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This post has all kinds of things that HR people aren't supposed to spill. We are sworn to a secrecy similar to an NDA, (which are hopefully going away soon). No longer in. HR I couldn't figure out a way to explain how important Marion is to me without giving you some of the grizzlies.
The first clue appeared when Irving was sipping his tea on the day we’d met, his pinky sticking out in perplexing, almost humorous contrast to his shiny, badly cut navy blue suit which could well have had an American Airlines insignia in a prior life.
But the most surprising thing was the noise when he drank, similar to that of a child when their milkshake is finished but there’s more to get out of the bottom. I looked to his face to see if it was a joke, then to Mike, expecting to lock eyes and communicate our mutual amazement with a straight face. But neither noticed me, they were busy talking at each other. I realized that despite Mike’s promise to let me weigh in on the hiring decision of my next boss, the deal was done and he wasn’t going to acknowledge any signs that indicated he might not have made a good decision. I suppose someone who, leaning back in his desk chair with his big belly showing in the gaps between shirt buttons while clipping his fingernails is unlikely to be put out by something as minor as an objectionable noise while drinking. I suppose they were two of a kind.
It was not long after that I had to put Irving’s offer letter together, at double the salary of the prior director, and by then I’d had a chance to delve into his background and have my gut concerns confirmed. But I loved the BSO so very much; Symphony Hall, Tanglewood, the mission, my colleagues, the orchestra. I had to keep an open mind and give him a chance.
Irving arrived on his first day with two blown up images on foam core to dress up the white walls of his windowless office. Declining the typical framed BSO posters most of us had, he chose an 18 x 24 amateur photograph of a turtle, blown up to a point that made it blurry and hard to see what the image actually was. On the other wall was Mickey Mouse.
He was wearing the same suit, which during his time as my boss, was alternated with one other, black but otherwise identical, and judging from the smell of stale deep fried food that eventually took over our offices, not laundered any too often.
From the beginning, it was bad. While I had, with two years in, significant autonomy before, he insisted I be his secretary as he didn’t know how to write a letter, spell simple words, have any knowledge of HR, benefits, employment law, the Symphony. I waited, thinking he’d pick up the culture, the ways of working. He didn’t. He had a practice of receiving employees into his office, closing the door, and then when they had left, asking me what I would do in a given situation. He would then invite them back and give them the advice I had shared. It’s hard to exaggerate his lack of knowledge. Someone who sold cars and had never worked in an office would know as much as he did. He lied, and sometimes didn’t come to work, a director of HR. Friends told me to vote with my feet, but still in my twenties, I didn’t believe there’d be another place, another community like this one. And in retrospect, I may have been correct.
I went to his boss, the fingernail clipper. He feigned ignorance and told me to shut up and do my work. When there started to be implications resulting from his ineptitude, I got up the nerve to speak to the Managing Director who, with a similar aspect in height, beard and general looks to Abe Lincoln, would, when spoken to, peer intimidatingly down over his gold-rimmed half glasses and say “hmmm” and nothing more. A few weeks later, when there was misrepresentation going on that would have significant legal and financial consequences, I tried again and got the same non-response.
If you know me, you know that obscuring my feelings is not one of my strengths. As Irving realized I was on to him, he became aggressive, using his authority to have me do demeaning things. There were others high up in the organization who were concerned and communicated their support to me, telling me to sit tight and eventually finding me an office away from his. But the blank face of the Managing Director, his literal lack of response was unnerving and caused me a great deal of lost sleep. As I began to see my mental health and personal life suffering, I sought a therapist.
Then one Monday he and his pictures were gone, though his smell remained for too long. .In walked a woman wearing a funky dress that was part leather, part knit, she had a New Yorkish vibe about her and always seemed to be in a hurry. She had funky glasses and perfect red nails. She spent the first few days behind closed doors, I would imagine cleaning up and advising on legal messes. When I finally got to meet with her, I made an effort to not begin our relationship with a cornucopia of complaints. But from her questions and comments, I knew she knew and she somehow communicated compassion without saying anything specific.. But I was still injured, it would take a while to restore my trust.
Perhaps the first encouragements were external and visual. Immediately, there was a different tone in our office and in the Hall. Tulips, always, a photograph of her young son, a giant box of Twizzlers, sometimes a crate of tangerines, or cherries. She came in an hour early to read the paper and call her mom. Staff began to arrive in our offices, heavy and grey, leaving gentle, relaxed, smiling. HR became helpful, kind, able. We hired another person for the department, she gave me a generous bonus and thanked me for hanging on during those difficult times.
Over her years at the BSO, Marion brought humanity to all of our work. Trust and respect were the glue of her relationships with MIT PhDs and immigrants who signed their name with an X. She had a natural ability to combine humanity and accountability that I’ve never seen in another human. She was direct when there was an issue, and always fair, honest, and egoless. She taught me how to straightforwardly confront an uncomfortable situation, acknowledging its presence while making room for compassion. Her ability to be successful at this is evidenced by the many people she had to fire who remained her friends after. On a lighter side, her introduction of a Costco membership for staff and orchestra was an act that allowed us to be more informal and relaxed (Remember when it was not OK to talk about your personal life at work? This changed it for us). She also began an annual tradition of Latke Day, when orchestra and staff would take over the industrial kitchen to cook and eat latkes, using equipment that Marion brought in from home. We wore hairnets.
Marion was my boss for five years and during that time and after, our relationship deepened so that she became also my friend, big sister, mom, all combined. True to her style, while I reported to her she had clear boundaries, though she made her care evident. By my side for a new and troublesome boyfriend, marriage, miscarriage, family challenges, death of my father, divorce, another marriage, parenthood, career changes, a mother with dementia, another divorce, ethical dilemmas and greek pizzas at Woody’s, I’ve been the recipient of her profound generosity; love without judgement, her stories and great sense of humor, thoughtful actions, gifts and meals too numerous to count.
When Nat was born and in the ICU, Marion was the first person to come and visit. She held our baby with such love, the tears in her eyes brought the same to mine, and I wondered how anyone could be brave enough to express such clean and unadulterated love. That our baby smelled like Chanel No. 5 was somehow perfect.
Since Marion’s retirement and my moving away from life in an organization, we have more time. We no longer have rushed lunches that require jamming all our news into an hour. Today, I’m sitting in the chairs outside Loeb’s in Lenox typing this on my phone and thinking about how lucky I am to be staying with her in Stockbridge, going to Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me live at Tanglewood, while reviewing the rich tapestry of our friendship and her kindness. And there it is, another thing she’s taught me, a feeling of unadulterated love, for her. Thank you for everything, Marion.
The first clue appeared when Irving was sipping his tea on the day we’d met, his pinky sticking out in perplexing, almost humorous contrast to his shiny, badly cut navy blue suit which could well have had an American Airlines insignia in a prior life.
But the most surprising thing was the noise when he drank, similar to that of a child when their milkshake is finished but there’s more to get out of the bottom. I looked to his face to see if it was a joke, then to Mike, expecting to lock eyes and communicate our mutual amazement with a straight face. But neither noticed me, they were busy talking at each other. I realized that despite Mike’s promise to let me weigh in on the hiring decision of my next boss, the deal was done and he wasn’t going to acknowledge any signs that indicated he might not have made a good decision. I suppose someone who, leaning back in his desk chair with his big belly showing in the gaps between shirt buttons while clipping his fingernails is unlikely to be put out by something as minor as an objectionable noise while drinking. I suppose they were two of a kind.
It was not long after that I had to put Irving’s offer letter together, at double the salary of the prior director, and by then I’d had a chance to delve into his background and have my gut concerns confirmed. But I loved the BSO so very much; Symphony Hall, Tanglewood, the mission, my colleagues, the orchestra. I had to keep an open mind and give him a chance.
Irving arrived on his first day with two blown up images on foam core to dress up the white walls of his windowless office. Declining the typical framed BSO posters most of us had, he chose an 18 x 24 amateur photograph of a turtle, blown up to a point that made it blurry and hard to see what the image actually was. On the other wall was Mickey Mouse.
He was wearing the same suit, which during his time as my boss, was alternated with one other, black but otherwise identical, and judging from the smell of stale deep fried food that eventually took over our offices, not laundered any too often.
From the beginning, it was bad. While I had, with two years in, significant autonomy before, he insisted I be his secretary as he didn’t know how to write a letter, spell simple words, have any knowledge of HR, benefits, employment law, the Symphony. I waited, thinking he’d pick up the culture, the ways of working. He didn’t. He had a practice of receiving employees into his office, closing the door, and then when they had left, asking me what I would do in a given situation. He would then invite them back and give them the advice I had shared. It’s hard to exaggerate his lack of knowledge. Someone who sold cars and had never worked in an office would know as much as he did. He lied, and sometimes didn’t come to work, a director of HR. Friends told me to vote with my feet, but still in my twenties, I didn’t believe there’d be another place, another community like this one. And in retrospect, I may have been correct.
I went to his boss, the fingernail clipper. He feigned ignorance and told me to shut up and do my work. When there started to be implications resulting from his ineptitude, I got up the nerve to speak to the Managing Director who, with a similar aspect in height, beard and general looks to Abe Lincoln, would, when spoken to, peer intimidatingly down over his gold-rimmed half glasses and say “hmmm” and nothing more. A few weeks later, when there was misrepresentation going on that would have significant legal and financial consequences, I tried again and got the same non-response.
If you know me, you know that obscuring my feelings is not one of my strengths. As Irving realized I was on to him, he became aggressive, using his authority to have me do demeaning things. There were others high up in the organization who were concerned and communicated their support to me, telling me to sit tight and eventually finding me an office away from his. But the blank face of the Managing Director, his literal lack of response was unnerving and caused me a great deal of lost sleep. As I began to see my mental health and personal life suffering, I sought a therapist.
