Croton Point Park
If this isn’t the worst Friday night I have ever spent in my life, it has got to be up there with those others that for now I don’t remember, grumpy as I am with this particular one. No, I’m not complaining.
Yes I am! Of course I’m complaining. I have a right to. I didn’t ask for this Friday night, and I didn’t expect it. I just got it. John is away and I'm dealing with this all by myself.
First of all, it’s 92 degrees in this bus. I am wearing as little as I can without becoming a campground stripper, but it doesn’t do much good. The washcloth I soaked with cold water is actually mildewing as I write. It’s so hot the dog took a nap at nine this morning and hasn’t stirred since. He’s not dead, I don't think.
What happened was this: Yesterday I wanted to go to NYC, so I washed my hair. Of course I did. You always wash for the big time, don’t you? We had all three air conditioners on, so John turned on the generator so I could use my hair dryer.
Suddenly all three air conditioners went dead. Was this my fault, I ask you? Not really, I learned today. We just shouldn’t have tried to air-condition the entire coach when we were plugged in to 30 amps.
Who knew from amps? It was working, the coach was cool, and I wanted to dry my hair. No biggie, I thought.
Apparently it was such a drain on the campground’s meager electrical supply that once we switched over to generator power, it didn’t know what to do with all that electricity, so a power surge occurred, frying the outside hookup and almost causing a fire, and apparently killing all our A/C compressors. God knows what that will cost.
So the nice guys from the county park came over and spent almost the entire day working on the outside hookup. They got it fixed, and that’s when I learned the trouble wasn't just outside; it was inside too. So now I have power, but only fans, and no air-condish. OMG it’s 92 in here.
Meanwhile, I did what housework I needed to do, which was basically washing some dishes, and Phil the park worker came to the door. His face was pale. Funny I hadn't notice that before.
“Did you just use the bathroom?” he asked.
I told him, no, I’d done the dishes. The relief was immediately apparent. “Oh,” he said, “because you’ve got a leak in your sewer line and it just soaked my pants up to the knees.”
Eyuuuu. Or maybe phew. It wasn't the bad water. It was good water.
Then I looked down at my hands, and the dish-washing (seriously, two glasses, a pot and a dish, give me a break) had managed to chip two brand new French manicured nails – which I had done yesterday, at a cost of $40.
“Sorry,” I said, “Keep on working. I’ve got an emergency.” I jumped in the car. I decided I wouldn’t go back to the original nail parlor. It was too far, and I was too hot, and they were too lame at French manicures. I went locally.
Ah. It was air-conditioned.
I sat for a heavenly 45 minutes, decided I’d get the whole manicure completely redone – because after all, when I do the dishes tomorrow, I’ll probably chip another two fingernails.
Joy fixed my nails, Pat gave me a backrub, and Lee the owner charged me $80.
What!!!!! I’ve never paid that much for a manicure, even a costly gel manicure like I usually get. Tops is $40. But this time, to keep my fingers looking well-tended, I have thrown away $120.
Not only that, the air conditioner fixer (or almost-fixer, if you will) deserved a tip, so I gave him a bottle of water, then a beer, then $20, then one of my favorite necklace creations for his wife. Then his two assistants were looking sort of left out, so I gave them each a pair of sterling silver earrings from my collection.
This day has cost me in the neighborhood of $250 and it’s still 92 degrees in here.
You’d be grumpy too.
I was going to treat myself to dinner out, but instead I settled for Kraft mac n' cheese, not the healthiest dinner, but comfort food at least.
I think I’ll take myself to a movie. But only if I can sneak Zeus in; we're compatriots in this rotten Friday. And if I’m lucky, they won’t notice I’ve brought my jammies and pillow too. I'll let you know.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Gift of Needing
Susquehanna Valley, PA
On our Way to the Poconos
The best gift you can ever give to a friend is to say, “Please come, I need you.” I am only now just learning the truth of this in practice, although I was once the giver of this gift without being particularly aware of it.
When my son Jonathan died, I was devastated. Beyond that. There aren’t words to express how his sudden passing affected me. I was helpless. So grief-struck, my entire body ached. My arms, suddenly empty of his beautiful presence, actually hurt. I forgot to arrange for his burial. I forgot to put a notice in the paper. I forgot to tell my friends. I didn’t eat for six days. I had to be prompted to exist, it seemed.
javascript:void(0)
And yet, here was my brother and John’s brother, both driving some 70 miles at breakneck speed just to be with us when we went to the funeral home. Here was my sister, staying in a motel, for god’s sake, just to be close if I needed her. Here were my friends, answering the phone, cooking meals, keeping lists, making arrangements, sitting quietly with me, while their own families made due without mom and dad at home. I needed every one of them and I was in no condition to even ask. But I never said no.
