fifties, and didn’t quite eclipse the Beatles, who arrived somewhat later, but he sure had his following. “Oooh, Eddie.”

In the looks department, Gilberto is first rate. A lovely smile, sparkly eyes, and a disposition of azucar. He probably has seven kids and an extremely satisfied wife.

Gilberto pulled up to our site, parked his marshmallow-white truck and proceeded to assess our problem. He got up on the roof, walked around the camper, surveyed our positioning vis-a-vis Venus I guess, and informed us we were out of line. Whatever that means.

Meanwhile, our next door neighbor, a not-quite ringer for Christina Applegate, tall and blonde and wearing a bikini, with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, and with an attitude that would give the Hulk as he transitioned from human to subhuman a run for his money, decided to have a word with Gil.

“Excuse me, you,” she said. “Do you belong here?”

“I’m fixing their RV,” he replied.

“Well, you’re on our grass. This is our site. You don’t belong here.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Is that your truck?”

Well, who the hell else would have Jose’s Repair Service, TV, Satellite and Electronics, Middleboro, MA, on the side of his truck?

“Yes,” replied Gilberto.

“Well you can’t park it here. You have to move it.”

That’s when John jumped in. “It’s behind our rig,” he explained.

She hmmphed, she really actually hmmphed, then went inside her RV, shapely butt in a twist.

“I think there might have been some prejudice going on just now,” I remarked.

“You think?” said John.

I sure as heck hope Gilberto fixes the problem. He deserves a win today. As for the blonde, I hope she burns the spaghetti sauce and ruins her one pot. A nice red spot on that white bikini wouldn’t hurt either.

Betty

One Month Later

August 19, 2008
Beach Rose CG
Salisbury.MA

What do you know, I am actually enjoying myself. Sleeping in a comfortable bed, sleeping until I decide to wake up. Taking my time and having a leisurely cup of coffee in the morning. Reading a book in the afternoon. Watching a movie at night. And in between all these activities, doing something strenuous, like eating, drinking, and every so often, snacking. This is not a bad life. Okay, it’s a terrible life and if I’m not careful I could easily gain 20 pounds.

But I did go kayaking yesterday. For 20 minutes. And the day before, I rode my bike. For 10 minutes. That’s a half-hour of exercise. Isn’t that what the experts recommend?

The point is, I was so sure retirement – not to mention an RV adventure – would be a complete snore and would drive me absolutely bonkers in no time at all. I was so sure, in fact, that I erected the Alamo of Refusal in my mind and defended it with every bit of artillery I had for over three years.

But I have to hand it to my Taurus husband. Stubborn is as stubborn does, and he is as obdurate as they come. He was determined to yank me out of my comfortable chaos of a life and subject me to miles and miles of nature, adventure and possibilities.

I would still be in our overpriced, overtaxed house, commuting three hours every day in bumper-to-bumper traffic, to work in one of the most tension-ridden businesses there is, advertising, with little-to-no reward, all for the comfort of its sameness and predictability.

Fortunately, I have great friends, and they gave me some great advice while I was in the thick of the battle. Joyce, who said, “So you’ve already decorated that house. Decorate something else.” Now that I could relate to.

I happen to be married to a man who thinks two sets of dishes is one too many, but I am a card-carrying regular at Home Goods, the store that convinces you that at these prices you should have seven of everything. So the idea of taking on another project touched me at my core. Men may live to conquer, but I’m hard-wired to decorate. My forebears’ caves probably had Ralph Lauren paint with charming little hieroglyphs here and there.

Then there is Terri, who took me in when I was about to collapse with grief over the fact that I had successfully sold my house for more than its asking price. “You still have choices,” she told me. “You will buy something else. You have a right to be happy too.” I was homeless, but not futureless. I needed that weekend. And I needed that pasta. Among her other great qualities, Terri is a mean cook. And I mean that in a good way.

