Monday, May 29, 2006

Imagining a home

From a poignant May essay in the New York Times Magazine:

"When I was 11, my two sister and I lived with my father in an old brick building in Montreal. There was water damage on the ceilings, and the windows were broken and held together with masking tape. Going up the dark stairwell to our door after school was one of the most unpleasant feelings in the world, but going inside was worse. The apartment was ugly, tiny and filled with cockroaches. We moved there after my mother left us behind with our father, and everything in our lives felt bleak."

The joys and limitations of stepfamilies

From an April essay in the New York Times Magazine:

"The step-labels mislead us. 'Stepmother' imples that I am some variation of my stepchildren's mother, when I am actualy the adult person married to their father. I have felt motherly toward my stepchildren and like a daughter to my stepmother, but I have also felt the failure of not living up to either role."

How Generation X views life

From Fred Brock's Live Well on Less Than You Think, some demographics on GenXers:

"Xers have grown up with a strong sense of reality and a sense that they have to take control of things for themselves."

"Their formative years have taught them to expect the unexpected, to distrust projections and promises, and to count on little except themselves and their friends."

Sunday, May 28, 2006

The healing process

I injured my jaw in December. No, it wasn’t a rough hockey game or a tragic skiing accident. It was a vicious bowl of tortilla chips.

One of my weird family inheritances is loose joints. It can come in pretty handy as a party trick and, despite some bad dislocations through the years, I’ve never broken a bone—the joint gives way before the bone. It seems to afflict different joints at different times and for the last several years, the right side of my jaw has been the problem area. It had gotten so bad last fall, my jaw would literally just fall out of joint while I was sleeping and it would pop out when I ate crusty bread or kettle-cooked chips (yum!) or, yes, tortilla chips. I was waiting for a friend at a Mexican restaurant and, though I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t help but chow down on the chips. Sure enough, out it came. But this time it wouldn’t pop back in!

OK, this had never happened before! After two weeks of pain and a jaw that would barely move, I went to the doctor, got x-rays, and talked to an oral surgeon. The bone was back in joint, but the joint was damaged. It would heal on its own with time, but it was also likely to be reinjured frequently while it was healing since it’s a joint that gets used all the time. The best way to let it heal fast was to go on a soft food diet, which—yeah—was not happening, so I chose the slower healing process.

So six months later, I realized last week that I could yawn—really yawn big—without pain. What a feeling!

In the shower next morning, I yawned. No biggie, right? Wrong! I felt everything in my right jaw joint grind together and I grabbed my jaw in pain. I saw the previous six months flash before the eyes of my stomach—no more hamburgers, no more kettle chips, no more loaded corned beef and coleslaw sandwiches from J.P.’s.

But as the day wore on, I realized that while my jaw was a little sore, the new injury was not as bad as I had feared. The healing process was far enough along that what could have been a major setback was instead a minor inconvenience.

And then I thought about the other hurts we carry around. Those places in our hearts where we are flexible and feel good until one day, out of nowhere, wham! It hurts, sometimes excruciatingly; sometimes it’s crippling. We have to learn how to open up again, and gradually we begin to feel joy again where they had been only pain. But there can still be setbacks, new hurts that wound us in the same place. When that happens, there is a temptation to let the fear of the old hurt magnify the new hurt and to become paralyzed in that fear. But sometimes, there is a surprise. The new hurt that we so fear turns out to not be so bad. We have grown and healed and that place that used to be so raw and tender has toughened up and can withstand this new stress.

This is part of God’s design—for our bodies and our hearts.

Agreeing with NOW??!!

According to an article in the Lansing State Journal, Michigan is considering joining the ranks of states that will force family court judges to award joint physical custody unless one parent can be proved to be unfit. Surprisingly, I'm actually on the same side as NOW, the infamous ultraliberal feminist group, on this issue. NOW has issued a statement that this pending legislation "places the interests of parents over the child's interests."

By and for children

From an article in the IndyStar:

Zoe was 8 and Evan 6, when their parents split up about 16 years ago. Several years later, the brother-and-sister team was approached by a publisher and editor to write a book about divorce.
They decided, with Mom's help, to tackle the topic. "Divorce is Not the End of the World" was published in 1997 to give kids a coping tool when their parents break up.

"I think it's easy to think you're gonna get left behind and that they're gonna forget about you, that you're gonna lose all of the rituals and the family memories that you have," Zoe said.