Then one Monday he and his pictures were gone, though his smell remained for too long. .In walked a woman wearing a funky dress that was part leather, part knit, she had a New Yorkish vibe about her and always seemed to be in a hurry. She had funky glasses and perfect red nails. She spent the first few days behind closed doors, I would imagine cleaning up and advising on legal messes. When I finally got to meet with her, I made an effort to not begin our relationship with a cornucopia of complaints. But from her questions and comments, I knew she knew and she somehow communicated compassion without saying anything specific.. But I was still injured, it would take a while to restore my trust.
Perhaps the first encouragements were external and visual. Immediately, there was a different tone in our office and in the Hall. Tulips, always, a photograph of her young son, a giant box of Twizzlers, sometimes a crate of tangerines, or cherries. She came in an hour early to read the paper and call her mom. Staff began to arrive in our offices, heavy and grey, leaving gentle, relaxed, smiling. HR became helpful, kind, able. We hired another person for the department, she gave me a generous bonus and thanked me for hanging on during those difficult times.
Over her years at the BSO, Marion brought humanity to all of our work. Trust and respect were the glue of her relationships with MIT PhDs and immigrants who signed their name with an X. She had a natural ability to combine humanity and accountability that I’ve never seen in another human. She was direct when there was an issue, and always fair, honest, and egoless. She taught me how to straightforwardly confront an uncomfortable situation, acknowledging its presence while making room for compassion. Her ability to be successful at this is evidenced by the many people she had to fire who remained her friends after. On a lighter side, her introduction of a Costco membership for staff and orchestra was an act that allowed us to be more informal and relaxed (Remember when it was not OK to talk about your personal life at work? This changed it for us). She also began an annual tradition of Latke Day, when orchestra and staff would take over the industrial kitchen to cook and eat latkes, using equipment that Marion brought in from home. We wore hairnets.
Marion was my boss for five years and during that time and after, our relationship deepened so that she became also my friend, big sister, mom, all combined. True to her style, while I reported to her she had clear boundaries, though she made her care evident. By my side for a new and troublesome boyfriend, marriage, miscarriage, family challenges, death of my father, divorce, another marriage, parenthood, career changes, a mother with dementia, another divorce, ethical dilemmas and greek pizzas at Woody’s, I’ve been the recipient of her profound generosity; love without judgement, her stories and great sense of humor, thoughtful actions, gifts and meals too numerous to count.
When Nat was born and in the ICU, Marion was the first person to come and visit. She held our baby with such love, the tears in her eyes brought the same to mine, and I wondered how anyone could be brave enough to express such clean and unadulterated love. That our baby smelled like Chanel No. 5 was somehow perfect.
Since Marion’s retirement and my moving away from life in an organization, we have more time. We no longer have rushed lunches that require jamming all our news into an hour. Today, I’m sitting in the chairs outside Loeb’s in Lenox typing this on my phone and thinking about how lucky I am to be staying with her in Stockbridge, going to Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me live at Tanglewood, while reviewing the rich tapestry of our friendship and her kindness. And there it is, another thing she’s taught me, a feeling of unadulterated love, for her. Thank you for everything, Marion.
- Published on
I'll be honest, at this point, it's hard to look forward to seeing our mom, as there's not much of her left. Gone are her sparkling and questioning eyes, any conviction in her words, the tilt of her head as she thinks about what she's going to say, even if it's not going to make sense. Her mind might not have been there but her spirit was. Today I'm reminded that all these years, she has always driven the conversation, while I add to whatever she says, answer questions. I somehow don't know my part now. Cheery, newsy doesn't seem to be right.
I have a suspicion she can't see well, so when I arrive, I get right up in her face and give her a kiss and a big smile, and while I get one back, it's more a vague acknowledgement that I'm someone she knows. She looks around confusedly and within a minute, she's drifted off, despite Frankie Valli in his pink suit and pompadour insistently crooning "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" on the TV with some of the residents singing along. We move to a quieter place where she can look out at the trees and nature she's always loved and in an awake moment, I ask her how she's feeling. She stares back and me, or more accurately, right through me, saying nothing. Sometimes she mouths words to herself without talking. Later, I ask her again how she's feeling, uncharacteristically, she tells me everything hurts, including "the mental part".
We sit there, not talking, holding hands, she mostly dozing, but even then, her thumbs move, both of them, a habit that has evolved since she arrived five years ago, when she would repeatedly pet the soft furry blanket my brother gave her, moving her hands back and forth. Sometimes there'd be a glimpse of a smile.
The people who work there are kind, it's not easy work. Every time I go, the person who I'd just got to know is gone, and in her place is a new, young, sweet face. I wonder why the manager puts the HEROES board in the lobby for all of us to see, with photographs of employees who have made it 30 and 60 days, but none in the 90 day category. In a state that has limited employment options, it worries me that these good people are leaving so quickly. Should we do something? What? The elderly are so incredibly vulnerable.
I think about the dread I'd sometimes feel when we'd visit her at her independent living facility in Duxbury, which felt like an unwelcome reminder of the aging, sickness and death facing all of us. When she moved from there to the nursing home in Brattleboro, I looked back at the Duxbury days with longing, they were so much easier, more cheerful, they smelled better. Yesterday, I was again wistful for earlier days, a month ago, when she and her roommate Sandy enjoyed their popsicle ritual, our mom is no longer interested and her roommate moved to another floor. These are such profound reminders to appreciate what we have right now, no matter how miniscule they are.
Strangely, by the time Gene at Yalla, my most favorite lunch place in the whole wide world, introduces me to his apprentice (this is a first, no one but Gene or Zohar have ever touched the sandwiches), the knot in my stomach is gone and it feels right to bask in his easy warmth and incidental kindness. He confesses that Brattleboro is getting too city for this country boy, while two white haired women complain that they had to "Circle the block! Can you imagine?" looking for parking. That the world continues to march on feels heartless and reassuring.
I never veer from the Yalla Sababa, home made pita holding three falafel balls instead of the six in the full sandwich, with grilled eggplant, hummus and all the veggies. I enjoyed it outside watching, hearing and smelling the logging trucks go by, only slightly resentful that others were sitting on "my bench", talking about living in a yurt in winter in Vermont.
I had been looking forward to going next door to Mocha Joe's, where Nat and I have been entertained many a time, either in the dingy basement that can have interesting or funny art and people, or outside on the sidewalk in better weather. As instructed by Nat on Mother's Day, I tell them who I am and that there's something for me to pick up. Ashlyn, who has those wonderful gold framed octagonal oversized glasses the kids are wearing, confesses that she's new and is not aware of any order, and the other person, who seems a bit more clued up, looks in the black and white composition notebook under the counter and finds nothing, is apologetic. After a fair amount of earnest confusion and back and forth, a bag appears, and in it is perhaps my favorite mother's day present ever, well except for the little cardboard box with a sticker on it that has pink rocks and dandelion heads in it, a Mocha Joe's bucket hat. I can feel my funny, loving and far away daughter whenever I want now!
Upon leaving the cafe, it starts to rain, cancelling out my hike, so I don my new hat and go about my business, buying shoes, and groceries for my dinner guest. A quick drive back through the fields and farms of southern Vermont showed me rows of corn, about 6 inches high, that looked exactly like corn rows in hair. Home, a mini-gym visit to get the yayas out, dinner made and my friend, vital, happy, warm, so present, with cookies from Flour. It was a perfect evening.
I get uncomfortable thinking about swinging from such abject sadness to delicious gezellig in the same day, but I suppose that's the business of being human.
I have a suspicion she can't see well, so when I arrive, I get right up in her face and give her a kiss and a big smile, and while I get one back, it's more a vague acknowledgement that I'm someone she knows. She looks around confusedly and within a minute, she's drifted off, despite Frankie Valli in his pink suit and pompadour insistently crooning "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" on the TV with some of the residents singing along. We move to a quieter place where she can look out at the trees and nature she's always loved and in an awake moment, I ask her how she's feeling. She stares back and me, or more accurately, right through me, saying nothing. Sometimes she mouths words to herself without talking. Later, I ask her again how she's feeling, uncharacteristically, she tells me everything hurts, including "the mental part".
We sit there, not talking, holding hands, she mostly dozing, but even then, her thumbs move, both of them, a habit that has evolved since she arrived five years ago, when she would repeatedly pet the soft furry blanket my brother gave her, moving her hands back and forth. Sometimes there'd be a glimpse of a smile.
The people who work there are kind, it's not easy work. Every time I go, the person who I'd just got to know is gone, and in her place is a new, young, sweet face. I wonder why the manager puts the HEROES board in the lobby for all of us to see, with photographs of employees who have made it 30 and 60 days, but none in the 90 day category. In a state that has limited employment options, it worries me that these good people are leaving so quickly. Should we do something? What? The elderly are so incredibly vulnerable.
I think about the dread I'd sometimes feel when we'd visit her at her independent living facility in Duxbury, which felt like an unwelcome reminder of the aging, sickness and death facing all of us. When she moved from there to the nursing home in Brattleboro, I looked back at the Duxbury days with longing, they were so much easier, more cheerful, they smelled better. Yesterday, I was again wistful for earlier days, a month ago, when she and her roommate Sandy enjoyed their popsicle ritual, our mom is no longer interested and her roommate moved to another floor. These are such profound reminders to appreciate what we have right now, no matter how miniscule they are.
Strangely, by the time Gene at Yalla, my most favorite lunch place in the whole wide world, introduces me to his apprentice (this is a first, no one but Gene or Zohar have ever touched the sandwiches), the knot in my stomach is gone and it feels right to bask in his easy warmth and incidental kindness. He confesses that Brattleboro is getting too city for this country boy, while two white haired women complain that they had to "Circle the block! Can you imagine?" looking for parking. That the world continues to march on feels heartless and reassuring.