Now Carole and I have been friends since we were three years old and took pre-nursery school dance lessonss together. We still sing "I'm a Little Teapot" on request. Carole retired to Florida a couple of years ago and is now the most popular girl in the state. No surprise here, since she was voted Most Popular when we graduated high school too. You just don't meet people with her kind of positive energy every day. And she sure channeled some my way during all of this. 'Honey," she'd say, and you have to love that friend that calls you honey, "Honey, you have to do this. You have no idea how much fun this will be. I've never been happier in my life. " And for Carole to be happier than she normally is, then retirement has to be akin to winning the NYS Lottery when it's at its all-time high.

But if I needed balance, and I certainly can use balance, I could always turn to Maggie, who is not only my rock and my sounding board, she is also my real estate agent and the voice of reason no matter the situation. “Get over it,” was her basic message. “They want the house. They paid a great price. You can live anywhere. I will not abandon you as a friend.” What she didn’t say was, “You can live over my garage,” but I suspect if I asked, she’d say yes.

It happens, too, that I have a great family, the Bickersons. Oh no, that’s not their name. What am I thinking? I have two brothers and two sisters and three incredible in-laws, who I often forget are related by marriage and not blood. No matter, they are all there when I need them, and that’s a wonderful thing. Each gave me an ear, a plan and a strategy for accepting this new turn in my life’s highway, and I am more than grateful.

So here I am, more than a month later, settled in to this nomadic lifestyle, for the time being at least, and happy to have made this decision. Finally. Of course, if I had my way, I’d get rid of the tacky etched mirrors and the multi-color valances over the windows. And I’d like to get a new set of dishes to replace the ones that fell out of the cabinet last month. But we’re nowhere near a Home Goods at the moment.

Not to worry. There’s always tomorrow. And there’s always a mall just up the road.
Betty

Addicted to Paper

August 17, 2008
Danforth Bay Campground
Freedom, NH

I can live without a lot of things. But two things I am finding it hard to give up are conditioner and paper. Now conditioner is a no-brainer for any woman. Except Maggie, who claims not to touch the stuff. But I guess I should explain about the paper.

First of all, toilet paper. Okay, another no brainer. Second, paper towels. You would think with all the dish towels I brought along on this trip that paper towels would be an unnecessary waste of trees. But the uses I have put these tree-gifts to will hopefully explain, if not justify, my addiction.

Not only are they a quick grab for spills and single spoon-drying, but when you’ve turned on the spigot with the sink covered and the water travels at light speed towards the toaster and threatens your very life, they are, literally, a life saver.

When the TP holder comes out of the wall because you’ve grabbed it while the RV was in motion (and falling down in a 2x3 space with a sloshing toilet taking up most of that space is not something you want to do), then a paper towel, carefully wrapped around the screw and shoved back into the wall, is a life saver of a different sort.

Paper towels are good for that errant sneeze, an alternate to running back for a tissue while the RV is negotiating a hairpin turn could result in bruises from ankle to shoulder if not a complete body cast. John believes in paper towel sandwich plates, reasoning that they save the plastic plates for dinner and can be used to wipe your spot when your sandwich is finished. And for wiping puppy paws, nothing beats a Scots.

But my most favorite kind of paper, and the one I’m most passionate about, is the Sunday Times Magazine Section, which I have been without for way too many Sundays, as far as I’m concerned. I have two puzzle buddies, Joyce and Maggie, and it’s simply not a Sunday if I don’t confer with one or both on the speed, or lack of it, with which we have solved this week’s puzzle. Joyce is so passionate, she won’t let her husband Marty in the house with the weekly lox and bagel breakfast until he answers these two questions correctly: (1) Did you get a tomato? And (2) Did you check inside the paper for the magazine section? If I’m visiting, Marty graciously gets two papers, so the children don’t fight over the puzzle. Then he has to answer Q2 twice.

I did go on line and subscribe, but there’s nothing as satisfying as doing the puzzle in pen, and if you’re lucky, with no strikeovers. Back when I used a pencil to do the Times Crosswords, John used to write dirty words in the blank spaces just to get me going. He wouldn’t dare use ink now. I think.