"It's basically losing the structure and the understanding of your life as you know it," said Evan. "It's like a lot of emotions at once. It changes your life permanently and that is a hard thing to deal with at a young age or at any age."

"I think that in a way I'm less likely to get divorced because I've seen divorce up close, firsthand, and it's not something that I want to go through or that I want my children to go through," said Zoe.

Surviving School

Just in time for the end of the school year, here are some good tips from an article on MyWestTexas.com:

Drs. Nicolas Long and Rex Forehand offer the following suggestions in their book, "Making Divorce Easier on Your Child:"
-- Work on strengthening your relationship with your child. Several studies have indicated that if a child has a good relationship with at least one parent following divorce, his or her grades are higher.
-- Closely monitor your child's school performance; that is: check on homework; review tests and assignments; and maintain a close working relationship with your child's teachers.
-- Tell your child's teacher about the divorce so that you can work together to minimize its impact.
-- Try to have a regular time for doing homework; usually before your child starts watching TV or playing video games.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Focus on healing

Thanks to my friend Kelly for the referral to this excellent web site for single parents by Focus on the Family.

Monday, May 08, 2006

France and New England

I leave tomorrow for France and won't be back until May 21, so the blog will be quiet until then. In the meantime, I'm posting a piece I wrote after I took my first solo vacation, about seven years ago. Enjoy the travelogue and I'll look forward to catching up with you all when I get back from France. Au revoir!
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I began planning the trip in April for mid-September. I called or wrote each of the New England states to get their free vacation packets. Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont all sent state road maps along with the usual magazine of places and events. I finally narrowed down my trip to those three states and began to plan where I would stay and what I would see. Eventually, I came up with a rough itinerary but left plenty of time to wander and see whatever caught my fancy at the moment.

I left Virginia on a Tuesday night and drove to my parents’ house in south-central Pennsylvania. I was stopping just outside Albany, New York to visit a friend briefly and I still hoped to be in Bennington, Vermont by 4:00 in the afternoon, so I figured getting in two hours of my trip the night before and visiting my parents and brothers was a wise start. Wednesday morning, I was on the road bright and early, after dropping my 17-year-old brother at his bus stop on my way out of the neighborhood. The trip into New York was uneventful, marked only by the excitement of seeing five wild turkeys by the side of the road just outside Oneonta.

I pull into Gene’s Fish Fry in Defreestville, New York around 1:30. My friend and her husband are leasing the fish fry from her father-in-law to decide whether they want to buy it. It’s a good business, but they are in their last week of the season and everyone is tired. The girls, aged 4 and 1, are in the back room, Alexia on a blanket and her baby sister Adrianna in a playpen. They are watching a Disney movie on the TV/VCR combination that their granddad bought them. Priscilla is busy filling orders, but we talk in between and even find time to look at pictures. She fixes me a clam roll, which I know she won’t let me pay for. I try to get the teenage worker to put some money in the cash box for my lunch, but her loyalty is to her boss and she won’t take it.

Back on the road, I drive through Troy, New York. It’s a disappointing town, too much like the urban New Jersey neighborhood where I spent my teenage years. Soon enough, though, I’m past Troy and heading into Vermont. The road winds alternately between woods and farmland on either side and then suddenly around a bend there is a bridge over a river and I am in Vermont. Bennington isn’t far, less than an hour and a half from Defreestville.

The town is beautiful and quaint and picture perfect. It is exactly what I have always envisioned Vermont to be. Coming up on the old town square, the road curves right around the Old First Church. Cars and busses are parked along the road as I drive past and people are everywhere taking pictures, capturing the nostalgia on film. Beyond the church, small shops line the main street. A bookstore looks particularly cozy with a comfy armchair right in front of the plate-glass window. A few cafes still have tables and chairs on the sidewalk and another fish fry sits on a corner. Right now, I want to locate my lodging for the night and check in before finding dinner.

On the other side of town, I finally find the Molly Stark Inn where I have a reservation for the evening. A sign on the front door says the owners will be back at 3:30, but it is 3:30 now and they have just returned. They have friends visiting and are just pulling off their boots after a short hike. Cammie and Reed are the perfect innkeepers, bright, vivacious, and welcoming. Cammie’s enthusiasm makes everyone smile in spite of themselves, and Reed is perfectly gracious. Cammie shows me my room, a cute little corner room with antique furnishings and a quilt and feather pillows on the bed. I have a private bathroom with a stall shower and pedestal sink and I retreat there to take a shower and wash away the greasy feeling from the fish fry.