I never veer from the Yalla Sababa, home made pita holding three falafel balls instead of the six in the full sandwich, with grilled eggplant, hummus and all the veggies. I enjoyed it outside watching, hearing and smelling the logging trucks go by, only slightly resentful that others were sitting on "my bench", talking about living in a yurt in winter in Vermont.
I had been looking forward to going next door to Mocha Joe's, where Nat and I have been entertained many a time, either in the dingy basement that can have interesting or funny art and people, or outside on the sidewalk in better weather. As instructed by Nat on Mother's Day, I tell them who I am and that there's something for me to pick up. Ashlyn, who has those wonderful gold framed octagonal oversized glasses the kids are wearing, confesses that she's new and is not aware of any order, and the other person, who seems a bit more clued up, looks in the black and white composition notebook under the counter and finds nothing, is apologetic. After a fair amount of earnest confusion and back and forth, a bag appears, and in it is perhaps my favorite mother's day present ever, well except for the little cardboard box with a sticker on it that has pink rocks and dandelion heads in it, a Mocha Joe's bucket hat. I can feel my funny, loving and far away daughter whenever I want now!
Upon leaving the cafe, it starts to rain, cancelling out my hike, so I don my new hat and go about my business, buying shoes, and groceries for my dinner guest. A quick drive back through the fields and farms of southern Vermont showed me rows of corn, about 6 inches high, that looked exactly like corn rows in hair. Home, a mini-gym visit to get the yayas out, dinner made and my friend, vital, happy, warm, so present, with cookies from Flour. It was a perfect evening.
I get uncomfortable thinking about swinging from such abject sadness to delicious gezellig in the same day, but I suppose that's the business of being human.
- Published on
So there I was climbing up the old lady this morning, thinking about how far we go back and how she's changed over the years. She's so much taller than she used to be, and more pointy and steep. Her rocks at the top are more sheer, the toeholds so much smaller than they used to be.
We first met, I want to say 34 years ago. I wasn't impressed at first, didn't care for the approach essentially on Route 7 which can be noisy with trucks. Her paths were few and too well-worn, really just dirt, it never felt like going into the woods when I walked her paths. But as the roads of the Berkshires were too steep for me to run on, I needed another form of exercise and the steep path up, if done fast, would get my heart pumping and rewarded me at the top with warm rocks to sit on while looking west towards the Catskills and sometimes the Adirondacks and the AMC ridge line that goes along Beartown Forest to the east. Sometimes I'd sneak down to Monument Mountain at lunchtime for a quick climb.
To say that we've got to know each other is an understatement. She's been my place I go; together we have heralded spring with her blooming mountain laurels, hosted friends and relatives, had picnics, appreciated Whale Rock and remembered the story about Edith Wharton, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville taking a horse drawn cart to the summit so they could have an elaborate picnic. We have also said hello and goodbye to important people over the years.
Today, I was there for fun and exercise. The "mountain", OK, she's actually only 1642 feet, has always been "maintained" by the Trustees, but for many years, that meant one or two trail maintenance days a year. When I go up now, I get a little crabby about all the signs that include lawyer language about hiking at your own risk, the gravel in a color that doesn't blend with nature, and all the pressure treated wood, but I also appreciate them keeping it in good order and safe for all. At the summit, I wonder why the Trustees don't tinker up there, as much of the view is now obscured by some recent birch tree interlopers.
It was pretty early morning, before 9, when I heard a man's voice, who when he came into view, apologized, as he hadn't been talking to someone else, but reciting Shel Silverstein's The Devil and Billy Markham, thinking he was alone. He was tall, had grey hair with a bandana on, a smiling face, bright colored clothes, and was carrying a big pack, which is unusual for such a short hike. Almost to the top while he was on the descent, I had just been thinking about the creative energy I feel whenever I'm in the Berkshires. What better demonstration than a hiking poet/dramatist? We chatted a minute or two and went on our ways.
On my way down, there he was, coming up again. I asked him if he'd forgotten something at the top, and he replied, "yes, the lines of my poem", well not really. He's hiking the Presidential range next weekend with his buddies and said "I'm not gonna lie, I'm not in good shape", so thought a double loop might speed his fitness along. He said that to distract himself, the only thing he thought about on the second loop was throwing out one of the dumb bells in his pack, and the lines of the poem. This reminded me of that very funny passage in Into the Woods when Bill Bryson gets so frustrated with the weight of his pack that he begins tossing his food out over a cliff.
He told me about moving from NYC to the Berkshires and called Great Barrington the Upper Upper East Side. He's an actor who apparently has continuous work on Broadway. Just another big personality in the Berkshires. He certainly made my time with the old lady fun.
We first met, I want to say 34 years ago. I wasn't impressed at first, didn't care for the approach essentially on Route 7 which can be noisy with trucks. Her paths were few and too well-worn, really just dirt, it never felt like going into the woods when I walked her paths. But as the roads of the Berkshires were too steep for me to run on, I needed another form of exercise and the steep path up, if done fast, would get my heart pumping and rewarded me at the top with warm rocks to sit on while looking west towards the Catskills and sometimes the Adirondacks and the AMC ridge line that goes along Beartown Forest to the east. Sometimes I'd sneak down to Monument Mountain at lunchtime for a quick climb.
To say that we've got to know each other is an understatement. She's been my place I go; together we have heralded spring with her blooming mountain laurels, hosted friends and relatives, had picnics, appreciated Whale Rock and remembered the story about Edith Wharton, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville taking a horse drawn cart to the summit so they could have an elaborate picnic. We have also said hello and goodbye to important people over the years.
Today, I was there for fun and exercise. The "mountain", OK, she's actually only 1642 feet, has always been "maintained" by the Trustees, but for many years, that meant one or two trail maintenance days a year. When I go up now, I get a little crabby about all the signs that include lawyer language about hiking at your own risk, the gravel in a color that doesn't blend with nature, and all the pressure treated wood, but I also appreciate them keeping it in good order and safe for all. At the summit, I wonder why the Trustees don't tinker up there, as much of the view is now obscured by some recent birch tree interlopers.
It was pretty early morning, before 9, when I heard a man's voice, who when he came into view, apologized, as he hadn't been talking to someone else, but reciting Shel Silverstein's The Devil and Billy Markham, thinking he was alone. He was tall, had grey hair with a bandana on, a smiling face, bright colored clothes, and was carrying a big pack, which is unusual for such a short hike. Almost to the top while he was on the descent, I had just been thinking about the creative energy I feel whenever I'm in the Berkshires. What better demonstration than a hiking poet/dramatist? We chatted a minute or two and went on our ways.
On my way down, there he was, coming up again. I asked him if he'd forgotten something at the top, and he replied, "yes, the lines of my poem", well not really. He's hiking the Presidential range next weekend with his buddies and said "I'm not gonna lie, I'm not in good shape", so thought a double loop might speed his fitness along. He said that to distract himself, the only thing he thought about on the second loop was throwing out one of the dumb bells in his pack, and the lines of the poem. This reminded me of that very funny passage in Into the Woods when Bill Bryson gets so frustrated with the weight of his pack that he begins tossing his food out over a cliff.
He told me about moving from NYC to the Berkshires and called Great Barrington the Upper Upper East Side. He's an actor who apparently has continuous work on Broadway. Just another big personality in the Berkshires. He certainly made my time with the old lady fun.
- Published on
I have been reading, well actually listening to, a book called the Abundance Project, which has reminded me to keep as many channels as possible open, leading to a fuller life. It was in that spirit that I took off for Niagara Falls this morning, having had it on good authority from quite a few people that, as kitschy as it seems, taking a ride on Maid of the Mist is a lot of fun.
The signage for parking and getting to the falls was abysmal, and when I did walk the mile there, I found lines longer than those at Trader Joe's during COVID (remember?). And the sardine-like atmosphere I could see on the Maid was not something that seemed worth waiting half a day for. In fact, you really couldn't pay me enough. Kids were screaming, couples fighting, old people getting knocked over. I guess it's good to know your limits.
Many years ago when a boyfriend and I took a private boat from Kos to Bodrum, one of us, I won't say who, might have hidden a tiny bit of a cannabis derivative in a place where it would unlikely be found. At Bodrum, we were surprised that there was a little passport control booth with a man in uniform who had a thin face and dark hair like Adrian Brody, with a pencil mustache and a beige, flat topped cap similar to those of the French military. And of course he had a hooked nose. Although Wes Anderson wasn't making movies back then, this inspector would have inspired him. He looked at my boyfriend's American passport and let him through, then took my British one and for a very long time, looked at it, turning every page, examining it very closely, looking at me, looking again at the passport. During the minutes the went by, scenes from Midnight Express, not that I'd seen it but I'd heard enough about it, went through my mind and I became a bit sweaty on the forehead. Eventually, he shrugged and let me through, telling me that there were initials on my passport that were his, written as he would write them, but there was no Turkish stamp to accompany the initials. I was not able to enlighten him. Once we were out of sight, I found the first bathroom. The contraband was not there.
Now don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't some kind of crazy smuggler, or drug addict, actually, though I certainly am guilty of making a few sub par decisions. There was also a time that, when arriving back from a Caribbean island late at night, last person in line going through customs, the doggies told their handlers that my bag was a good one to check. Long story but after a free ride to Area D at Logan, some blackened finger tips and bail money exchanging hands, I was released and ended up not being found guilty and was told the arrest would be erased from my record.
The line at the Canadian border was short, though the van in front of me got the runaround, with the inspector coming out of his booth, opening all the doors and looking generally skeptical, reminding me of that high tension scene in We're the Millers. I breezed up. handed the guy in baseball coach sunglasses my passport and said hello. He assumed what I'll politely call an unfriendly tone.
What are you doing in Canada? Visiting for a few days.
Where? Toronto.
What will you be doing? Oh, I don't know, exploring the city, just taking a few days off.
Will you be working? Well, I might do a little work on my laptop.
Are you authorized to work? Oh, gosh no, OK, I will do no work!
