I Love A Parade

I know St. Patrick's Day is long over. But it was such a gorgeous day around these parts, and New London has the cutest parade ever, I just had to revisit it.

New London's St. Patrick's Day Parade is 17 minutes long.

No, not 17 miles . . .

17 minutes . . .

17 minutes of pure awesomeness . . .

17 minutes of pure joyousness.

17 minutes of green and shamrocks and leprechauns and blarney . . .

. . . led by those fabulous New London High School Marching Whalers . . .

. . . and watched by the many good citizens of New London.

Just look at the fun the good citizens of New London had that day:

The peeps loved the parade -- who doesn't love a parade? -- and came out in throngs.

And when the 17 minutes was over? That's when the fun really began.

Weekend 3-Way: Madness

Ah, March Madness. The best sports event of the year.

Okay, maybe not for my San Diego co-bloggers, who do not love the Madness, especially this year, I'm guessing, after their Aztecs of SDSU went down in the first round.

And actually, I'm a UConn fan, and our poor Connecticut Huskies just sucked the life out of themselves this year. Whatever that means.

But regardless, it's such a pure and true tournament. 64 teams to 32 to 16 to 8 to . . . you get the idea. You lose? You're out. You win? You're in. Say no more.

No wait! Do say more! Tell us what you think. And if you hate march madness, my glorious and beautific co-bloggers, as much as I think you do, then just tell us a tale of madness in general.

Ellie:
I love it. It *is* my favorite sports time of the year. Well, I really love the World Series too, but that's so distantly in the future -- baseball season hasn't even started yet -- so this is it, for me.

I love that the boys play the hoops so hard and they're all just throwing it out there and there are moments of athletic genius, but mostly? I love the upsets. I was rooting so hard for Robert Bobby Bob Morris against Villanova the other day. To no avail. But then St. Mary's won. Which even got my Aunt Kitty to post a facebook update. They'd not won a game in the tournament since 1959. And they're in Moraga, CA, and it's the most bucolic, unassuming, beautiful college campus you ever did see. I rode by it doing the Moraga - Lafayette - Orinda triangle on my glorious friend Patti's bike a couple of years ago. St. Mary's? Really? Go Gaels.

Oh, and one more. The Racers from Murray State. I do not know what The Racers are, and I refuse to look it up. I just know this: How can you not root for a team called the Racers?

Right?

Jacquie:

Wait....... What?

Beth

Oh Jacquie, you know I have no earthly. To me it's all dribble, dribble, drivel.

I am betting, however, that Pat and Central PA will leave nice long comments this weekend.

legacy of the junky place

As my kids get older, I am beginning to notice certain parallels between their childhood experiences and my own. Of course, they will never have the chance to experience the pure goofy joy that only a child of the 70s can understand, but they have their own spirit of weirdness that will surely serve to someday make them superior to their own offspring.

It will be interesting to see if the parallels I see between my youth and theirs will carry on to the next generation. I’d also like to know if any of this nonsense was employed by the generation that bore us, although I suspect that they were much too sensible for such folly, what with the depressing depression and all.

We had this thing about naming things in a somewhat… shall we say… uninspired manner. There was a corner of our backyard that had no purpose other than to put stuff. It wasn’t like Sanford and Sons stuff, there were no old broken Ford pick ups or dilapidated toilet seats, but it was a place for junk and was thus called… The Junky Place. The other side of our backyard was where you could find The Path. If ever you were lost on a desperate quest to get from Bettswood to Morgan, you needn’t have feared, for there was A Path.

My kids have names for certain areas of our yard and neighborhood as well. There’s The Poo Patch, which needs no further explanation. And there’s Bunny Corner, also no mystery there but you’d better hold tight to the reins when you walk the dog around that bend.

As kids, we once found a dead squirrel still clutching the wee branch that had been unable to save it from the death drop to our front yard. We had a very elaborate funeral service for this poor critter, whom we named “Squirrely Taylor”.

My kids name their stuffed animals. Let’s see, there’s Big. And Little. There’s Yellowey. There’s Brownie. There’s Big Bunny. And of course there’s Art-Art. Say that one out loud, from your diaphragm. Art-Art is a seal.