After my shower, I head downstairs to check out the local menus and decide where to eat. This is the big decision time. Eating alone is a tricky thing. I want to eat somewhere where I won’t feel uncomfortable or attract attention by being alone. Indecisive, I finally just drive through town and look for someplace. The diners that are open look too frequented by locals and I’m afraid I’ll stick out, particularly by myself. The cafes, where I imagine I would feel more comfortable, have all closed shop for the season. Finally, I chicken out and head for a McDonald’s. Over a Quarter Pounder, I vow to be braver tomorrow. After eating, I follow one of the maps I picked up at the inn to two of the three covered bridges in town. One is closed to traffic, but the other is open and spans a rocky creek. Across the street is a beautiful inn surely out of my price range. I snap a few pictures and head back to my own, more reasonably priced, inn.

The inn is quiet. Reed and Cammie are entertaining their guests over dinner on the screened in porch. I pull on an extra sweater and take my journal and my schoolbooks (I’m working on my Master’s) out to the front porch. The road is fairly heavily traveled, but the woods across the road are full of pine trees, the air is nippy, and I am savoring the feeling of being in Vermont. After an hour or so, the air is too cool and I head for the toastiness of the parlor. I trade my schoolbooks for needlework and decide that I lend a quaint and genteel air to the charm the inn already has. When I finally head to bed, I’m asleep nearly as soon as I lay down.

In the morning, the smell of coffee wafts up the back staircase from the kitchen. I head downstairs and take a seat at a table on the screened porch at the side of the house. The morning air is cool, but I’m still in love with the fact that I’m in Vermont and this crispness completes the feeling for me. Cammie informs me that Reed makes everything from scratch and the breakfast is indeed wonderful: fresh fruit followed by two muffins and then a puffed apple pancake, served in a heart-shaped cast iron pan, with maple syrup (what else?) and sausage. Reed later wraps the muffin I didn’t eat at breakfast and I take it along for the road. An older couple from Minnesota sit near me on the screened porch for breakfast. We chat off and on and then friends of theirs arrive and I finish my last cup of coffee alone before heading back upstairs to pack my things. I want to see some more of the town and then get an early start on this day’s journey, so I check out right after breakfast.

The first place I head is the Bennington Museum. I saw this in a AAA travel book someone gave me for my trip. There is an admission fee, but it is reasonable. The museum holds items once used locally on farms and in homes, a collection of glass and pottery from nearby factories, and—their real boast—several paintings by local girl, Grandma Moses.

After perusing the collection, I drive around the corner to Old First Church. This is a treat. Robert Frost is buried in their graveyard and I head to his gravesite first. Signs mark the path that so many lovers of literature must have walked. I locate the long slab that marks the grave of Frost, his wife, and several of their children. I take a few moments to look around and absorb the view of the natural beauty that inspired so many of his poems. I’m already feeling reverential when I head for the church itself.

When I enter the church, an older woman is recounting some facts to a visiting couple. She tells them that the seating has all been restored to the original box seats. I think how funny it is that on a crowded Sunday some people might sit with their backs to the minister. Indeed, the older woman tells us, this is often the case on Christmas.

She gives us a delicious bit of information about the church that I have to see for myself. Teenagers and unmarried adults used to sit in the balcony, girls on one side and boys on the other. The girls’ side is nearly perfectly preserved; the boys’ side, however, is marked up by pocketknives. Some of the boys merely chipped away at the wood until they bored holes straight through to the box next to them. But many carved their initials in beautiful block letters. I smile and think that I wouldn’t have known whether to scold them for defacing the church or complement them on their carving skills. An older gentleman—the tour guide’s husband perhaps— plays hymns on the pipe organ as I walk around the church, lending an atmosphere of worship.

After the church, I head over to the Bennington Monument. The guidebook says this is the tallest manmade structure in Vermont. It is a memorial to a Revolutionary War battle that is said to have turned the tide of the war. Inside the monument hangs a trophy of the battle, a cooking kettle used by the villainous Redcoats. There are stairs to the top of the monument, but they are no longer in use. Instead, an elevator takes me and 5 others to the top lookout area. Long windows surround the lookout and every other one is open to the fresh air on this day. Signs on each wall let us know which view we are seeing: Vermont, New Hampshire, or New York. This birds’-eye view is beautiful, and the stone monument feels much safer than the slightly swaying form of the Statue of Liberty.