On and on it went, his hostility increasing with each question. And then. he asked:
Have you ever been arrested?
All the lights were flashing and my system was starting to shut down.
Yes.
OK, you're going to need to get a criminal check, pull over there, park your car and do not get out of the car.
I was seriously prepared for a cavity search, this was payback for past crimes but really, all I was bringing in were the parmesan crisps. Instead, a gentle, mid-western looking boy came over with a kind smile on his face.
I'm sorry to delay you ma'am, we just need to verify a little information. I won't keep you long
A few minutes later
Here you go, thank you. You enjoy your time Toronto. Do you know where you're going?
Night and day. And off I went. And asked myself why?
Toronto is cool. It's a real city with lots of people living here, doing their thing. An interesting mix of both shiny and new and old and funky buildings, no abandoned streets, no boarded up shops, all busy busy busy. I saw every kind of person imaginable, even more variety than NYC because in NY there aren't a lot of German origin/midwestern types. It seemed like everyone was under 35. Can't wait for tomorrow.
The signage for parking and getting to the falls was abysmal, and when I did walk the mile there, I found lines longer than those at Trader Joe's during COVID (remember?). And the sardine-like atmosphere I could see on the Maid was not something that seemed worth waiting half a day for. In fact, you really couldn't pay me enough. Kids were screaming, couples fighting, old people getting knocked over. I guess it's good to know your limits.
Many years ago when a boyfriend and I took a private boat from Kos to Bodrum, one of us, I won't say who, might have hidden a tiny bit of a cannabis derivative in a place where it would unlikely be found. At Bodrum, we were surprised that there was a little passport control booth with a man in uniform who had a thin face and dark hair like Adrian Brody, with a pencil mustache and a beige, flat topped cap similar to those of the French military. And of course he had a hooked nose. Although Wes Anderson wasn't making movies back then, this inspector would have inspired him. He looked at my boyfriend's American passport and let him through, then took my British one and for a very long time, looked at it, turning every page, examining it very closely, looking at me, looking again at the passport. During the minutes the went by, scenes from Midnight Express, not that I'd seen it but I'd heard enough about it, went through my mind and I became a bit sweaty on the forehead. Eventually, he shrugged and let me through, telling me that there were initials on my passport that were his, written as he would write them, but there was no Turkish stamp to accompany the initials. I was not able to enlighten him. Once we were out of sight, I found the first bathroom. The contraband was not there.
Now don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't some kind of crazy smuggler, or drug addict, actually, though I certainly am guilty of making a few sub par decisions. There was also a time that, when arriving back from a Caribbean island late at night, last person in line going through customs, the doggies told their handlers that my bag was a good one to check. Long story but after a free ride to Area D at Logan, some blackened finger tips and bail money exchanging hands, I was released and ended up not being found guilty and was told the arrest would be erased from my record.
The line at the Canadian border was short, though the van in front of me got the runaround, with the inspector coming out of his booth, opening all the doors and looking generally skeptical, reminding me of that high tension scene in We're the Millers. I breezed up. handed the guy in baseball coach sunglasses my passport and said hello. He assumed what I'll politely call an unfriendly tone.
What are you doing in Canada? Visiting for a few days.
Where? Toronto.
What will you be doing? Oh, I don't know, exploring the city, just taking a few days off.
Will you be working? Well, I might do a little work on my laptop.
Are you authorized to work? Oh, gosh no, OK, I will do no work!
On and on it went, his hostility increasing with each question. And then. he asked:
Have you ever been arrested?
All the lights were flashing and my system was starting to shut down.
Yes.
OK, you're going to need to get a criminal check, pull over there, park your car and do not get out of the car.
I was seriously prepared for a cavity search, this was payback for past crimes but really, all I was bringing in were the parmesan crisps. Instead, a gentle, mid-western looking boy came over with a kind smile on his face.
I'm sorry to delay you ma'am, we just need to verify a little information. I won't keep you long
A few minutes later
Here you go, thank you. You enjoy your time Toronto. Do you know where you're going?
Night and day. And off I went. And asked myself why?
Toronto is cool. It's a real city with lots of people living here, doing their thing. An interesting mix of both shiny and new and old and funky buildings, no abandoned streets, no boarded up shops, all busy busy busy. I saw every kind of person imaginable, even more variety than NYC because in NY there aren't a lot of German origin/midwestern types. It seemed like everyone was under 35. Can't wait for tomorrow.
- Published on
With a full tank of gas, a good book and an unopened package of parmesan crisps, I was feeling pretty free as the Charlton exit on the Mass Pike disappeared in the rearview mirror. So nice to see the touchstones from Tanglewood days - 3 lanes decreasing to 2, the halfway point at Ludlow/Belchertown, Friendly's "living billboard" but, sadly, not the Oreo cows before Springfield, who must have roamed to greener pastures. But the best is the Becket sign telling drivers that the next highest elevation on I-90 is in Oacama, SD. Grammatically, the sign doesn't make sense but it's the spirit that I love (grammarian friends out there, what say you?) Got to say that I was tempted to go and measure for myself in SD, but the extra 48 hours of driving put me off. It's on the list, though.
I was looking forward to stopping in Amsterdam, NY, nestled in the valley with a big chimney, perhaps it was a hidden gem. Sadly no, lots of poverty, buildings in disrepair and a mini Statue of Liberty. Syracuse was the next stop.
I have a friend who I love so dearly, perhaps in part because we come from the world from different places, her viewpoints are refreshing. Because I love her so dearly, I tend to forget that this difference extends to taste, so it was with a laugh that I pulled into a newly built big box hotel situated on a swamp, surrounded by overgrown parking lots and abandoned warehouses, in close proximity to a Dollar Store AND a Dollar General. In the brightly lit generic lobby, there were gangs of boisterous mid-western looking people boozing it up, dogs everywhere. The hallways and rooms had that lemon smell that I have come to think of as the new lost-cost hip "cover up the smell of mold" deodorizer, which I suppose is better than the fake strawberry aromas that I breathed in NYC cabs in the 1980s.
A story goes that when I was four years old, I had a "bad egg" and threw up, and have never been able to get near them since, although I've somehow found my way around having a problem with them in baked goods.... So, I passed up the microwaved breakfast burritos offered at the hotel and hoofed it downtown to a millennially named place that gave me confidence they'd offer at least some whole grains. When I ordered the avocado on toast with all kinds of things on it, I asked if the Green Goddess dressing had mayo in it and when the 12-year old guy taking my order said yes, I subbed it out. After taking a bite, I could tell that mayo had been mixed into the avocado, who does that? I would have thought avocado rich enough on its own. The child must have thought the aversion I'd displayed wouldn't translate to actual food. I doused it all with half a bottle of hot sauce rather than making a fuss, but a few minutes after I'd finished, felt sick, so had to buy a rhubarb and ginger drink to wash the flavor away. Somehow the smell of mayo stayed on my hands all day. The struggles..
I was lucky enough to show up at the Erie Canal Museum right when a 5th grade field trip was arriving, so hopped right in there. The tour guide was as old as the hills but pretty engaging, the kids responded, at least until I left, a few minutes later. Unfortunately much of the canal has been filled in around Syracuse, so it was a lucky thing I had stopped previously to have a look at a place with locks.
My friend who had grown up in Rochester told me about the Eastman Museum. While I didn't think I'd be staying in Rochester more than a few hours, I found myself enchanted by the beautiful wide, leafy streets with well-maintained huge houses, mature landscaping and plentiful flowers, reminiscent of Chicago northern suburbs. I could stay here a week I like it so much.
I was looking forward to stopping in Amsterdam, NY, nestled in the valley with a big chimney, perhaps it was a hidden gem. Sadly no, lots of poverty, buildings in disrepair and a mini Statue of Liberty. Syracuse was the next stop.
I have a friend who I love so dearly, perhaps in part because we come from the world from different places, her viewpoints are refreshing. Because I love her so dearly, I tend to forget that this difference extends to taste, so it was with a laugh that I pulled into a newly built big box hotel situated on a swamp, surrounded by overgrown parking lots and abandoned warehouses, in close proximity to a Dollar Store AND a Dollar General. In the brightly lit generic lobby, there were gangs of boisterous mid-western looking people boozing it up, dogs everywhere. The hallways and rooms had that lemon smell that I have come to think of as the new lost-cost hip "cover up the smell of mold" deodorizer, which I suppose is better than the fake strawberry aromas that I breathed in NYC cabs in the 1980s.
A story goes that when I was four years old, I had a "bad egg" and threw up, and have never been able to get near them since, although I've somehow found my way around having a problem with them in baked goods.... So, I passed up the microwaved breakfast burritos offered at the hotel and hoofed it downtown to a millennially named place that gave me confidence they'd offer at least some whole grains. When I ordered the avocado on toast with all kinds of things on it, I asked if the Green Goddess dressing had mayo in it and when the 12-year old guy taking my order said yes, I subbed it out. After taking a bite, I could tell that mayo had been mixed into the avocado, who does that? I would have thought avocado rich enough on its own. The child must have thought the aversion I'd displayed wouldn't translate to actual food. I doused it all with half a bottle of hot sauce rather than making a fuss, but a few minutes after I'd finished, felt sick, so had to buy a rhubarb and ginger drink to wash the flavor away. Somehow the smell of mayo stayed on my hands all day. The struggles..
I was lucky enough to show up at the Erie Canal Museum right when a 5th grade field trip was arriving, so hopped right in there. The tour guide was as old as the hills but pretty engaging, the kids responded, at least until I left, a few minutes later. Unfortunately much of the canal has been filled in around Syracuse, so it was a lucky thing I had stopped previously to have a look at a place with locks.
My friend who had grown up in Rochester told me about the Eastman Museum. While I didn't think I'd be staying in Rochester more than a few hours, I found myself enchanted by the beautiful wide, leafy streets with well-maintained huge houses, mature landscaping and plentiful flowers, reminiscent of Chicago northern suburbs. I could stay here a week I like it so much.