Tonight when my girl set the table (she remembered everything except silverware), she commented that we always sit in the same spots. I was all: “yeah, those are our SPOTS.” Duh. I had to draw them a diagram of the spots we had around our table of eight growing up. Dad-Ann-Me-Ellie-Mom-Julie-Jane-MB (Counter-clockwise from dad). I only griped briefly about the injustice that forced Jane and me onto the lowly stools. We were too young and insignificant to be worthy of seats with backs. Ageists!

Coreys: my girl offered me the perfect set-up by asking “What shape was your table?” all together now: NICE OVAL!

The most striking evidence of our parallel experiences has got to be the faces. Julie was the master, dedicating countless hours to the perfection of her face contortions in front of the bathroom mirror, but all of us had an unusual tendency to punctuate most sentences with a ligering and inexplicably gooberific face. And God help me, my kids do it too.

But the best one is the singing. Singing along, singing out, and singing things that might more traditionally be said. Tonight, someone sang: “I have fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaactions in my hoooooooooooooooooooooomework!” Complete with operatic inflections and dramatic arm choreography.

Top that, children of 2030.

March-ing into summer

Ah, March, the month in which spring arrives and our clocks are moved forward by one hour, providing us with that extra daylight at the end of our busy days. Don't you just love it? I do.

But March is also the time to look forward – because although it welcomes spring, it’s also the month to plan for summer.

In my case that means figuring out what the kiddos are going to do all summer long. And basically there’s a one-word answer: camps. Lots of camps.

When I first went back to work fulltime I felt exceedingly guilty about shipping my oldest daughter off to seemingly endless day camps. One week here, one week there, the next somewhere else. I worried there was not enough consistency, that she’d struggle to make new friends each week, that she’d misplace her lunch, or get sunburned, or sick, or lost.

But I was wrong. She loves camps (and has never once been lost, at least that I know of). In fact, she’s asked to go back to almost every camp she’s attended, so much so, that we can’t fit them all in the schedule.

But I ask you, who wouldn’t like to pick from this (very partial) lineup:

• Multisport camp at the Mission Bay aquatic Center (think a wakeboarding, tubing, surfing, kayaking, sailing rotation)
• Sea World (a whole week of behind-the-scenes looks at the animal attractions, rides, etc.)
• San Diego Zoo (ditto)
• San Diego Junior Theater (the oldest continuing children’s theater in the United States, where they have a specific teacher for voice, dance, and theater each day)
• Metro Dance camp (ballet, tap, jazz, hip hop, hula, and cheer)
• Girl Scouts camp (located on a ten-acre site in the northwest corner of Balboa Park, surrounded by trees and grass, where they sing songs and get all kumbaya)
• Claytime Ceramics (where daily inside arts activities are balanced with walks to the tide pools and beach)

I ask you, are these kids not downright spolied?

I just hope they don't get too spoiled for sleepover camp...

May The Road Rise Up To Meet You....

Whenever we travel, and are heading home, Mistah makes us play "Top Ten". "What are your Top Ten moments from the Vitamin D Tour?" he might say. "Top Ten" is similar to "High Point, Low Point", in that one thinks about and qualifies moments, but it's different, because instead of having to come up with just one high point, you have to come up with ten overall points. (Um, duh). It's actually a great way to remember days that might instead run together and grow fuzzy. Plus, it's fun.

A different version of "Top Ten" is remembering where we were, during our years on the road, on specific dates and holidays, like birthdays and Christmas and New Year's. And St. Patrick's Day. Happy St. Patrick's Day! In honor of this illustrious day, let's take a stroll back in time, shall we? And revisit those random places where the Mistah and I have celebrated our mutual half-Irishness.

2001: We were in the Florida Keys for several months when we first started traveling, and the day before St. Patrick's Day in 2001 we made an unexpected trip to Miami with a couple of friends. Where we immediately crashed the Biltmore Hotel pool in Coral Gables. I traveled to Miami a lot, and stayed at the Biltmore a lot, during my prior work years; I knew my way around that joint. I also got to go to a fancy party that evening. My poor boys didn't, but I brought glasses of champers and plates of food to them out by the pool. Of course I had a fancy dress to wear! We made a point to travel with fancy (well, fancy enough) clothes in our Westy, for just such a moment (Dress, sadly, not pictured. Too bad, too, because I looked good).