Finally, I’ve seen all the sights I wanted to see in Bennington and I head for New Hampshire. The drive is breath-taking. Around every bend is something unexpected: a quaint town, a country church, a mountain stream, a panoramic view of valleys below. I’m driving too slowly in some areas, but I realize that the New Hampshire drivers really don’t mind. They just speed on by, seeming to take the double yellow line more as fair warning that visibility might not be good than as a hard and fast rule that this is a no-passing zone. Still, I have allowed too much time for my drive to Greenfield. And this isn’t Bennington. Greenfield, New Hampshire turns out to be a sleepy nowhere town with nothing to really look at or do to kill some time before I can check into the inn. I finally make my way to Greenfield State Park and find a lakeside beach there where I can read and pray and write in my journal.

Finally, it is time to check into the Greenfield Inn. The inn is more promising from the outside than the interior decorating lives up to. I think that my grandparents might like this place, and the owners are older here than at any of the other inns I stay at. The town is a lovely experience, however. I’m tired of driving, so for dinner I walk down to the all-in-one convenience store/deli/gas station—ever present, I discover, in small New England towns—and buy a sandwich, some chips, and a Coke. I eat on the large wrap-around porch of the inn, listen to the kids playing outside, do some more needlework and finally watch the sun set before heading to my room for the evening. There is complimentary sherry in my room so I treat myself to a small glass while I’m watching television. I have a shared hall bath this time, but there is only one other room of guests in the inn this night and they have a private bath so I don’t really have to share.

In the morning, I’m downstairs while the innkeepers are still getting the breakfast buffet set up. I fix a cup of tea and then, because I’m the only guest who shows up for breakfast, I’m treated to a served meal and the company of the innkeeper. We talk politics over more food than one person should be expected to eat.

I keep driving east to the Maine coast. I pick up Route 1 as quickly as I can since it has been described to me as similar to the Pacific Coast Highway. I have been greatly deceived. Route 1 is not a bad road, but I don’t see the ocean once so I’m disappointed. I get lost in Portland when Route 1 takes an unmarked right hand turn. Forty minutes later, I find the turn and I’m on my way again. I stop in Freeport to hit the LL Bean outlet. The trip is successful and I’m in and out of the store with a purchase in less than 10 minutes! I stop quickly at a street vendor and buy a Coke and a hot dog for the road. This turns out to be a big mistake. Mustard gooshes out the back of the hot dog all over my sweater and one of the two scant pairs of jeans I’ve brought.

I arrive in Boothbay Harbor at just the right time. I follow the directions up a steep hill and see the Welch House perched right at the top. One of the two innkeepers leads me around to the front of the house where my room is located. As we come around the corner, my breath is taken away. There before me is a stunning panoramic view of the town, the harbor, and the Atlantic. I wasn’t expecting this. This night is the best one of my vacation and I wish I had spent two nights here. My room is beautiful, with a canopy bed and another quilt. I take some pictures of the views from the inn and then head down to the town. This is the quintessential Maine town, what I have always imagined and will always remember. It is full of touristy shops and restaurants, but they are in old buildings that fit the image of a seaside town. Everything is quaint and just beautiful.

For dinner, I take the walking bridge across the short end of the harbor and head for the Lobsterman’s Co-op. The innkeeper has recommended this place to me. The charm of these innkeepers is that they seem to be able to size up their guests and recommend just the right thing for each one. This is the perfect place for me, although I don’t hear them recommend it to anyone else.

The co-op is just a couple of walk-up windows on a fishing pier with several rows of picnic tables. The lobsters are in tanks with big steamers next to them. I order the smallest lobster available, a Coke, and a bowl of clam chowder. The chowder is served up immediately and I pick a spot to sit and dig into the best chowder I have ever eaten. Finally, my number is called and I go to retrieve my lobster. I have to leave a $1 deposit for the nutcrackers I get. The lobster comes with little picks, a dish of butter, and hand wipes. I take a picture of the little guy before I crack his first claw. I think this gives away the fact that I’m a first-time lobster eater. A middle-aged woman several tables away comes over.

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” she says, “but is this your first time eating a lobster?” I admit that it is. She continues, “I always have a hard time getting it all cracked open. Would you like my husband to help you crack the lobster open and we can take a picture of you eating your lobster?” So sweet! Of course I agree.