At the graveside, I invited everyone to come back to the house, as is the tradition. Then I realized I had made no plans, bought no food, hadn’t cleaned, didn’t know if we had liquor or soda, or for that matter, even water. And yet, when we got home, there was a feast. The table groaned with the casseroles, meat platters, breads, drinks and desserts. A sweet acquaintance, the father of one of Jon's friends, brought huge trays of pasta and meats and god only knows what all from his restaurant. Another friend stayed away from the funeral to keep an eye on our house, knowing that sometimes people are robbed when they are at a funeral. How kind of him.
The police escorted us to and from the church, stopping the entire town’s commerce for us and for our son, the same kid who had made their lives more difficult just a few years earlier with his teenage hijinks. And yet, they were there when we needed them.
Now, some 16 years later, I still carry the memory of everyone's generosity and their selfless gifts of themselves when I needed it most. But I never realized how much of a gift I had given them. I say this with all humility, but it is true. Today I had a friend tell me, “Please come, I need you.” The situation is dire, and they will hear today whether there is hope or whether they should prepare for the end. It will mean that we may be delayed another day, but what is a day when a life’s course is being decided. If we can go to them and hold them in their hour of need, is that not a gift of great measure?
I’m going to stop and buy a twelve-pack of a great new beer we’ve discovered, get it icy cold, and drink it with them. We’ll drink to life, either way. I won’t know until we get there, and the news may be more than I want to deal with, but I’ll do it because they have more to handle than we do, and if we can help them shoulder this burden, that’s a mitzvah, as they say in Yiddish. A good thing. A gift that gives back, filling the heart with love, and the knowledge that someone needed you, and you were able to be there for them.
On our Way to the Poconos
The best gift you can ever give to a friend is to say, “Please come, I need you.” I am only now just learning the truth of this in practice, although I was once the giver of this gift without being particularly aware of it.
When my son Jonathan died, I was devastated. Beyond that. There aren’t words to express how his sudden passing affected me. I was helpless. So grief-struck, my entire body ached. My arms, suddenly empty of his beautiful presence, actually hurt. I forgot to arrange for his burial. I forgot to put a notice in the paper. I forgot to tell my friends. I didn’t eat for six days. I had to be prompted to exist, it seemed.
javascript:void(0)
And yet, here was my brother and John’s brother, both driving some 70 miles at breakneck speed just to be with us when we went to the funeral home. Here was my sister, staying in a motel, for god’s sake, just to be close if I needed her. Here were my friends, answering the phone, cooking meals, keeping lists, making arrangements, sitting quietly with me, while their own families made due without mom and dad at home. I needed every one of them and I was in no condition to even ask. But I never said no.
At the graveside, I invited everyone to come back to the house, as is the tradition. Then I realized I had made no plans, bought no food, hadn’t cleaned, didn’t know if we had liquor or soda, or for that matter, even water. And yet, when we got home, there was a feast. The table groaned with the casseroles, meat platters, breads, drinks and desserts. A sweet acquaintance, the father of one of Jon's friends, brought huge trays of pasta and meats and god only knows what all from his restaurant. Another friend stayed away from the funeral to keep an eye on our house, knowing that sometimes people are robbed when they are at a funeral. How kind of him.
The police escorted us to and from the church, stopping the entire town’s commerce for us and for our son, the same kid who had made their lives more difficult just a few years earlier with his teenage hijinks. And yet, they were there when we needed them.
Now, some 16 years later, I still carry the memory of everyone's generosity and their selfless gifts of themselves when I needed it most. But I never realized how much of a gift I had given them. I say this with all humility, but it is true. Today I had a friend tell me, “Please come, I need you.” The situation is dire, and they will hear today whether there is hope or whether they should prepare for the end. It will mean that we may be delayed another day, but what is a day when a life’s course is being decided. If we can go to them and hold them in their hour of need, is that not a gift of great measure?
I’m going to stop and buy a twelve-pack of a great new beer we’ve discovered, get it icy cold, and drink it with them. We’ll drink to life, either way. I won’t know until we get there, and the news may be more than I want to deal with, but I’ll do it because they have more to handle than we do, and if we can help them shoulder this burden, that’s a mitzvah, as they say in Yiddish. A good thing. A gift that gives back, filling the heart with love, and the knowledge that someone needed you, and you were able to be there for them.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Slow Movin' Shooters
As I sit here in Elysburg, Pennsylvania, two tables of jewels that I spent hours and hours making now lying in the sun and sparkling at all who pass by – and they are indeed passing by – I am struck by the shapes and sizes of the American trap enthusiast.