2002: This isn't St. Patrick's Day either -- it's a couple of days before. Why do I have so many photos of St. Patrick's Day Eve? We were at the Key West Airport, picking up my sisters Mary Beth and Julie, who'd rented a house in Key West for a week with their respective beaux . . .

. . . and who invited us to park the Westy in said rental house's driveway. What a treat! For us, sure, but for them? Oh yes. On St. Patrick's Day proper we went to Irish Kevin's on Duval Street. Of course we did. Those guys walked; Mistah and I rode our bikes. And Julie and I ran together at 7:30 the next morning.

2003: The day before St. Patrick's Day (natch) in Bahia de los Angeles on the eastern coast of the Baja Peninsula (called by many Americans -- but not by me -- the Bay of L.A.) I'll tell you one thing about Mexicans: they are an awesome, warm, friendly people. I'll tell you another: they don't give a hoot about St. Patty's Day. Not a whit.

They do, however boast the cardon cactus, which is the tallest cactus in the world. And I love Mexican beer, so all was forgiven.

2004: Down one kidney, we found ourselves in West Texas, in Big Bend National Park. The West Texans care about St. Patrick's Day almost as much as the Mexicans do. But Big Bend's got incredible beauty, and awesome hiking trails, so all was forgiven then, too.

2005: Back in West Texas. Why, oh why do we spend so many St. Patrick's Days in places that don't care about St. Patrick? Or the Irish? Or celebrating both? We had a lovely cook-out with Donna (who we'd met in Big Bend the previous year) and her kids, though, at the Davis Mountains State Park right up the road from our house in Fort Davis, so, well, all was forgiven. Donna and her daughter Holly both have green eyes; that helped.

I've always thought my niece Chapel Hill Girl should marry Donna's son Hayden. I've really got to introduce those two.....

2006: Gold Head Branch State Park, in the north central ridge of Florida (where, astoundingly, there are hills, yes hills, in Florida) . . .

. . . where finally, finally, we made our own party. With two kinds of Guinness. Extra Stout and Draught. And fabulous decorations.

2007: There was a giant snowstorm the day before (ahem) St. Patrick's Day in Hebron CT, and somehow I was out taking a stroll in in with My Girl Nancy. We'd driven to Connecticut from Florida for my aunt Uffie's funeral, and ended up staying a few weeks. Our unexpected and incredibly cool week-long dog-sitting gig in a fabulous apartment on the Upper West Side in New York City totally made up for a measly snowstorm, though . . .

. . . plus, when we woke up and looked out the window at Nancy's, we saw this . . .

. . . and this. One of my favorite Mistah Schleckah shots ever. Taken on St. Patrick's Day.

2008: Back in Fort Davis, Texas (sigh). There was no party, there was no parade, there was no sing-a-long at the local Irish pub. Because there is no local Irish pub. So we had a picnic in the Davis Mountains instead . . .

. . . and marveled at spring in the desert, cholla cactus style.

2009: Finally, we landed at a place where people care about St. Patrick's Day. Connecticut. Where we have fabulous memories of this most excellent holiday when we were kids, which were so beautifully and hilariously articulated by Jacquie last year.

And, specifically, New London, where we now live, where there's a parade, resplendent with our own New London High School Marching Whalers.

. . . and where I am an employee. At our local Tavern. Where the peeps drink all the day in true, admirable, over-the-top fashion. I had never worked in a bar on St. Patrick's Day before last year; it changed me forever.

And today? I'm doing it again.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I don't know who to blame, but someone appears to be raising these kids right

Doofiness aside, sometimes my kids really impress me. Their grandparents came for a visit last weekend, which is always cause for great excitement. There is something so special about time with grandparents, and living far away from both sets makes our visits even more precious. It can be challenging to plan activities that successfully span an age span of over 70 years, so we generally just focus on the timeless joys of eating and swimming. We’re actually going to get to see all four grandparents this month, and Bill’s folks were first.
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Bill’s mom took a bad fall a couple of years ago, and suffered a head injury that has had lingering effects that leave her a bit confused at times. There is now a frequent cycle of repetition in our interactions that requires incredible patience and understanding. I would have thought that the kids would be quick to run short of those skills, but that is not at all the case. As wrenching as it must be for my husband to see his mother so changed, the aftermath of this last visit has found us reflecting about little other than our amazing children. They both fell so naturally into the role of gentle caregivers, needing no explanation about why it was necessary for them to give information and answers to questions that should have been – and once were - well known by their grandmother. My girl was particularly sweet and indulgent and careful. She somehow slowed and moved with a purpose that is certainly not her norm. She and her Mimi have something special. It pulls my heart in a thousand ways.