They snap my picture. He gives me a few instructions on how to get all the meat out, but at the first crack of the tail and the remaining claw, the meat just slides right out. The lobster is delicious and I enjoy this new culinary experience while watching sights of this less-touristy part of the harbor.

After dinner, I head back to the inn and sit on one of the decks to write in my journal, drink a cup of tea, and watch the sunset. A schooner parades around the harbor below me and completes the picture. Finally, when night has settled in, I head to my room.

In the morning, I get up early. The breakfast area is right outside my room so I decide to be the first one out there so as not to be disturbed. The innkeepers don’t cook the breakfast here. They have a man and woman who come in and do that. They lay out a buffet, the most notable item of which is scones. They are delicate and light, made just right. A couple from Italy sits near me. The wife speaks no English and the husband is not much better. One of the cooks later tells us that a large percentage of Maine visitors are European. I take a long walk through the town again before I check out. I’m reluctant to leave this area.

I follow the advice of the cooks and make a detour to Ocean Point on my way back to Route 1. They tell me I’ll see the rocky coastline that everyone thinks of when they think of Maine. They are right. I get out several times and climb around on the rocks to take pictures. The ocean roars and splashes up over the rocks. I’m far enough away to not be in danger even from spray and the sea is calm, but the view is still spectacular. Near where I’ve parked my car, the water comes up to a sandy area. I take of my shoes and socks, just to see if it really is as cold as I’ve always been told. It is.

A little farther down I follow directions from my welcome packet at the Welch House to the Pemaquid Lighthouse. I haven’t seen a lighthouse yet and pick this one at random, but it’s a good choice. Walking up to it, a sign separates grass from rock, warning visitors that those who go out on the rocks do so at their own risk; but people are everywhere on the rocks and it looks safe enough. My pictures later do not do this sight justice. The rock has been worn away in long, deep chutes from years of water washing up and back. The striated patterns of the rock are revealed and you can follow the chutes almost down to the water if you dare. Watching the water crash into the rocks and then pour out through crevices makes me think how frightening and dangerous it would be to try to swim ashore here if your ship were sunk off this coast. Thankfully I’m on dry ground.

I head off for Bar Harbor. At the inn where I am scheduled to stay for two nights, I cannot locate the innkeeper. When I do at last find him, I am already a bit disgruntled and disappointed with my choice of lodging. My outlook doesn’t brighten after discovering that my room is cramped and cold, the shower in the shared bathroom is dirty, and there are no locks on any of the doors. The innkeeper’s one redeeming quality is a good knowledge of the island and a desire to see that his guests find the hidden sights. I leave the inn that afternoon and drive around the island, eventually ending up at the Jordan Pond House in Acadia National Park for dinner. The scenery at the restaurant is beautiful and serene: woods and a small pond, separated by a wide meadow where the deer come to graze at dusk. The food is good if pricey. One of the restaurant’s specialties is afternoon tea, but since I have arrived too late for that, I order a pot of tea with my dessert and linger at the table watching afternoon turn to early evening. Leaving the restaurant, I race partway up Cadillac Mountain and find a good view for the acclaimed sunset colors. Then I head back and go to bed early in hopes of being out of the dreaded inn as early as possible in the morning.

Next morning, I wake and shower, trying not to stand flat-footed in the shower stall, and then head to the country kitchen. Dirty dishes are piled on the countertop and in the sink and, to my chagrin as a lone traveler, breakfast is served family style at the large round table. I manage to eat a blueberry muffin and drink a cup of tea and then leave for my day of sightseeing. Most of my day is to be spent in Acadia National Park. I haven’t gotten up early enough for sunrise on Cadillac Mountain (those who do are the first in America to see the morning sun), but I head to Sand Beach. Located in a quiet little cove and boasting a serene atmosphere, Sand Beach is still just that—a sand beach. It owes its fame here to the fact that so much of the Maine coast is rocky, making it something of an anomaly. My next stop is Thunder Hole. I spend over an hour here waiting for the tide to come further in and make the site begin to “perform.” Unfortunately for the performance, I have visited the park on a day when the sea is too calm to produce any real splash and “thunder” here. Still, the larger waves that do roll in give a small foretaste of the sight and sound that must be here during rougher seas.