Today, as I lounge here in Freedom New Hampshire, I am a totally satisfied woman. Not only do I have a brand-new roll of paper towels on my counter, I have a Sunday Times sitting on the couch for the first time in over a month. When John walked up the RV steps with the paper in his hand, I couldn’t stop myself. “Did you check?” I said.

The only thing that would make this day more perfect would be a half pound of nova, some vegetable cream cheese and a couple of bagels. The tomato, I have.

Betty

Bigger, Better, Bunyan

August 14, 2008
Paul Bunyan Campground
Bangor, ME

According to the myth, Paul Bunyan was born in Bangor, Maine, which would explain our stay at the Paul Bunyan Campgrounds, and the annual Paul Bunyan events on the town calendar. The campground is beautiful. Lots of rolling green lawns, a band shell, a pool and lots of trees under which to park your camper. Although calling the public restroom Paul's Potty seems a bit much to me. But I can let that one go.

What I fail to see is why they chose to put the biggest camper ever built in a space between two trees that are set just one foot wider than said RV. That’s six inches on each side.

I was playing co-pilot, trying to fit this mammoth rig into our assigned space, but John kept ignoring my directions and doing his own thing. Or so it seemed. The steam was rising from my head, the Irish was definitely up, and my mouth was about to say something I’d totally regret a day later, when I realized that behind me, on his golf cart, was Paul – not that Paul – but Paul of the management, who had come over to help out, and John had been following him.

I stomped off in a huff. I’m good at huffs, and this was one of my better ones. After all, I’m the designated co-pilot. I took the lessons in right hand extended, left hand extended, thumbs up and so forth. Who was this guy to steal my thunder? And why did John prefer Paul's direction to mine? The more I thought about it the madder I got.

I marched up to the golf cart. “This is ridiculous,” says I. “This is the smallest spot in the park. Put us in spot #48 instead of this one.”

Paul thought a bit, then said, “But it’s already reserved.”

I countered with an observance of its apparent emptiness, “Put them here, and us there.”

“But they have a reservation,” said Paul.

“But we’re here. Now. This minute. And they’re not.”

Meantime, John had maneuvered the BB on his own, with no help from either of us, and managed to park it successfully. “I’m not moving,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, still huffy. Whereupon Paul said, “Ma’am, I have to apologize to you. Spot #48 is reserved, but the people left early. You could have parked there tonight.”

“Fine,” I said. (And we all know that when a woman says, “Fine,” it means exactly the opposite.)

Now I’m sitting here the morning after, knowing that there is no way we’re going to get out of this spot without taking down one of these trees. And somehow, there will be a part of me that is happy about it.

I’m also really good at “I told you so.”
Betty

Lobster Saturday

Murray Beach Campground
New Brunswick, August 10, 2008

Murray Beach Campground is probably the prettiest place we’ve stayed at so far, and the most enjoyable, despite (and maybe because of) the fact that there was no Internet service and we were disconnected from the world for three days.

It’s amazing how reliant we have become on the Internet. We use it for maps, driving directions, e-mail of course, translating words into English, mais oui, and for accessing a ton of other information without which we simply cannot live. Like who won the gold for swimming in the last Olympics.

It happened that we were there on Saturday, August 9, the first day of lobster season, so we took ourselves off to the little wharf to see the fishermen put out to sea with their traps. Of curse there was no way we were going to see the first run – that was a six in the morning, and we planned to be fast asleep. We got there at a human hour -- around eleven -- and were lucky enough to see some boats that had come back for a second set of traps.

Each trap is baited with what I guessed was salted cod, one fish inside a mesh bag, and the other attached to the outside of the bag. I guess the strategy is to lure the lobster in with a nice juicy fish, then cause him a nervous breakdown trying to get the second fish out of the bag.

Now I never had a problem dropping a lobster into boiling water. Even after someone told me they screamed when they hit the water. I couldn’t hear it, so I dismissed the theory. But causing a lobster to have a mental breakdown before you haul him up from the sea seems like unnecessary torture, especially when you figure that he’s going to be having a 180 degree spa treatment some time in the near future. Play fair, fellas.