- Published on
I had to find someone to chat with
Whenever I put up a new blog post on Wix, the first thing I'm asked to do is add a catchy title. I'm not sure that Loneliness fills that bill. Oh well.
The subject of loneliness has been on my mind for a while. I’ve brought it up in conversation and noticed a quick veer from a noncommittal personal acknowledgement to its more intellectual and less vulnerable aspects, such as social media, living on screens, pandemic forced intimacy, working from home, living in the suburbs. Openly acknowledging loneliness feels taboo, like talking about an active addiction, adjusted gross income or well, mental health issues. It makes me feel both vulnerable and concerned my listener will misconstrue the conversation as an indirect ask for them to fix, because loneliness has such a bad rap and should be avoided at all costs.
My unexamined belief about loneliness was that if I felt it, some sort of character defect I had was the cause, leading people to avoid me. But I'm not sure that's true.
Until last year, my life was always with others, and back when we were young parents, it sometimes felt like an informal commune with kids going house to house, barbecues, sleepovers, carpooling, families doing things on weekends together. Through most of that time, I was also doing HR, which by its nature is with people. I dreamed of being alone, in fact when lying awake at night I’d lull myself to sleep by envisioning living on the windswept island of my youth, standing at the kitchen sink, alone, looking out the window while waiting for the water to boil.
So when I moved into my own place a year and a half ago, I bought the tea kettle and mug I had pictured and was profoundly moved those first few mornings as I looked out over rooftops, ruler of all I surveyed, peaceful with my own thoughts. Not surprisingly aloneness slid into loneliness and The Winter of My Discontent.
Now I’m as good as anyone, in fact maybe even better, at filling my time with fun and interesting things and connecting with wonderful people I'm lucky enough to call friends. In fact my ability to map out an enjoyable life had gone so far as to significantly distract me from dealing with bigger issues I wasn’t ready to face. By the time I had moved, it was clear that if I wanted to get out of the stasis that had engulfed me, I’d need to stare down loneliness and boredom without blinking. While some of those days turned out to be hard and grey, in retrospect I’d characterize them as boring. They reminded me of the feeling we'd have as kids when it would take all day to figure out what we wanted to do, fighting and irritable, until we'd finally figure it out and invariably, dinner was called.
But spring arrived and there was the bright greenness of being initiated to Longwood with new friends, rituals, skills. I played tennis almost every day and while surrounded by kind, welcoming people, I did sometimes feel that sense of loneliness when surrounded by others, and tried to sit with it rather than jump into the social mosh pit. This winter was better, my solo cross-country car drive inexplicably anything but lonely, although the deserted cities were scenes from an apocalyptic movie with boarded up main streets that had tumbleweeds blowing through. I imagined all the people who used to work downtown, buying coffee every morning, having lunch out, ducking into the drugstore for Bandaids, waiting for buses and trains, now sitting at home waiting for GrubHub to deliver their Domino's Pizza, consumed alone. That was existentially challenging.
It has taken over a year of this new way of living to understand the importance of my spending time alone so that the part of me that is smart enough to shy away from external pressures can do so. While sometimes boring or lonely, it does allow me to know myself better, which has led to a deeper contentment and sense of peace. As much as I wish that this clarity could occur on my 12 minute drives between home and the paddle courts, it is unfortunately not to be. Large swaths of time, leading to ennui, almost always provide understanding and insight. I suppose that’s why people go to caves, not Grand Central, to meditate.
A few weeks back, Ezra Klein’s excellent podcast, gave me so much to think about. He and his guest were discussing her book about unstructured time, tying a lack of it to isolation. When we have our earbuds in at the gym, there’s less chance we’ll talk to someone. When we scroll social media while waiting in the checkout line, same thing, and when our days are scheduled, there’s less time for spontaneity, chance meetings, unanticipated insights.
They also talked about how those in higher income brackets can afford to buy certain things that may solve short-term problems, but create longer-term challenges. Examples are having a nanny to avoid rush hour and strict deadlines, sacrificing socialization for child and parents, having a yard with a fence, ensuring kids’ safety but isolating them from neighboring kids, sending kids to camp or taking them away for the summer, etc. In general, the more money we make, the more scheduled we are and the more isolated we become. They speak about it much more articulately.
Ezra told a story about living in a group house after college out of financial necessity. He mentioned the tedium of negotiating everything with his roommates, the messes, noise, etc. But in retrospect, he had little memory of those while treasuring the opportunities he had then to connect with others, including friends and workmates of roommates, when they were just hanging around,.
With all of this in mind, I’m committed to continuing to throw off the security of planning my time in favor of wandering through life in a more unstructured way, favoring connecting with friends, family and random strangers and seeing what life delivers.
Whenever I put up a new blog post on Wix, the first thing I'm asked to do is add a catchy title. I'm not sure that Loneliness fills that bill. Oh well.
The subject of loneliness has been on my mind for a while. I’ve brought it up in conversation and noticed a quick veer from a noncommittal personal acknowledgement to its more intellectual and less vulnerable aspects, such as social media, living on screens, pandemic forced intimacy, working from home, living in the suburbs. Openly acknowledging loneliness feels taboo, like talking about an active addiction, adjusted gross income or well, mental health issues. It makes me feel both vulnerable and concerned my listener will misconstrue the conversation as an indirect ask for them to fix, because loneliness has such a bad rap and should be avoided at all costs.
My unexamined belief about loneliness was that if I felt it, some sort of character defect I had was the cause, leading people to avoid me. But I'm not sure that's true.
Until last year, my life was always with others, and back when we were young parents, it sometimes felt like an informal commune with kids going house to house, barbecues, sleepovers, carpooling, families doing things on weekends together. Through most of that time, I was also doing HR, which by its nature is with people. I dreamed of being alone, in fact when lying awake at night I’d lull myself to sleep by envisioning living on the windswept island of my youth, standing at the kitchen sink, alone, looking out the window while waiting for the water to boil.
So when I moved into my own place a year and a half ago, I bought the tea kettle and mug I had pictured and was profoundly moved those first few mornings as I looked out over rooftops, ruler of all I surveyed, peaceful with my own thoughts. Not surprisingly aloneness slid into loneliness and The Winter of My Discontent.
Now I’m as good as anyone, in fact maybe even better, at filling my time with fun and interesting things and connecting with wonderful people I'm lucky enough to call friends. In fact my ability to map out an enjoyable life had gone so far as to significantly distract me from dealing with bigger issues I wasn’t ready to face. By the time I had moved, it was clear that if I wanted to get out of the stasis that had engulfed me, I’d need to stare down loneliness and boredom without blinking. While some of those days turned out to be hard and grey, in retrospect I’d characterize them as boring. They reminded me of the feeling we'd have as kids when it would take all day to figure out what we wanted to do, fighting and irritable, until we'd finally figure it out and invariably, dinner was called.
But spring arrived and there was the bright greenness of being initiated to Longwood with new friends, rituals, skills. I played tennis almost every day and while surrounded by kind, welcoming people, I did sometimes feel that sense of loneliness when surrounded by others, and tried to sit with it rather than jump into the social mosh pit. This winter was better, my solo cross-country car drive inexplicably anything but lonely, although the deserted cities were scenes from an apocalyptic movie with boarded up main streets that had tumbleweeds blowing through. I imagined all the people who used to work downtown, buying coffee every morning, having lunch out, ducking into the drugstore for Bandaids, waiting for buses and trains, now sitting at home waiting for GrubHub to deliver their Domino's Pizza, consumed alone. That was existentially challenging.
It has taken over a year of this new way of living to understand the importance of my spending time alone so that the part of me that is smart enough to shy away from external pressures can do so. While sometimes boring or lonely, it does allow me to know myself better, which has led to a deeper contentment and sense of peace. As much as I wish that this clarity could occur on my 12 minute drives between home and the paddle courts, it is unfortunately not to be. Large swaths of time, leading to ennui, almost always provide understanding and insight. I suppose that’s why people go to caves, not Grand Central, to meditate.
A few weeks back, Ezra Klein’s excellent podcast, gave me so much to think about. He and his guest were discussing her book about unstructured time, tying a lack of it to isolation. When we have our earbuds in at the gym, there’s less chance we’ll talk to someone. When we scroll social media while waiting in the checkout line, same thing, and when our days are scheduled, there’s less time for spontaneity, chance meetings, unanticipated insights.
They also talked about how those in higher income brackets can afford to buy certain things that may solve short-term problems, but create longer-term challenges. Examples are having a nanny to avoid rush hour and strict deadlines, sacrificing socialization for child and parents, having a yard with a fence, ensuring kids’ safety but isolating them from neighboring kids, sending kids to camp or taking them away for the summer, etc. In general, the more money we make, the more scheduled we are and the more isolated we become. They speak about it much more articulately.
Ezra told a story about living in a group house after college out of financial necessity. He mentioned the tedium of negotiating everything with his roommates, the messes, noise, etc. But in retrospect, he had little memory of those while treasuring the opportunities he had then to connect with others, including friends and workmates of roommates, when they were just hanging around,.
With all of this in mind, I’m committed to continuing to throw off the security of planning my time in favor of wandering through life in a more unstructured way, favoring connecting with friends, family and random strangers and seeing what life delivers.
- Published on
Back in my early twenties. I lived in a suburb with three college basketball players in a tiny cape house that smelled like the large, sweaty sneakers it housed. I worked downtown and didn’t have a car, so depended on the T for most of my entertainment. Of course I was poor, because who would choose to live under those conditions, and did my food shopping at the Haymarket most Saturdays. It became clear that my best days were spent with this malleable goal which provided opportunities for a wide variety of experiences, in this case allowing me to get to know different parts of Boston. The idea of having a vague destination with plenty of flexibility for change then became a life model, framing physical, social and emotional diversions when traveling, with friends, cooking, playing sports, learning or raising a child. The more curious I am to whatever appears in front of me, the more fruitful life is. I'll admit, there are times, such as when cleaning house, that this model is a failure, leading from one distraction to another, resulting in a phrase famous in our house “On the road to cleanliness is a big mess", one that can last for weeks. And in truth, sometimes the alley I wander down may be dark and pestilent, but I’d take the risk of traveling the Rue de Rodentia every once in a while if not doing so would mean having a less interesting life.