My next stop is where my unfortunate choice of innkeepers really pays off. He has directed all of his guests to the “beach of the magical, musical stones.” Not marked on any of the Acadia maps or mentioned in any of the guidebooks I’ve read, this beach is composed of thousands and thousands of small rocks that click together as you walk over them and create a virtual symphony of music as the waves roll them over and against one another. The sound is lovely anywhere on the beach, but to really enjoy it best you have to get so close to the water that you must keep a constant lookout to keep from getting wet. I spend several hours here, slowly moving back as the tide comes in further. Finally, with reluctance, I leave.

I see a sign for “Bubble Rock” and remember seeing it in a magazine before I left. It’s only a short hike, according to the trail sign, so I follow the trail markers along the path. Very soon, the path becomes steep and rocky. Rail ties have been embedded in the path to make a sort of staircase. With legs as short as mine, the climb quickly begins to burn in my muscles. Soon, however, I reach the top of the mountain where the views are indeed beautiful. Bubble Rock seems balanced precariously on an edge of this crest; however, the magazine article I read mentioned that hundreds of children have tried unsuccessfully over the years to dislodge it. The rock scrambling in this less traveled part of the park is fun and the hike back down to my car is much easier than the trek up. I’ve missed the last horse-drawn carriage ride through the park, but my tardiness saves me some money. Instead, I drive up Cadillac Mountain and eat a quick lunch. Tourists line every rock, so this isn’t a place to come to be alone with nature. The views are panoramic: Cadillac Mountain is the highest point on the eastern seaboard and the water below is strewn with small islands.

I feel like I’ve seen all the sites I wanted to in the park, so I drive down to the town of Bar Harbor hoping to catch a whale watching boat tour. When I finally find a parking space and walk back to the launching site, there is a harbor tour boat just getting ready to leave. I opt for that instead and it turns out to be a good choice. Our tour guides are Maine lobstermen and the boat is a lobster boat. We get a lecture on lobster fishing and watch as our guide pulls up several lobster traps. More than lobsters get caught in these traps, and we get to look at a crab and touch a sea cucumber, a starfish, and several other sea creatures. The destination of our trip is a group of rocks where harbor seals are sunning themselves. We cruise back and forth while all of us snap photographs of the seals. On our way back into the dock, our guide points out the nest of a bald eagle and the eagle mother sitting on a nearby branch. We are far away and her size is far more impressive to see than to read about.

One smart thing I’ve done during this day is to keep different types of clothing with me. I start with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, over which I layer a flannel shirt and a sweatshirt. Later, during my hike to Bubble Rock, I leave the sweatshirt behind and eventually end up with the flannel shirt tied around my waist. For the boat tour, I dig a wool pullover sweater out of the trunk of my car and leave that on for the remainder of the afternoon and evening.

Back in town after the boat tour, I walk around to see what the shops have to offer. This is another disappointing town for me. The shops are like any you would find in a New Jersey seaside town and everything looks new and touristy. There is a good fudge and ice cream shop where I buy a chocolate-covered pretzel and some non-pareils to keep me company. A restaurant has been recommended to me and it looks like a place that would have good food; however, it’s not a spot for the single traveler. It’s at the end of a quiet street and appears very retiring. I opt instead for a sidewalk café in the middle of town where I eat seafood linguine and watch the passersby. After dinner, I drive back up Cadillac Mountain in hopes of seeing the sunset and delaying my return to the inn. The sun disappears in the mist only halfway to the horizon and I linger until the light fades before making my way back down.

Next morning, I eat breakfast and head out as early as possible. I have a long drive ahead of me anyway, so the early start is good. The morning is foggy and I miss seeing any sights on my drive through inland Maine. I end up in New Hampshire by mid-afternoon. I’m in the White Mountain region where scenic lookouts appear along the road every couple of miles. I don’t stop until I see the unmistakable sight of Mt. Washington, tallest peak in the eastern U.S. Here I stop by the side of the road and snap several pictures out of my window. Soon after, I reach my inn for the next two nights, the Jefferson Inn in Jefferson, New Hampshire. In stark contrast to the inn I have just left, this place is gracious, lovely, and well run. Jefferson is another nowhere town, but I love it. I head across the street to the deli/grocery/gas station and buy a Coke to enjoy on the porch of the inn. Later, for dinner I head into the next town and get a sub and fries at a pizza shop. Back at the inn, I head to my room. This is a room I can enjoy spending the evening in. The room is large and comfy with Shaker style décor. The poster bed has flannel sheets and a quilt covering and a rocking chair sits in the corner. I curl up in bed with a novel about Jefferson that is lying on the bedside table and read until I’m too sleepy to see.