Later I sauntered into a craft show run by the local churchwomen. I wonder what the market is for dish towels sewed with little belt loops, because I see them in every single craft fair I ever go to. The funny thing is, I’ve never seen anybody with a dish towel hanging off his or her belt. Except John, who calls it a shooting towel and who has never dried a dish with it, thank god.

Oh and by the way, we didn’t have lobster at Murray Beach. Seems commercial fishing is not allowed on Sunday, so they couldn’t even check their traps until Monday – at which point we plan to be some 200 miles away in Nova Scotia. That night we’ll go out for seafood. I’m sure the Scotians are lobster fishermen too. Kinder, gentler ones, I hope.
B

Camping for Beginners

August 9, 2008
Murray Beach, NB

Just in case you wonder what people do while they’re camping, here are some activities I have observed.

Reading
Sleeping
Sitting by a campfire
Bicycling
Swimming
Walking/Hiking
Smoking fragrant substances
Listening to classical music
Exercising
Recoating your roof
Hanging up wet towels
Wheeling your box of bodily waste to the dump station, eeyuu.
Drinking
Walking your dog
Fishing
Cooking outside
Toasting marshmallows
Watching TV (the Olympics) in the rain
Dropping acid. Just kidding. I wanted to see if you were paying attention.

What I have not seen: texting, cell phone tirades, spousal fighting (although I am not so naïve as to believe it doesn’t happen), traffic jams, high heels, and Dunkin’ Donuts. I miss DD, but not the other things.

So with all this wonderful stuff to do, what, you may ask, did I find the most fun today? Rubber gloves, steel wool, the hose and attacking the greasy grill.

Relaxing isn’t always the answer.
Betty

Popping Wheelies

If you know one cool kid-thing to say, you can make yourself very popular. From my own children I long ago learned the term “pop-a-wheelie.” It serves me well to this day. It’s a bike trick that consists of pulling your front wheel up off the sidewalk and continuing in a forward motion. Most nine-year-olds have mastered this skill.

In my travels around the campground, I was introduced to two little boys, Jeremy, aged 9 and Jason, 6, who were obviously serious cyclists.

I asked Jeremy, “Say, can you pop a wheelie on that thing?” Smiling shyly, he mounted his bike, revved it up to speed, and began to pop one wheelie after another, until I clapped and said, “Man you sure can pop wheelies. You are super at popping wheelies!”

A day later he was still popping wheelies, making sure this spectacular feat happened right in front of our RV. Evenings were the best. We’d be trapped in our lounge chairs, the fire glowing, the dog shedding hairs on our new blue zip-up sweatshirts, and Jeremy would put on his show. His little brother didn’t get it. He rode his bike in circles, but never popped a wheelie. One has to presume Jeremy hadn’t shared that skill with him yet.

One day, undoubtedly, he’d teach Jason the trick. But today he was the star. For now, his pop-a-wheelies had no equal.

B

Don't Do It Better

It only took me 66 years to figure this out. If you don’t want have to do it all, for god's sake don’t do it better. The mistake a lot of women make is that we actually are pretty good at things. Especially multi-tasking. We multi-task like crazy. Men have a hard time multi-tasking. They are hard-wired to do one job and immerse themselves in that endeavor, eschewing distractions and accomplishing perfection at that one thing.

Women are hard-wired to handle lots of disparate things at once: running a marketing firm, speaking at a luncheon for African Relief, planning menus, figuring out the square footage of a room, solving a difficult geography question on an eight-year-old’s homework and breast-feeding. At the same tine. That’s not to say that women are superior beings. There’s a lot to be said for the focus men put on singular tasks. Just don’t try to interrupt a man in the middle of a monumental job. And the afore-mentioned: don’t be better at things you’d rather not be doing.