So, yesterday it was back to the exoticness of the Orange Line to continue my exploration of places and people unknown. Wellington Station is also the stop for the Encore Casino, where a fleet of what at first appear to be luxury buses, but on closer inspection are T buses painted black, await. They sneer at their extended family who are lined up with their embarrassing “I Buy Cheap Houses” ads. Out of the parking lot I walked, along the Santilli Highway, which does not need revisiting, past the Mystic River, an office park, the Teddie’s Peanut Butter factory, Nightshift Brewing, the Everett DPW, some Brazilian stores and a Halal restaurant.
When in New Canaan for Easter, my sister had just come back from Arthur Avenue with an annoyingly small bag of fresh cavatelli. There was something about their color and weight that distracted me to the point of wanting to cancel my dinner plans in order to not miss out on them. As it turned out, my kind sister gave me some to bring home and they were as good as my high bar, cavatelli from Thistle and Leek.
So yesterday, the vague destination was Lilly’s, at 205 Main Street in Everett, which, according to my friendly search engine, sells one of the 10 best fresh pastas in Boston. As I wandered around with my camera intentionally strapped behind my back so that it was less obvious, an old man who turned out to be an electrician called Bob, said hello, and when I replied, asked me if I’d like to take his and his partner’s photograph. As it would be hard to argue that I had been making progress approaching people about portrait taking, I seized the opportunity and took another photograph of old people with too much junk going on behind them. Maybe that should be the name of my website. Bob had lived in Everett his whole life and liked it, though the mayor is a crook and because residents don't speak English, he can no longer say hello to his neighbors. He would have gone on talking all day, but I could sense Tom’s impatience, likely wanting to get back to work rewiring the apartment of this rental property, so I bid farewell.
It turns out Lilly’s is a wholesale pasta company, but they will sell you a three pound bag for $3 a pound. While I asked for cavatelli, I got shells, which fortunately have the same heft of the cavatelli of my dreams, and did not disappoint on the chewiness factor. So, if you are in the mood for fresh shells with Rao's and Parmesan, stop on by, I’ve got plenty. Once I’ve winnowed down the bag, next stop will likely be Monica’s in the North End.
So, yesterday it was back to the exoticness of the Orange Line to continue my exploration of places and people unknown. Wellington Station is also the stop for the Encore Casino, where a fleet of what at first appear to be luxury buses, but on closer inspection are T buses painted black, await. They sneer at their extended family who are lined up with their embarrassing “I Buy Cheap Houses” ads. Out of the parking lot I walked, along the Santilli Highway, which does not need revisiting, past the Mystic River, an office park, the Teddie’s Peanut Butter factory, Nightshift Brewing, the Everett DPW, some Brazilian stores and a Halal restaurant.
When in New Canaan for Easter, my sister had just come back from Arthur Avenue with an annoyingly small bag of fresh cavatelli. There was something about their color and weight that distracted me to the point of wanting to cancel my dinner plans in order to not miss out on them. As it turned out, my kind sister gave me some to bring home and they were as good as my high bar, cavatelli from Thistle and Leek.
So yesterday, the vague destination was Lilly’s, at 205 Main Street in Everett, which, according to my friendly search engine, sells one of the 10 best fresh pastas in Boston. As I wandered around with my camera intentionally strapped behind my back so that it was less obvious, an old man who turned out to be an electrician called Bob, said hello, and when I replied, asked me if I’d like to take his and his partner’s photograph. As it would be hard to argue that I had been making progress approaching people about portrait taking, I seized the opportunity and took another photograph of old people with too much junk going on behind them. Maybe that should be the name of my website. Bob had lived in Everett his whole life and liked it, though the mayor is a crook and because residents don't speak English, he can no longer say hello to his neighbors. He would have gone on talking all day, but I could sense Tom’s impatience, likely wanting to get back to work rewiring the apartment of this rental property, so I bid farewell.
It turns out Lilly’s is a wholesale pasta company, but they will sell you a three pound bag for $3 a pound. While I asked for cavatelli, I got shells, which fortunately have the same heft of the cavatelli of my dreams, and did not disappoint on the chewiness factor. So, if you are in the mood for fresh shells with Rao's and Parmesan, stop on by, I’ve got plenty. Once I’ve winnowed down the bag, next stop will likely be Monica’s in the North End.
- Published on
When in Oklahoma City, I had written about an artist friend who grew up there and had only perfunctory recommendations about places to go in her native state. She and her husband, also Oklahoman, have been friends of mine since the mid-nineties, when we were trustees of our condo association in Brighton, sharing frustration about the old lady who regularly left an empty shopping cart next to the telephone pole outside our place. Things began falling apart when Eric in 8A moved in, convinced that everyone in his orbit is out to screw him, including unpaid trustees. These many years later, he still nominates himself for trustee, a job no one really wants, providing a “bio” that is actually a litany of complaints about various forms of corruption and ineptitude he perceives are being heaped on the condo association. Invariably, someone else has to quietly step up at the last minute and gets the nod.
When my friends and I got to child rearing ages, I left for Brookline and they went to Holliston for the French immersion program. Their 1850s farmhouse is on a dead end street, has lovely creaky floorboards and brush painted walls in a delicious array of colors. A few weeks back, I had the pleasure of making the trip west on Route 16, getting there in time for a walk along a tow path, and a luxurious chat with David while Lisa made dinner, waiting until we were confident she was done preparing, to ask if she needed help. I wrapped up the cheese.
While Lisa has spent her life being a creator of all kinds of things: paintings, fabric, products, toys, words, children's books, photographs, the most beautiful scarves, and famously, a crocheted bikini made of the long hairs caught in her brush, David, a professional in his earlier life, is purely a photographer. They had invited me out so that I could learn more about taking photographs, particularly portraits, after they had challenged me to diversify on the trip.
After a killer dinner, David brought out a beautiful, handmade book that had been his college project, in which he challenged his shyness by roaming around Norman, Oklahoma with a Polaroid, asking unknown people to be in his photographs. .He not only took some wonderful photographs, which is not easy to do with a Polaroid, but got some unlikely people to participate and write some pretty profound things next to their photographs.
The one above is David's (and my) favorite entry. Unfortunately Polaroids don't scan particularly well. The writing is the subject's, David did not read it until they had parted.
It would be dismissive to David’s book to say that his work was a prelude to Humans of New York, because his has more spontaneity and art, there is none of the photographer’s prompting or editing that you see in HONY.
Later, David & Lisa patiently did their best to explain how apertures affect depth of field, which I had been trying to work on, I asked David if he would join me on a springtime wander in downtown Boston, allowing him to revisit his most excellent portrait taking while I learned from him about both photography and the approaching of random strangers. I hope he’ll agree to it as there’s no better way to learn than watching a master do it.
When my friends and I got to child rearing ages, I left for Brookline and they went to Holliston for the French immersion program. Their 1850s farmhouse is on a dead end street, has lovely creaky floorboards and brush painted walls in a delicious array of colors. A few weeks back, I had the pleasure of making the trip west on Route 16, getting there in time for a walk along a tow path, and a luxurious chat with David while Lisa made dinner, waiting until we were confident she was done preparing, to ask if she needed help. I wrapped up the cheese.
While Lisa has spent her life being a creator of all kinds of things: paintings, fabric, products, toys, words, children's books, photographs, the most beautiful scarves, and famously, a crocheted bikini made of the long hairs caught in her brush, David, a professional in his earlier life, is purely a photographer. They had invited me out so that I could learn more about taking photographs, particularly portraits, after they had challenged me to diversify on the trip.
After a killer dinner, David brought out a beautiful, handmade book that had been his college project, in which he challenged his shyness by roaming around Norman, Oklahoma with a Polaroid, asking unknown people to be in his photographs. .He not only took some wonderful photographs, which is not easy to do with a Polaroid, but got some unlikely people to participate and write some pretty profound things next to their photographs.
The one above is David's (and my) favorite entry. Unfortunately Polaroids don't scan particularly well. The writing is the subject's, David did not read it until they had parted.
It would be dismissive to David’s book to say that his work was a prelude to Humans of New York, because his has more spontaneity and art, there is none of the photographer’s prompting or editing that you see in HONY.
Later, David & Lisa patiently did their best to explain how apertures affect depth of field, which I had been trying to work on, I asked David if he would join me on a springtime wander in downtown Boston, allowing him to revisit his most excellent portrait taking while I learned from him about both photography and the approaching of random strangers. I hope he’ll agree to it as there’s no better way to learn than watching a master do it.
- Published on
This whole death thing makes me all bolloxed up, with confusing waves of emotion, for example sadness and relief at the same time. My family-friendly boss gave me the whole week off (unpaid) allowing me to do what I need to, which turns out to be standing in the middle of a room not knowing how long I've been there or why. Also walking, lots of walking, in nature, in the city. It's not been all bad, nor all good, different. And so much kindness, so so much.
So when tenants moved out of my beat up old rental condo and I knew I needed to oversee a bunch of work, a cold sweat developed on my forehead. Visions of Philip, a more linear thinker there isn't, managing a project stressed out with spreadsheets, post its, middle of the night notes, calendars, even something like a clipboard, made me woozy. But the universe was looking out for me when it brought me Igor and Oleg, able to handle almost all parts of a renovation. Igor's sense of order conveyed in his compactness and an always a tidy golf shirt, pressed shorts, new suede running shoes, ankle socks, thick grey hair and sad, beautiful azure eyes, complementing Igor's teddy bear largeness, messy brown hair, grubbiness, baggy shirts, round face and big smile. Perhaps because Igor has some English, he does the light work and stays clean.