Breakfast here is better than any other place I stay. The meal is served in a good-sized dining room at the back of the house with views of the wooded mountain stretching behind the inn and the innkeepers’ horses exploring their sloped pasture. A fruit platter is followed by pancakes, sausage, and asparagus quiche. I spend the entire hour chatting with a lovely couple from North Carolina who are seated at another table. They want to fix me up with their son who lives in the same Virginia town I do. When breakfast is done, I trade my clogs for hiking boots and head out for the day.

I drive to the Flume, a waterfall and stream nestled in a long narrow gorge and reminds me of wooded trails I walked with my parents years ago. The hike takes me about two hours since I meander along the paths and stop often to enjoy the scenery. There are two covered bridges along the path, and natural beauty is unabashedly everywhere. Chipmunks and squirrels play in the leaves and the sound of water is never far away. After the hike, I spot signs along the road for the Old Man in the Mountain and pull off where indicated. I expect to have a short hike to the spot where I can see this natural sculpture jutting from the rock at the top of a mountain, but I get out of my car and turn my head and discover the phenomenon before me. I must have been staring at it all along my drive, but only from this angle does the human profile become apparent. It is striking, and I regret not bringing my parents’ camera with the zoom lens or at least a pair of binoculars.

I arrive next at Mount Washington itself. I have read the brochures on the Mount Washington Cog Railway and decide I can’t miss this attraction. It’s the most expensive thing I’ll do on my vacation, but I know I’ll regret it if I don’t go. I get on the 1:00 train, but it’s a three hour round trip and well worth every penny I spend even on this foggy day. By the time we reach the summit of the mountain, the air is so heavy with fog that it is raining. The temperature at the top is low enough that occasionally a snowflake floats by with the rain. I scramble up the pile of rocks to the official summit just to say I’ve been there and then, too soon, the twenty minute stop at the top is over and we’re heading back down. On the way down, I sit next to a woman who has just hiked up the mountain with her husband, father, and seven-year-old daughter. I feel like a wimp having taken the railway both up and down.

There is no time for a nice dinner this evening as I am scheduled to go on a moose tour. I grab some fast food and head to the town of Gorham where the tour departs. The tour bus is a little late in arriving, but I do not mind. As I wait, I dream I live here, as I watch a high school soccer game on the field in the middle of town, a quaint church off to one side, a hill dappled with fall colors behind, and even a train that comes whistling through to complete the picturesque scene.
The moose tour guarantees a moose sighting or your money back, but the tour also provides some good history of the local area including information about the logging companies that built these towns. Our moose sighting doesn’t occur until the very end of the evening when we finally spot a cow in a bog just off the road. We all exit the bus to take pictures of her and she actually walks closer to us. She seems to want to cross the road but is confused by all of us standing there watching her. Finally, she walks back into the woods and we get back on the bus and head back to Gorham. The evening is a success and the town of Gorham keeps our tourist dollars for this trip.

Next morning, breakfast is another treat and I reluctantly leave to head toward Burlington, Vermont. The drive across the rest of New Hampshire and on across Vermont is lovely and I see so many places I’d like to stop and spend time exploring. I arrive in Burlington much earlier than I had anticipated and decide to check out the town first. This is good-sized town. It still retains an aura of New England charm, but it is no quaint little village. The air is a little nippy here along the shores of Lake Champlain, so I decide not to walk around anywhere. It’s still too early to go to the inn I’m scheduled for tonight, though; so instead, I see some outlet stores just off the highway and pull off to do some shopping. I find several good purchases and then head to the inn.

After a week of traveling, with both good and bad experiences, I want someplace quiet where I can be alone for the evening. Arriving at this inn, I discover that it is really just a room for rent. The bathroom is downstairs and at the other end of the house. The house itself is located on a busy corner with lots of traffic noise, and the owners have two granddaughters staying with them who are blaring the television. I lay down on the bed and indulge in some tears while I decide what to do. Finally, I decide. This is my last night. I can either stay and be miserable, or I can leave and drive home tonight. I opt for the latter course. The innkeeper is offended that I’m leaving, I can tell, but I pay my bill and hit the road. I call my parents from a McDonald’s and tell them not to wait up but to leave the door unlocked. It is 3:30 when I leave and I know it will be at least a nine hour drive. I stop once outside of Binghamton, New York for gas and some Nutter Butters and then drive straight through. By 12:30 am I am getting tired, but I know I’m almost home. I pull into my parents’ driveway at 1:00, dump my bags on the floor and sleep on the couch.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Philip Roth on divorce


More divorce in literature. From a review in Slate of Roth's new book Everyman. A nod to the reviewer for mentioning one of my favorite writers, Thomas Hardy.