And then for the double whammy of unavoidable maturity, the day has arrived. Family Life started this week. We’d been joking about it even more than usual as of late, my boy displaying awkward anticipation at the promise of impending manhood that this rite of passage precludes. His sister provides our comic relief with her uncensored interpretation of matters well beyond her years. She thinks puberty is mostly about armpit hair. One day last week, we were driving home with one moody and one demented back seat passenger, and in the course of asking my boy why he was so glum I suggested that he was perhaps feeling the effects of early puberty. My girl sympathetically asked him: “Are you sad about your armpit hair?”

.

On Sunday I asked my boy to join me on an errand, and I had him sit up front with me so we could talk. We were going to Target to pick up some of the stuff I had volunteered to contribute to the family life “goody bags” (get your minds out of the gutter, it’s deodorant and chocolate). He also had a birthday gift card to spend. We were barely out of the driveway before I hit him with the real reason for this one-on-one outing. And he was trapped! I didn’t go into too much detail, but I insisted that he let me tell him a few things despite his insistence that he would prefer to just learn it at Family Life. It was hard to gauge his reaction; he said that he already knew some of the stuff I was talking about. We were both relieved when I agreed to change the subject. At Target, he had very important business in the electronics department and he invited me to take my time looking at bathing suits.

.

Driving home, it was my boy who brought us back to the topic of family life. He said he didn't understand why everyone was being so weird about it, seems like it's important stuff for people to know about when they grow up.

.

He helped me put the bags together on Sunday night, and when I dropped him off at school on Monday morning, he flashed me a smile when I sent him off with a cheery: “good luck, champ!”

Bye bye, baby.

Monday moaning: cancer sucks

Pnemonia too.

I realize this is not a revelation to anyone, but I’m saying it anyway.

It’s no secret that cancer can suck the life out of any one of us, whether we’re older people, healthy young adults, or even small children.

It’s also no secret that most people put up a good fight, and many, many people have beaten cancer, at least in the short-term. But the hard, cold truth is that many people end up succumbing to the disease that they have so courageously battled, sometimes for years. Their immune systems are not what they once were, and an illness that would lay most of us up for a day or two, can be a death sentence for a cancer survivor.

My child’s teacher died last week. He was teaching the Friday before, but was absent on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday morning I answered my phone to hear the completely surprising news.

Shock. Sadness. Worry. Sadness. Confusion. Disbelief.

But fact, nonetheless.

He was an incredible teacher. He’d already organized a Publishing Party and Talent Show, which he spent his weekends working on with the kids, and both of which were like nothing else I’ve ever witnessed in this public school system. The second Publishing Party was (and still is) scheduled for this week. He was planning the Olympic Games for April, and a second Talent Show at the end of the school year.

He was intense and driven, and inspiring, and would end 7- and 8-point emails to the parents with words like this:

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE DONE TO ALLOW YOUR CHILD TO GO THROUGH THIS PROCESS. YOUR HELP AND DEDICATION TO YOUR KIDS WILL ENSURE THEY BECOME HIGHLY CONFIDENT AND SUCCESSFUL ADULTS. THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!

Thank you very much? Uh, thank us? No, thank you. Thank YOU very much.

I checked how many emails he sent to us parents -- 63 in total. 63 mass emails by mid-March.

He was incredibly committed, and enthusiastic, and seemed to genuinely enjoy life, and the kids, and his job, which he viewed as inspiring them to become writers.

Here’s how he ended an interview in 2002, before his diagnosis:

What advice do you give your students?
There are opportunities in life for everyone, it’s a matter of working hard and doing your best. Don’t get too attached to negativity. If you want to accomplish your goals and overcome barriers, you can.

And he did, for years.

He was 43.

Weekend 3 way: Give me all your money

Tis the season to shell out, cough up, and dig way down deep into those pockets.

It’s spring time -- season of the dreaded eagerly awaited school fundraiser.

I’m not sure why schools decided that spring was the best time for school fundraisers, but the big ones all seem to fall between March and May. At least around here.