They began a few weeks ago, fortunately at a time that I didn't have any work to do. For the most part I stayed out of the way and we'd communicate via text due to language challenges. We were a well-oiled machine with me being the planner, purchaser, scheduler and communicator. They worked around delivery delays, patched up mouse holes, plastered, painted, ripped up floors, added new, got rid of appliances, grouted. But knowing myself and my current distractions, I had concerns about my ability to pay attention and deal with details.
So, a positive side to this whole death thing. Wrong appliance x 2 (fridge was the wrong shape)? Spend an hour on the phone, send them back, get the right ones. No biggie. More money, oh well, in the scheme of things... So the Russians finished what they could, well not installing some of the appliances... and were competent, good communicators, tidy, did a great job. Nice people too.
At the same time, my current apartment, with its wall-to-wall beige (that's being kind) carpeting, overhead lights that resemble Nancy Reagan's earrings, abysmal storage, floors so crooked I can't do a workout, galley kitchen, on the fourth floor (which isn't a problem except in winter when I tend to not leave because it's warm and cozy and light) was going to have rent increased to $4,000, which I knew would drive me crazy if I stayed. So I approached the landlord, Saunders, who owns half the rental property in the greater Boston area, about getting out of my lease, which held me for another year. I would find someone to replace me with no trouble to them, and temporarily move into my newly renovated condo. They said "Hmm, probably not, OK, probably, well maybe". Fortunately, I'm good with grey and compartmentalizing. The realtor found a renter around the 10th, and since then, Saunders has objected to countless minutiae on the lease; parking, co-signer, end date, blah blah blah. So, here we are on the 20th, and I know not where I'll be laying my head in two weeks, and if by some miracle the lease does come through, I won't have much time to pack.
Naturally, the three executive search projects I bid on months ago all contacted me the same day with an urgency that I wouldn't be able to quench on a good day. Coming back round to this whole death thing, I can only shrug and do what I do. I might not be able to sequence and pace, but I'm good at carrying on.
Pass the ice cream.
So when tenants moved out of my beat up old rental condo and I knew I needed to oversee a bunch of work, a cold sweat developed on my forehead. Visions of Philip, a more linear thinker there isn't, managing a project stressed out with spreadsheets, post its, middle of the night notes, calendars, even something like a clipboard, made me woozy. But the universe was looking out for me when it brought me Igor and Oleg, able to handle almost all parts of a renovation. Igor's sense of order conveyed in his compactness and an always a tidy golf shirt, pressed shorts, new suede running shoes, ankle socks, thick grey hair and sad, beautiful azure eyes, complementing Igor's teddy bear largeness, messy brown hair, grubbiness, baggy shirts, round face and big smile. Perhaps because Igor has some English, he does the light work and stays clean.
They began a few weeks ago, fortunately at a time that I didn't have any work to do. For the most part I stayed out of the way and we'd communicate via text due to language challenges. We were a well-oiled machine with me being the planner, purchaser, scheduler and communicator. They worked around delivery delays, patched up mouse holes, plastered, painted, ripped up floors, added new, got rid of appliances, grouted. But knowing myself and my current distractions, I had concerns about my ability to pay attention and deal with details.
So, a positive side to this whole death thing. Wrong appliance x 2 (fridge was the wrong shape)? Spend an hour on the phone, send them back, get the right ones. No biggie. More money, oh well, in the scheme of things... So the Russians finished what they could, well not installing some of the appliances... and were competent, good communicators, tidy, did a great job. Nice people too.
At the same time, my current apartment, with its wall-to-wall beige (that's being kind) carpeting, overhead lights that resemble Nancy Reagan's earrings, abysmal storage, floors so crooked I can't do a workout, galley kitchen, on the fourth floor (which isn't a problem except in winter when I tend to not leave because it's warm and cozy and light) was going to have rent increased to $4,000, which I knew would drive me crazy if I stayed. So I approached the landlord, Saunders, who owns half the rental property in the greater Boston area, about getting out of my lease, which held me for another year. I would find someone to replace me with no trouble to them, and temporarily move into my newly renovated condo. They said "Hmm, probably not, OK, probably, well maybe". Fortunately, I'm good with grey and compartmentalizing. The realtor found a renter around the 10th, and since then, Saunders has objected to countless minutiae on the lease; parking, co-signer, end date, blah blah blah. So, here we are on the 20th, and I know not where I'll be laying my head in two weeks, and if by some miracle the lease does come through, I won't have much time to pack.
Naturally, the three executive search projects I bid on months ago all contacted me the same day with an urgency that I wouldn't be able to quench on a good day. Coming back round to this whole death thing, I can only shrug and do what I do. I might not be able to sequence and pace, but I'm good at carrying on.
Pass the ice cream.
- Published on
I received an email from WIX, who hosts this site, the other day, telling me that I had limited emails left for the month. So due to that, my reluctance to deal with reality, which has included a backlog of dirty clothes and many deadlines that had been waiting, this is a combination of two posts. Feel free to read in chunks as it's a long one.
One can only march up hills, get anoxic in the high altitudes and enjoy views so beautiful they look fake, for so long. While there are way more Bozemanians, as we came to understand they call themselves, in the hills than in the shops, we chose a day to see how the less active half lived, starting at a well curated western wear vintage store that was like a museum with a different smell.
Freaky
Tempting to head in a new fashion direction
Nat trying on a Stevie Nicks vibe
These Gen Zers, they like to scavenge. We visited a coffee shop called Roly Poly, located next to a Weyerhaeuser plant, with active and loud sawing of wood planks going on, worlds different from the indie coffee shops with thoughtful music and Italian earthenware that we have in The City. It was furnished with old car seats and Texaco signs. A man too old for it had second day growth and long, dirty toenails, the woman who worked there had the kind of extremely short bangs that extend all the way round to her ears and a red kerchief tied tightly around her neck, 50s style. The chunk that came out of the milk jug was not ice or something bad, but non-homogenized milk. Eye roll.
Nat living her Gen Z life at the Roly Poly
If you find yourself in Bozeman and wonder whether a combination of jazz and comedy is a good way to entertain yourself, the answer could be yes, depending on your definition of entertainment. Is it possible for bad comedy to be comedy in itself? Or is it more of a real life drama? A long and skinny man introduced himself as the MC, holding his phone, which had a video playing that he appeared unaware of, and a folded up piece of paper. While walking back and forth across the stage nervously, he regularly consulted his paper, stopping. He began with a joke about road repair in Bozeman which fell dead, because well, road repair isn't very funny. He then moved on to his gay brother and the penis shaped pacifier he must have had when he was a baby. There was a silence that caused me almost as much discomfort as I felt when hearing the actual "joke"; the audience collectively wanting to run to the door immediately. That another comedian only slightly less awkward had been imported in from San Diego confirmed that maybe Bozeman is more reliable for craft beer and outdoor sports than culture. The jazz was actually welcomed as a respite from cringing.
Mount Baldy and the Bridger Range, our home view
Converted barn that was home for a few days
While we have already established that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, there was further evidence of it as we had to abort our drive east to Cody in order to make a nonrefundable reservation at Jackson Lake, neither of us having realized until then that we, OK, I, had scheduled being in two places at one time. The positive side of this development is that we were both able to do a quick re-set after gassing up and buying some travel pickles (who knew? they were good). Another time.
Yellowstone was dark green and canyon-like. When we passed Old Faithful, it was accompanied by a spontaneous and tuneful rendition of "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" and a sense of relief that we shared an unwillingness to fight crowds to watch water squirt out of the earth. As we crossed into Grand Teton, the views opened up to prairies again, with mountains behind, a wide variety of flora, a multitude of textures and more shades of green than I had ever seen in one place.
The view from the lobby was killer, that's Grand Teton in the middle
We had booked two nights at the Lodge at Jackson Lake, paying more than I usually do, and were disappointed to smell our room before entering, reminiscent of a NYC taxicab in the 80s, with a 2 star motel-like set up. Naturally, I blamed Trump, who defunded the National Park Service, causing them to likely have to make up for ongoing operating expenses by charging poor sods like us way too much. Oh well. The main building is a national historic landmark, with a monstrous lobby framing a picture postcard view of the Tetons, and one can sit inside or out to watch the sun going down behind the mountains. Can't complain about that, or the Snake River IPA that accompanied. We noticed that there were many men afflicted with bad cases of Importantitis, standing with black shirts on and eyes shifting left and right, coils in their ears and serious faces. After doing a not small amount of staring, eavesdropping, assessing and researching, we discovered that the Kansas City branch of the Fed sponsors a World Economic Forum at Jackson Lake ever year, which we were witness to. I should have mentioned the prices of the rooms to these big thinkers...
Having not had a real meal in a few days, we uncharacteristically opted for the grownup dining room, knowing the food would be awful but healthier than the greasy, diner options otherwise available. We were not wrong.
Best thing about our meal was the moose shaped butter, we had two
Up close and personal, at Jenny Lake. Look at that water!
Textures and greens were mind blowing
While the Lodge was filled with retirees populating gift shops, there were all manner of activities available: whitewater rafting, kayaking, bus tours, lake cruises, nature walks. We decided that the $700 for a day of fly fishing wouldn't be well spent, though we were curious, and opted for horseback riding, which ended up being cancelled because of rain. Wondering if cowboys, back in the day, didn't drive herds in the rain...Or maybe they carried umbrellas?
