Thank God for Small Favors

So summer vacation came and went and now it's gone for good. Thank God for small favors.

Back in February my friend Lynn and I went to the travel expo at Boston's Seaport World Trade Center looking for vacation ideas.  I brought home brochures, two grocery bags full, from every travel company and every possible travel destination, dumped my booty on the dining room table, and gave 96 and 98 carte blanche:  "Pick a place, boys," I said, "And we'll go there for vacation.   Pick a destination, pick a mode of travel, pick a meal plan. Pick anything at all, and we'll work it out somehow."  Camping in Maine? We can do that (fingers crossed they didn't pick that). Drive to Nova Scotia?   We have passports at the ready. They speak English in England, so that could work out; they drive on the right in Italy, so I'd be willing. Cruise the Galapagos? I'm in. RVing in New Zealand? (This was probably my first choice.)   I even brought home a brochure about the Orient Express. "We don't want to go on vacation," came the response.  "Why do we always have to do stuff?"   I calmly explained to them that if they didn't pick a vacation spot, I would pick it on my own, and encouraged them again to think about where they'd like to go for vacation.   "How can we pick a place if we don't want to go in the first place?" came the unified, lawyerly response.    So I decided to spend our money domestically, and  issued the edict:   The boys and I would be headed to the Grand Canyon by way of my sister's house in San Antonio so she could join us for the fun.

I have her reassurances that it won't hurt her feelings when I tell you that this was the worst family vacation ever.    She's the divorced mother of former teenage boys, so I'm sure she's seen her share of worst family vacations ever, and even she thinks this one was a doozy.

No, you can't have the $400 (each) Continental gave us for taking a bump just because your name was on the ticket.   My name was on the receipt, so it's all mine.

Hoover Dam?   I know it's hot.  Thermally freaking hot. I'm sorry it's so hot.  And boring, too. And no, we didn't have to come here, but I wanted to, and I'm driving.

Grand Canyon? Yeah, it's just a big pile of rocks. Sue me.

Cirque du Soleil? I was already aware, thank you, that it would be just  (okay, no more saying "just" in front of any noun for the rest of the trip) acrobats in and above the water. Really, anyone can do it.  I don't know why they even bother paying those people.

The best thing about Oklahoma City was that I didn't make the boys do anything. Any. Thing. In fact, OKC totally rocked because I left them behind at the house when my friend Jack gave my sister and me the grand tour and treated us to a wicked good cheeseburger at Earl's in Bricktown.

Did you wake up in a bad mood? Yeah, I know I deserve all the blame. And how is it a vacation if your mom makes you brush your teeth and hair every day, just like every other day?  Clean underwear needs a day off, too, I suppose.

Still, I took pictures to, what? Preserve the memories? Yeah, not so much.

Hoover Dam

Grand Canyon National Park, South Rim

Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument

 

Oklahoma City National Memorial
Beautiful. Beyond breathtaking.

Summer Vacation, Gentile-Style

Some Truths About Plane Travel

If you and your brother wish to share an armrest, your skin will touch. If you do not wish your skin to touch your brother’s skin, you must cede occupancy of said armrest. The person who invents a contactless, two-person armrest will deserve the millions they make and have the eternal and undying loyalty of parents of teens everywhere.

If you are a single parent flying with three children under 5, be sure to ask the kids’ most feckless grandparent to accompany you to sit with one of the children, preferably the fussiest of your young travelers.  Granddad does not need to share his Cheetos, and no, granddad cannot sit on the aisle while 3 sits at the window, with poor innocent stranger stuck in the middle seat just trying to read her damned book. I mean, come on. Feckless is feckless, but that’s just stupid.

If the Concentration app on your iPad frustrates your kid because the colors don’t ever match, and this frustration results in shedding of tears and throwing of iPad onto the floor, your kid is too young for an iPad.

If you are a single parent flying with one girl, 5, watching “Enchanted” on the portable dvd player and drawing princess self-portraits for 3 hours and 55 minutes, and two boys, 3 and 2, who didn’t,  be aware that your neighbors will wish you had stopped at one.

If you’re a cat named Yaz (in my mind, named for  Red Sox icon Carl Yastrzemski but I don’t actually know if that’s true, because she was a black cat with white sox) then, no, of course you don’t need to stay in your carrier for the duration of the flight.  The people up there in first class will think you’re cute, too.

Solid antiperspirants do not count as part of your “3 ounces or less each, all in a quart ziplock bag” booty.  Thank goodness!

Tom Would Have Been So Pleased

Tom would have been so pleased.   During the summer of probably 2005 or 2006, after years of trying to discourage dog walkers from letting their dogs use our fence along the entrance to the Middlesex Fells for their ... business ... Tom and I planted raspberry bushes there, a spot of land owned by the state, maintained by the city, and accessible to all.   Tom's theory was that everyone would be more invested in taking care of the driveway area, even though none of us owned it, with the siren song of those beautiful raspberries calling us to them.

We had a few extra plants that didn't fit along the fence and planted them just inside the gate into the Fells and have paid them not one whit of attention in all the ensuing years.

That first summer after we planted the bushes (and if you've ever seen raspberry seedlings,  you know I should really just call them twigs) we didn't realize that the city's maintenance included weedwhacking the entire driveway flat.  Oops.  The next year, we replanted, but embedded wire mesh in the ground around the base of the plants, and mentioned it to the guys when they came around again, and the plants have happily survived our annual Weedwhacking Day ever since.

We nurtured those plants along the fence,watering them often. 96 and 98 poured a 2-liter bottle over each of the plants every Saturday, and spiked the water with fertilizer during the growing season.

Apparently the dogs and their owners didn't fully appreciate our gift to them, and the dogs continued abusing our fence and raspberries, despite every remedy we could think of, including (separately), polite signs, stern signs, cayenne pepper, baking soda and soap. Nothing worked. The berry bushes along the fence never thrived, but they're still alive and I haven't given up on them.

But oh, those bushes inside the Fells! All of a sudden (literally, like, this week) they're as tall as I am, and have spread to cover probably 75 square feet.   I collected nearly a pint of berries this morning without even trying.  In fact, with Medford being the birthplace of the infamous gypsy moth caterpillar on my mind, I worry a bit that maybe we have unleashed the next Medford invasion on the northeast. But even if we did, I mean, it's black raspberries. It could have been worse. It could have been wild broccoli.

You're welcome.