Case in point, I'm late in donating my contribution to my kids' classroom's silent auction baskets. It's Monday morning or never.

But even if you don't currently have kids in school, you're not immune to the relentless open palm of the school system. The neighborhood kids come hawking wrapping paper in late September, your friend's kid begs you to sponsor her jog-a-thon in April, and your nieces and nephews want you to sell your hair for money in June.

What I'm wondering, is just what is it that DOES get you to give? What money makers work on you? Is it the shiny new beach cruiser during the live auction, the silent auction's largest basket of booze, the original artwork by your very own Picasso, or those ubiquitous buttered bread braids in all their wretched flavors?

Pony up.

Beth:
Well I do have to admit that a shiny beach cruiser would be tempting, especially if it were a kids' shiny beach cruiser. I would likely bid on that way past it's retail price. I'd also drop some money on a good weekend trip (although you're always taking a risk on the quality of the accommodations, right, Kendra?).

I'm also a sucker for photography packages, you know, the sitting fee is waived and you get one measly prints free, then you end up spending $200 plus dollars anyway? Yeah, I go for those.

My oldest daughter's basket theme this year is 3rd - 5th grade level books, which I actually think is brilliant, as it's so easy to contribute to, and it's going to be loaded with amazing reads. I'll be bidding on this, regardless of the fact that I have an extremely reluctant reader. I would likely bid even higher for a loaded basket of adult books. (Note to self for next year.)

But the buttered bread braids, they simply do not tempt me.

Jacquie:
Buttered bread braids? what the...? I've never heard of such an atrocity. But fundraising, yeah it's a drag. I feel no pressure whatsoever to contribute to other people's kids' causes. My kids attend a tiny, broke, arts based charter school - anything I've got to contribute is going straight into their coffers. Thankfully, this school does not participate in individual student catalogue sales. For our size, the profit would never be worth the effort. We do more grass roots, high yield endeavors like our art auction, one fancy evening event with a godforsaken auction, and a big annual campaign that involves flat out begging for donations. I was unable to attend this year's gala (awwwww), but I shelled out big bucks for a 1 in 125 chance to win a trip to Spain. I also purchased an afternoon of movies and treats for the kids with one of the school's most fun and loved teachers. And a bunch of damn raffle tickets that didn't amount to diddly-squat. So to answer Beth's question, I'm most likely to pony up for good odds or a sure thing like the teacher activity. In the past, I've been known to bid on auction baskets when the goods are something I can use but might not splurge on, like fancy dog boarding or a bunch of board games.

May I just say that the girl scout cookie sale is officially over this weekend?! Yeeeefreaking HAW. Final count was 250. And SHIT I just realized that I neglected to turn in the final $$ envelope on Friday!

Ellie:

I've never heard of a buttered bread braid, either. It sounds repulsive, especially if it's wretchedly flavored.

But, actually can I talk more about buttered bread braids? Because I got nothin' to add to the school fund-raising debate. I think early on in my career as an auntie I got hit up for wrapping paper drives, magazine subscription drives, and swim-a-thons, but we were always on the road, so my answer was always "Sorry, honey, I'd love a subscription to Men's Health, but my Westy is on the move, and the mailman will never be able to find us." I guess it worked, because now that I think about it, I've not been hit up for years. (I can hear my sisters now: "No, honey, Aunt Ellie's not mean, not really, she's just broke, and, well, okay, maybe a little mean.")

So, sorry nieces and nephews, sorry friends' kids, sorry your school is broke because of my years on the road. But may I just say? Florida 2010 Road Trip. $582 over budget. There goes the Christmas wrapping paper.

Fairie Light Wands

Camping in the woods can be very fun, and very rewarding.

You think you're just hanging out and alone . . . bam!

Little light fairies start painting the scene with their fairie light wands.

They're iridescent light fairies, which makes them all the more special.

One minute you're basking by the campfire . . .

. . . and the next thing you know, bam. Light fairies appear, working their magic.

But wait. It gets better . . .

One minute there's one Mistah Schlekcah . . .

. . . and the next thing you know . . . bam! There're two Mistahs . . .

. . . well not fully two . . .

. . . more like one-and-a-half Mistah Schleckahs.

I don't know how they do it, those light fairies. I go out into the woods, and I end up with a Mistah and a half .

I love camping.