So, we chose a hike that went round pristine Jenny Lake, towards a canyon. Luckily for us, in Bozeman I had repeatedly hammered home how to watch the weather (I can also advise about cottonwood trees, if you're interested), as it was so easy to do in the land of big sky, so when we smelled the smell and felt the temperature change that caused us to look up at the sky, we knew it was time to turn it around and head back to shelter, cocky as we were while we watched others continue on, oblivious. Sure enough, the rain came down and hard, for about 15 minutes. When it began to abate, we made a run for it, remembering the last few miles to be under a canopy of trees. Well, I'm not sure where that canopy wandered off to, but when the cold, hard sideways rain daggers came off the lake with a mean wind, we found no shelter, only sharp things bouncing off our skin causing me to wonder what actually is the difference between sleet and hail. Dressed in tank tops and shorts, our only option was to charge on, jumping over and running through big puddles, confirming that water resistant hiking boots aren't anything close to waterproof.
Jenny Lake before the hail
Those mountains
You can't really tell how wet we are. Confession: we both loved the adventure and had a good giggle
On our way to Jackson for the afternoon, having already spotted two moose, plenty of deer, horses, cows, goats, sheep, an elk and some prehistoric furry animals that were related to squirrels, we were excited to see the elusive buffalo, grazing in a field full of the healthiest and purplest thistles that somehow don't show up in the photograph.
Requisite buffalo with Tetons in the background. I know, they look like cows.
Ski mountain and downtown Jackson
Ayup. Walked in, smelled the disinfectant. Walked out
Jackson is tucked into the bottom of a ski mountain, right there, and has those wooden buildings like way back when in the west, but was filled with all kinds of downers, including too many T shirts, overpriced chocolate, brand stores and bars filled with bachelorette parties. The Wild West reenactment, replete with fake gunshots and a jail on wheels was the final nail in the coffin, but we managed to find a delightful Italian restaurant where we sat at the bar, did some eavesdropping and enjoyed fine fresh pasta. As a newbie to hat wearing, I was uninitiated about the politesse of wearing one indoors, so struggled with it on my lap for half an hour on a bar stool. Things did not go well, which caused me to look around and see how many were wearing them inside. Adjustments were made.
It was home the next day via Rexburg, Idaho, where Nat had left her wallet at the Jamba Juice. She had had many conversations with incredibly kind people who wanted so much to help her by sending it, but the manager wouldn't let them, so we met the assistant manager on a Sunday, when the store was closed. Nat had asked her if it would be easier to drop it off at the police station so she wouldn't have to make the trip on her day off, but she pointed out that, well of course, the police station is closed on Sundays.
Tetonia, Idaho was beautiful
From there it was a straight shot back to Salt Lake City for an early dinner with a kind person and then goodbye to The Beast. And we got TWO spicy tomato juices each on the plane!
Sigh. Anne Hawley, the ED at the Gardner when I was there, used to say that you should have your next trip planned before you get home....
One can only march up hills, get anoxic in the high altitudes and enjoy views so beautiful they look fake, for so long. While there are way more Bozemanians, as we came to understand they call themselves, in the hills than in the shops, we chose a day to see how the less active half lived, starting at a well curated western wear vintage store that was like a museum with a different smell.
Freaky
Tempting to head in a new fashion direction
Nat trying on a Stevie Nicks vibe
These Gen Zers, they like to scavenge. We visited a coffee shop called Roly Poly, located next to a Weyerhaeuser plant, with active and loud sawing of wood planks going on, worlds different from the indie coffee shops with thoughtful music and Italian earthenware that we have in The City. It was furnished with old car seats and Texaco signs. A man too old for it had second day growth and long, dirty toenails, the woman who worked there had the kind of extremely short bangs that extend all the way round to her ears and a red kerchief tied tightly around her neck, 50s style. The chunk that came out of the milk jug was not ice or something bad, but non-homogenized milk. Eye roll.
Nat living her Gen Z life at the Roly Poly
If you find yourself in Bozeman and wonder whether a combination of jazz and comedy is a good way to entertain yourself, the answer could be yes, depending on your definition of entertainment. Is it possible for bad comedy to be comedy in itself? Or is it more of a real life drama? A long and skinny man introduced himself as the MC, holding his phone, which had a video playing that he appeared unaware of, and a folded up piece of paper. While walking back and forth across the stage nervously, he regularly consulted his paper, stopping. He began with a joke about road repair in Bozeman which fell dead, because well, road repair isn't very funny. He then moved on to his gay brother and the penis shaped pacifier he must have had when he was a baby. There was a silence that caused me almost as much discomfort as I felt when hearing the actual "joke"; the audience collectively wanting to run to the door immediately. That another comedian only slightly less awkward had been imported in from San Diego confirmed that maybe Bozeman is more reliable for craft beer and outdoor sports than culture. The jazz was actually welcomed as a respite from cringing.
Mount Baldy and the Bridger Range, our home view
Converted barn that was home for a few days
While we have already established that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, there was further evidence of it as we had to abort our drive east to Cody in order to make a nonrefundable reservation at Jackson Lake, neither of us having realized until then that we, OK, I, had scheduled being in two places at one time. The positive side of this development is that we were both able to do a quick re-set after gassing up and buying some travel pickles (who knew? they were good). Another time.
Yellowstone was dark green and canyon-like. When we passed Old Faithful, it was accompanied by a spontaneous and tuneful rendition of "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" and a sense of relief that we shared an unwillingness to fight crowds to watch water squirt out of the earth. As we crossed into Grand Teton, the views opened up to prairies again, with mountains behind, a wide variety of flora, a multitude of textures and more shades of green than I had ever seen in one place.
The view from the lobby was killer, that's Grand Teton in the middle
We had booked two nights at the Lodge at Jackson Lake, paying more than I usually do, and were disappointed to smell our room before entering, reminiscent of a NYC taxicab in the 80s, with a 2 star motel-like set up. Naturally, I blamed Trump, who defunded the National Park Service, causing them to likely have to make up for ongoing operating expenses by charging poor sods like us way too much. Oh well. The main building is a national historic landmark, with a monstrous lobby framing a picture postcard view of the Tetons, and one can sit inside or out to watch the sun going down behind the mountains. Can't complain about that, or the Snake River IPA that accompanied. We noticed that there were many men afflicted with bad cases of Importantitis, standing with black shirts on and eyes shifting left and right, coils in their ears and serious faces. After doing a not small amount of staring, eavesdropping, assessing and researching, we discovered that the Kansas City branch of the Fed sponsors a World Economic Forum at Jackson Lake ever year, which we were witness to. I should have mentioned the prices of the rooms to these big thinkers...
Having not had a real meal in a few days, we uncharacteristically opted for the grownup dining room, knowing the food would be awful but healthier than the greasy, diner options otherwise available. We were not wrong.
Best thing about our meal was the moose shaped butter, we had two
Up close and personal, at Jenny Lake. Look at that water!
Textures and greens were mind blowing
While the Lodge was filled with retirees populating gift shops, there were all manner of activities available: whitewater rafting, kayaking, bus tours, lake cruises, nature walks. We decided that the $700 for a day of fly fishing wouldn't be well spent, though we were curious, and opted for horseback riding, which ended up being cancelled because of rain. Wondering if cowboys, back in the day, didn't drive herds in the rain...Or maybe they carried umbrellas?
So, we chose a hike that went round pristine Jenny Lake, towards a canyon. Luckily for us, in Bozeman I had repeatedly hammered home how to watch the weather (I can also advise about cottonwood trees, if you're interested), as it was so easy to do in the land of big sky, so when we smelled the smell and felt the temperature change that caused us to look up at the sky, we knew it was time to turn it around and head back to shelter, cocky as we were while we watched others continue on, oblivious. Sure enough, the rain came down and hard, for about 15 minutes. When it began to abate, we made a run for it, remembering the last few miles to be under a canopy of trees. Well, I'm not sure where that canopy wandered off to, but when the cold, hard sideways rain daggers came off the lake with a mean wind, we found no shelter, only sharp things bouncing off our skin causing me to wonder what actually is the difference between sleet and hail. Dressed in tank tops and shorts, our only option was to charge on, jumping over and running through big puddles, confirming that water resistant hiking boots aren't anything close to waterproof.
Jenny Lake before the hail
Those mountains
You can't really tell how wet we are. Confession: we both loved the adventure and had a good giggle
On our way to Jackson for the afternoon, having already spotted two moose, plenty of deer, horses, cows, goats, sheep, an elk and some prehistoric furry animals that were related to squirrels, we were excited to see the elusive buffalo, grazing in a field full of the healthiest and purplest thistles that somehow don't show up in the photograph.
Requisite buffalo with Tetons in the background. I know, they look like cows.
Ski mountain and downtown Jackson
Ayup. Walked in, smelled the disinfectant. Walked out
Jackson is tucked into the bottom of a ski mountain, right there, and has those wooden buildings like way back when in the west, but was filled with all kinds of downers, including too many T shirts, overpriced chocolate, brand stores and bars filled with bachelorette parties. The Wild West reenactment, replete with fake gunshots and a jail on wheels was the final nail in the coffin, but we managed to find a delightful Italian restaurant where we sat at the bar, did some eavesdropping and enjoyed fine fresh pasta. As a newbie to hat wearing, I was uninitiated about the politesse of wearing one indoors, so struggled with it on my lap for half an hour on a bar stool. Things did not go well, which caused me to look around and see how many were wearing them inside. Adjustments were made.
It was home the next day via Rexburg, Idaho, where Nat had left her wallet at the Jamba Juice. She had had many conversations with incredibly kind people who wanted so much to help her by sending it, but the manager wouldn't let them, so we met the assistant manager on a Sunday, when the store was closed. Nat had asked her if it would be easier to drop it off at the police station so she wouldn't have to make the trip on her day off, but she pointed out that, well of course, the police station is closed on Sundays.
Tetonia, Idaho was beautiful
From there it was a straight shot back to Salt Lake City for an early dinner with a kind person and then goodbye to The Beast. And we got TWO spicy tomato juices each on the plane!
Sigh. Anne Hawley, the ED at the Gardner when I was there, used to say that you should have your next trip planned before you get home....