I estimate that the median age of the American trap shooter is 68, and the average shape is potato. The usual outfit, not surprisingly, is a t-shirt and jeans or shorts, with a baseball cap advertising something. This is most often topped off with a shooting vest, one of those cotton and mesh contraptions with a million pockets, loops and snaps which are meant to accommodate shooting paraphernalia. Most shooters are men, but increasingly, women are trying their luck at eagle-eye marksmanship and doing quite well. I predict that one day there will be no ladies’ events and no men’s events – just people events. Which women will win, as we are very keen of eye and quite adept at watching two things at once, a prerequisite for excellence in doubles shooting.
What’s most interesting about the American shooter is the pace of his stride. Turtle doesn’t begin to describe it. When you can count one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two between each footstep, you know that’s a slow walker. As a sociological group, women haven’t quite mastered the pace, but I do see them slowing down, and unfortunately, gaining weight as they walk, the negative caloric impact of their perambulatory rhythms showing up before they even finish the promenade. The way we women gain weight, you can easily go from size 10 to size 14 by the end of a shooter’s walk.
The sad side for me about women shooters is they tend to eschew the bling in favor of the sexy shorts, tees and tiny vests. So nobody’s buying from Betty. The other category is wife-of-shooter, who so far have viewed and commented on the jewelry, but have not ponied up the dough. The usual comment is, “Pretty things. But I don’t have my wallet.”
Then what are you carrying in that big satchel? And by the effing way, why are you wearing four-inch heels at a trap shoot? And I’m not talking about first-timers, either. Those women you can forgive, but it’s the ones who I’ve seen several times before, who seem to think this is a runway event, and they must dress accordingly. And still, they don’t buy jewels! Who then, I have to ask myself.
Where is my consumer target? Probably manning the many booths that sell guns (of course), gun equipment, t-shirts, vests, sweat shirts, baseball hats, watches with little guns on their faces, RV equipment, gloves, shoes, sneakers and various other male-type must-haves. My next-door neighbor Patty is selling shooting glasses, oversized specs with lenses of yellow, orange, red and purple, the better to see the target with my dear. She’s been a lot of fun to talk with, and she’s helped me pass the hours happily frying in the sun because it’s so windy my canopy wouldn’t stand a chance.
And just because I decided to give my incredibly astute observations about shooters, two young, and three skinny, ones have just passed by. I may well have to change my opening paragraph. No, now that I look up from my keyboard, that was just an aberration. Here come six more potatoes. I could write a novel by the time they pass this table. And aren’t you lucky I don’t have it in me today
I estimate that the median age of the American trap shooter is 68, and the average shape is potato. The usual outfit, not surprisingly, is a t-shirt and jeans or shorts, with a baseball cap advertising something. This is most often topped off with a shooting vest, one of those cotton and mesh contraptions with a million pockets, loops and snaps which are meant to accommodate shooting paraphernalia. Most shooters are men, but increasingly, women are trying their luck at eagle-eye marksmanship and doing quite well. I predict that one day there will be no ladies’ events and no men’s events – just people events. Which women will win, as we are very keen of eye and quite adept at watching two things at once, a prerequisite for excellence in doubles shooting.
What’s most interesting about the American shooter is the pace of his stride. Turtle doesn’t begin to describe it. When you can count one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two between each footstep, you know that’s a slow walker. As a sociological group, women haven’t quite mastered the pace, but I do see them slowing down, and unfortunately, gaining weight as they walk, the negative caloric impact of their perambulatory rhythms showing up before they even finish the promenade. The way we women gain weight, you can easily go from size 10 to size 14 by the end of a shooter’s walk.
The sad side for me about women shooters is they tend to eschew the bling in favor of the sexy shorts, tees and tiny vests. So nobody’s buying from Betty. The other category is wife-of-shooter, who so far have viewed and commented on the jewelry, but have not ponied up the dough. The usual comment is, “Pretty things. But I don’t have my wallet.”
Then what are you carrying in that big satchel? And by the effing way, why are you wearing four-inch heels at a trap shoot? And I’m not talking about first-timers, either. Those women you can forgive, but it’s the ones who I’ve seen several times before, who seem to think this is a runway event, and they must dress accordingly. And still, they don’t buy jewels! Who then, I have to ask myself.
Where is my consumer target? Probably manning the many booths that sell guns (of course), gun equipment, t-shirts, vests, sweat shirts, baseball hats, watches with little guns on their faces, RV equipment, gloves, shoes, sneakers and various other male-type must-haves. My next-door neighbor Patty is selling shooting glasses, oversized specs with lenses of yellow, orange, red and purple, the better to see the target with my dear. She’s been a lot of fun to talk with, and she’s helped me pass the hours happily frying in the sun because it’s so windy my canopy wouldn’t stand a chance.
And just because I decided to give my incredibly astute observations about shooters, two young, and three skinny, ones have just passed by. I may well have to change my opening paragraph. No, now that I look up from my keyboard, that was just an aberration. Here come six more potatoes. I could write a novel by the time they pass this table. And aren’t you lucky I don’t have it in me today
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