The smartest thing I ever did was to dye my husband’s underwear pink. Early on in our marriage, I threw a red garment in with his scanties and ruined the entire load. Yessss! Never did the man’s laundry again. Later, I convinced my kids that if they wanted their own clothes to emerge undyed, they’d better learn to do their own laundry themselves. I’m talking eight- and five-years-old. You can’t start too early with that sex. The five-year-old still won’t let a woman touch his laundry, and he’s 34. Whatever woman he ends up with owes me a big piece of jewelry, I’m telling you.

This evening, John is out walking the dog, sure that I won’t pee and poop him properly. Then he’s going to come back to our RV spot and make a fire. Women can’t make fires. Almost blew it last night when I suggested that poking the logs so that they were reduced to little chunks of burning wood was one sure way to put our meager little flame out fast.

What was I thinking!! A low fire is better than a roaring flame if you don’t have to do it. Why do I have such a hard time following my own rules? Will I ever learn?
B

The Elusive Oyster

August 7, 2008
Prince Edward Island

I am an oyster person. One of my favorite non-meals is to sit at the raw bar at the Fish Cellar, an appropriate pun since it is also a downstairs place, with an ice-cold martini and a wonderful variety of oysters to sample. So you can understand why we made Prince Edward Island, famed for its oysters and mussels, a go-to place.

With directions from Guy Leger, owner of the Gagnon Campground and one of about six hundred Legers in this part of Acadia, we set off on our adventure. A few wrong turns and a bunch of dirt roads later, we were at the bridge to PEI, a masterpiece of construction some 7 miles in length, and with sides just high enough that if you are in a low-riding ordinary car, you see nothing but cement walls for all 7 miles.

In back of us, the blue sky was full of puffy clouds. Just overhead, the sky was full of rain clouds. It appears that we are towing this rain cloud around with us, just so that we stay appropriately wet for our entire Canadian sojourn. Once over the bridge, we stopped at Gateway Information for a map and some tips on what to see.

What is it with Anne of Green Gables? I never read the book, but after stopping in at Information, I now know that she had red braids and a green dress, and that her author came from PEI. We eschewed a visit to that town and instead chose Charlottetown, as much because it was the darkest type on the map as because the info guy said it was a good destination and plenty of nice shopping.

We figured shoppers also eat, so with stomachs grumbling and mouths salivating for a sample of PEI delicacies, we set off.

When a Canadian tells you to visit a certain town because there was "nice shopping," don't plan on quaint little shops with sweet little restaurants serving wonderful seafood. What they mean is, there's an Old Navy, a Subways, an Enterprise Rent-a-Car, a Home Depot, Payless Shoes and several strip malls with things like auto supply stores. We drove over an hour, proceeded down Main Street, then turned around and headed back. I didn’t think Subways had oysters.

The good news is, we stopped at Victoria on the Bay, mostly because it sounded old-fashioned, and it turned out to be a charming little marina with a pub and a souvenir store.

I never did get those oysters. They weren't offered, so I ordered a lobster salad roll, which was delicious, but a half-hour later, also made me very grateful for the rest-stop before the bridge.

Nevertheless PEI, despite the pounding rain and the one strip-malled town is gorgeous. A lot like Ireland, with a veritable patchwork of green squares. And they too grow a lot of potatoes. And wheat. The golden fields looked like cashmere comforters thrown over the earth. And when we came back, the sun was out and we were treated to a spectacular sunset. A lovely day, overall.
Betty

One Thing Leads to Another

Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Dieppe, near Moncton, NB

Do you remember the poem entitled, “The House That Jack Built?” This is the cat that ate the rat that lived in the house that Jack built etc. So this morning, John was very anxious to leave early for the car dealer (Saturn, brakes, yes?), yesterday having been a big holiday with everything closed. So I skipped my shower (fine, I had one last night), threw on some clothes and started to prepare the Monster for lift-off. The pantry was open and two things had fallen out (how these things happen in the middle of the night I’ll never know). Rather than re-order the pantry, I simply took these two items and put them in the dish cabinet, then secured the doors. When I say he was in a hurry, I mean that male, leave-or-die kind of hurry.