"Everyman opens at a northern New Jersey graveside, where Roth's hero—the Everyman of the title, who throughout remains unnamed—is being buried by the broken remnants of his several families. His one loving child, a daughter, gives a terse but heartfelt eulogy. His sons, 40-something but still children of divorce, drop dirt on the coffin, choked with resentment against a father they will forever regard as a deserter."

Friday, May 05, 2006

The history of marriage

From the Pew Research Center, comes this interesting chart of marital status over the last 100 years. Frankly, I found it surprising and fascinating. According to this chart, there were actually fewer (percentage-wise) adults living as divorced or never-marrieds in 2000 than there were in 1900. Yes, you read that right: fewer. My guess is that the lower percentage of those declaring their marital status solely as divorced now is due to second (or third or fourth or twenty-first) marriages. Folks are only declaring their current marital status, not any previous divorces that might have taken place. The stigma of divorce was much greater a hundred years ago (MUCH greater), making remarriage difficult for the divorced. The percentage of widows is higher in 2000, a nod to medical technology and better overall health. Married with spouse absent and separated are about the same. My great-great-grandmother fell into this category and would have been in the 1900 census. Great-great-grandpa ran off to another state and started a new family, abandoning his wife and children.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Hope from a teen

"Statistics can tell me I'm more prone to become pregnant, or live in poverty, or end up in prison. However, I choose which paths to take in life, and the results of others, with similar upbringings, do not need to affect my future."

Read the whole essay here.

The little foxes can ruin the vineyard

Gary Thomas on marriage:

"'It's the petty spiritual choices that we make that poisons what was once a very precious relationship and turns it into one that is marked by misery and frustration. We have lost the character to make a lifelong decision that requires sacrifice, generosity, service and the concept of putting the needs of a couple ahead of ourselves as an individual.'
"'They are ashamed they have acted in a petty, selfish manner rather than seeing marriage as a way to face up to what can help them grow. It's easier to run away and start over with someone else than it is to ask for forgiveness and courageously face it. '"

Words from a grandfather

Martin Sheen on his son's divorce and his grandkids:

"'I asked all sides to stop for a minute, to have a cease fire, to heal the wounds and put the fires out and come together a little bit because what's really at stake are the future of these little kids, LOLA and SAM, so that's who we have to focus on right now.'
'It'll end and I have every confidence that both Charlie and Denise will become friends again,' Martin revealed. 'It'll take a while, they have to go through this, but I just hope that they both stop and consider what's at stake for the future of these children.'"

Monday, May 01, 2006

Kurt Russell on stepparenting

From Parade magazine:

"Russell and [Goldie] Hawn connected in 1983 while making Swing Shift. She had two children, Kate and Oliver (now 27 and 29), with her second husband, singer Bill Hudson. 'The children were very young. I told them, Just because I fell in love with your mom doesn't mean I've fallen in love with you. And just because I'm in your life doesn't mean you have to fall in love with me. We can be fair and honest to each other and see how we do.
"His voice gets husky as he adds, 'It wasn't very long before they got under my skin--in the best way. I felt very, very attached to Katie and Oliver. I had a strong need to be responsible for them. They decided to call me Pa.' Russell and Hawn then had a son together, Wyatt, now 19, and the family was truly cemented, ring or no ring."

Poets on divorce

"Although half of all American marriages end in divorce, poets are reluctant to write entire collections about it. John Updike addressed the topic obliquely in his 1977 collection Tossing and Turning, published the year he split with his first wife - and then remarried. At the time of her suicide in 1974, Anne Sexton had completed a new collection, 45 Mercy Street, a third of which touched on her recent divorce. 'I have killed our lives together,' she wrote hysterically in one poem, 'axed off each head.'
"Claudia Emerson's Late Wife is not so gory a glimpse into this grim rite of passage, but it is nothing if not complete. Winner of the 2006 Pulitzer Prize in poetry, the volume looks back on a relationship's demise, from the first serpent of doubt to the slow drift of spirits to the breakup and its final, bitter aftermath."
Read the rest of the Philadelphia Inquirer article here.