We dropped the Saturn off and were later told we had yet another brake problem. We decided not to rent another car since we were already mobile in the RV. Instead, we made a series of visits to no less than five RV dealers, trying to also address a minor wiring problem that was leaving us horn-less. The last dealer was located deep in the heart of mud country, and when we three (Zeus too) entered the RV, solution-less again, we brought with us some of the vilest red mud you’ve ever seen.

Not to worry. I had my super secret X-rated carpet cleaner and set to work on the shoe and paw prints. Twenty sweaty minutes later, we were on our way with a clean rug, when John took a rock and the dish cabinet opened, releasing the trapped spaghetti sauce, which promptly shattered on the luxurious Corian countertop, then landed on the luxurious white brick floor, then splattered on the newly cleaned luxurious beige rug.

So much glass! So many tomatoes! So few clean spots on the rug!

Now I ask you. Who is to blame for this debacle? The man who was in too much of a hurry? The woman who let it get to her? The idiot who put the spaghetti sauce in the cabinet? The jerk who took the rock? The complete nut-job who decided to put his brand of spaghetti sauce in a glass jar? The dog who barked the entire time, then tried to consume glass-ridden spaghetti sauce? God?

It’s been an interesting day.

Betty

Tide's Out

August 4, 2008
Hopewell Rocks, NB

Although I view this blog as more monologue than travelogue, I think this is worth mentioning. The Bay of Fundy has 40 foot tides in this area of New Brunswick, and Hopewell Rocks is a real natural phenomenon and tourist draw. It was recommended to us by the Good Dad from our last RV place.

These pictures were taken at the Alma Marina at low tide, where the lobster boats are fitted with metal stands attached to their bows, so that they will remain upright when the tide goes out. They claim the highest tides in the world, and I was impressed.

Nevertheless, we passed on Hopewell Rocks itself, where the tourists can walk among some really unusual rock formations that are covered at high tide. Somehow, the idea of walking on a muddy bay bottom in the rain to see some rocks that I can appreciate equally on a postcard wasn’t a grabber.

Cruisin'

August 3, 2008
On the way to Hopewell Rocks
On the Bay of Fundy, Canada

It doesn’t get much better than this: Sitting in a recliner, feet in the air, a relatively clean (see my blog entitled “Splat”) expanse of window revealing all of New Brunswick before me, miles and miles of green trees, green fields, clean air and smooth road, cruising along to the Eagles’ “Best Of” album on a lazy Sunday. Who cares if it’s raining for the sixth day in a row. We’re dry. We have 200 miles to go. We’ll get there. Eventually. Meantime, this is heaven. “Life in the Fast Lane,” indeed.
Betty

PS - We just passed a sign on the road in front of a little house. It said “Calligraphy” and listed a phone number. Given that all we’ve seen for 400 miles are farms and forests, I imagined myself stopping and saying, “Let’s see. I think I’ll get some of those nice red tomatoes, six ears of corn, a head of lettuce, and some calligraphy.”

Woodstock Musings

August 2, 2008
Woodstock, NB

I never went to Woodstock. The real one, I mean. Not here in Canada. I was in love by then, and we were too busy with our own world. But my friends Eileen and Fred went, and they’re in the movie, she topless, sitting on the back of a truck. Woodstock, by the way, was produced by three guys, one of whom was my college friend Artie Kornfeld. In high school, I was too young for Alan Freed. Or so my parents said, but my friend Nina got to go to one of his shows in Brooklyn. She sat on her boyfriend’s shoulders. How cool was that. I never was in a protest march, never went to Alabama, never knew any Weathermen or Black Panthers, never conspired to make things change, but I was on Robert Kennedy’s list because I joined the ADA, Americans for Democratic Action, in college. I knew things were happening, and I wanted to be a part of it. But, like most of my generation, I was in the audience when it all went down. I’m sorry I don’t have better credentials for that important time. I’d like to be an old lady with a hippie headband regaling her grandchildren with stories of how she stopped a bad war, helped make the world fairer for people of color, or, for that matter, was the girl with no shirt on at the music event of the century.

The Water Fight

Yogi Bear's Jellystone Park Campground
Woodstock, New Brunswick, Canada
Saturday, August 2, 2008


What do you do with 8 little boys in a campground on a rainy Saturday morning? You have a water fight.

Just across the way from us on Boo-Boo Boulevard, there are four pop-up campers side by side, each with at least two little boys, one dog and some little girls, although they remain inside, peeking through the mesh windows.

It has rained over night, torrents and torrents, and it is still sprinkling. There are puddles everywhere, but the well-tended asphalt road is relatively clear, and the soldiers are waiting patiently while their weapons are filled at the pump.

The equipment is amazing. I spot at least six different water bazookas, a couple of pistols, two plastic buckets and some kind of water container that is so heavy the big kid holding it can hardly move.

They stand in a circle in the street, guns at the ready. The Dad, a big guy in a black T-shirt, signals the beginning of the battle. Everybody shoots. Most of them miss. They’re running around, squealing with happiness and it seems, trying to be shot more than shoot someone else.

The battle rages for well over an hour. Dad is the General, the teacher, and the filler-upper. He’s indefatigable. He has filled everybody’s water gun at least seven times in all the time I’ve been watching, and he doesn’t sit on the sidelines, either. He’s right in there with the crew, evening out the odds for the little guys and taking some shots in the back too. “Not me, not me,” he yells in mock consternation as the kids shriek with laughter.

The dog, a big yellow Lab, barks nonstop and nobody seems to mind. People from the other side of the park come to watch, and some have their own water guns, inspired to join by the sheer good nature of the fight.

I notice Dad switching the kids’ guns. Everybody gets a turn with a bazooka, even the littlest ones, who can barely hold the things, much less shoot them.

“Everybody get the big guy,” yells Dad, and they all take off after another Dad who gives them a good chase and finally allows them to soak him.

A park ranger, remember this is Jellystone Park Campground, comes by on her golf cart, and Dad takes no prisoners. “Everybody get the ranger,” he cries, and she drives off soaked to the skin, laughing. I wonder if she’s done this before.

The littlest guy in the group is now a good 150 feet from the fray, still running down the road, and every so often, turning to shoot his tiny pistol. I don’t think he realizes that nobody knows he’s gone. I hope he won’t run too far. Then I see another camper step forward, gently turn him around and head him towards home.

Eventually everybody gets tired, and they stand in a circle around Dad, who ritually douses each kid with a bucketful of water, so that nobody goes home less than drenched. It’s proof that each child had a hell of a time on a day that could have been a dog, a drag and a downer.

Instead, it’s been a great morning. And as fun as it has been, there have been good lessons taught here, about having healthy fun, about sharing, about picking on somebody your own size, about when to back off, and about how to parent like a champion. I’d like to clone this guy.
Betty

Splat

August 1, 2008
On the road from Quebec to New Brunswick

Every bus driver in the world knows this, but it’s news to me. When you are driving a vehicle that has a straight up-and-down front and no projecting hood to divert the air stream up and over the roof, every bug that happens to be in your path ends up splattered across your windshield. Now I recognize that car travelers experience bug splat too, but not in the sheer numbers and size of splat. Bug insides are generally yellow. They must consist of sugar, digestive juices and Crazy Glue, because if they sit on your hot windshield for longer than 15 seconds, they become permanent. A thorough dowsing with spray followed by a few swipes of the windshield wiper only extends the size of splat, and for some reason, its density. Soon you find yourself viewing the world through a 2x3 inch space in a 3x8 foot window. So much for scenic vistas. When you get to your destination, you haul out the special broom that you dip in soapy water, and you scrub scrub and scrub some more. If you happen to have a ladder with you, you can get up close to the splat and use a razor to chip away at the most resistant ones, but all the while, you are thinking that this is the perfect example of wasted effort, because the minute you turn the key in the ignition, every bug within fifteen miles will hear its clarion call and come to put its mark on your nice clean windshield. And so it goes.