REMINGTON THE TERRORIST

 

“People who keep dogs are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves” August Strindberg

There is a time warp of a road around the corner from where I live. With asphalt and black top paving most of the planet, I have found a respite from modern society. This little gem, practically in my backyard, is called Purnell Ridge.

Purnell Ridge is a vein of a country road where few remain. Traveling deep down Purnell Road, an arm that leads to Capital Boulevard, or more commonly known up and down the east coast as Route 1, one may stumble upon a few of these back country roads. With such names as “Shoe Fly,” “Black Horse,” or my favorite, “Lightning Bug Lane,” they are spots paused in time, untouched and amputated from the reaches of Big Brother. I would caution traveling down some of these roads as “no trespassing” signs and shot guns are partners in preserving such tranquility. However, Purnell Ridge is a little more welcoming, with county zoning of five acres per lot. Civilization is more prevalent on the Ridge, thus certain considerations and expectations apply. With such precedence as no kill zones and shot guns need not apply, trespassing along the road is permitted.

I love visiting Purnell Ridge. A leisurely stroll on a crisp, fall day down the unpaved, sandy colored road, where rain fall carves divots and ruts makes traveling a character trace. Foliage of hundreds of year old trees shade the pathway, and creeks runneth alongside while the sounds of birds, frogs and insects harken melodies to the base of running water.

The seclusion of the road is peaceful, full of solace, and cleansing in nature. Surrounded by lake and woods, there are a few cautions requiring mindfulness. Random copperhead or cotton mouth snake indigenous to the area make rare appearances. Legends told of an existence of bears or coyotes scavenging the woods, though I have yet to site any. Some even claim bob cat lurk in the shadows. But the biggest treat is tiny Toto, the dog, who barrels from his home, barking at your feet, only to roll over for a belly rub.

I love running the Ridge. A mile round trip, hilly and winding, always adds interest to a challenging run. I used Purnell Ridge to add mileage when training for my sole marathon. While not a resident of Purnell Ridge, my home overlooks the woods of this beloved trail and I feel a special kinship developed and nurtured over ten years of my visiting this unique spot. That is until recently.

Seems a rather vicious beast has moved into the neighborhood. Situated at the entrance of Purnell Ridge, he has become the gate keeper. His name is Remington and I don’t like him very much.

One fine day I ran down Purnell Ridge, then I ran up. On my way back up the ridge I was abruptly stopped by a large and juvenile German Shepard that, unlike Toto’s friendly greetings, came charging with loud barks, growls and fangs. I sized him up at about a buck twenty. His hair raised along the spine, ears stretching to the trees, I was more than startled; I froze in a panic.

Thankfully this beast was just out for a stroll with his lady master who quickly called him back before he attacked – me. I am acquaintances with this woman and we chatted as I inquired about her new family pet.

She explained that her good for nothing, slacker, late blooming, leech of a son brought him home. But really the dog is quite friendly.

 I asked of this fine pet’s name. She replied, “Remington, after the gun.”

“Oh, how cute,” I responded and then reached my out my hand as a peacemaking gesture of diplomacy.

You could feel the tension in the air as she quickly shouted, “Don’t. I wouldn’t pet him.” In coincidence with her plea, Remington, the friendly dog, started growling at me, about to pounce. She called him back. I laughed a little nervously and politely said I’d be on my way and that it was nice talking with her.

Time had passed and I had forgotten about Remington. I ran the Ridge with no disturbances other than a welcoming hello from Toto. That is until one day after a run down the Ridge, making my way back up, I encountered Remington. I was just about to pass his territory when I heard him bark. I made sure I steered clear of his boundaries and headed to the far side of the road. But that was not far enough.

Remington is a cruel and evil beast. He was bred to attack and terrorize those not in his pack. He knows no other purpose. I doubt rehabilitation would work with Remington. Could I picture Cesar Milan, “The Dog Whisperer,” finding out what makes him tick?

Cesar’s assessment of Remington would go something like this: “This dog was raised by an overindulged, entitled master. Watch what happens when I rub behind his ears.” As Cesar reaches to stroke Remington, Cesar interprets the dog’s speech.

“What did he say Cesar?” asks the audience.

Cesar responds with a look of fear in his eyes, “He says ‘I vill keel you! RUN!!!!”

Run I did as Remington came charging at me. I did not know what to do! I know you are not supposed to run from dogs or they will run after you but I tried to stand my ground. I waved my arms and started growling back at him with no retreat from Remington. He was getting closer. So I started screaming at the top of my lungs, and ran as fast as I could but he gained so much speed, he was on my tail. And then, just as his snout grazed my ankle, ready to bring me down, my pleas for help were heard, and his owner called him back.

Trembling with fear, shock and awe, tears streaming from my cheeks, I headed home lucky to be alive.

I am not one to retreat from terror. I will not give up my ridge. This is war!

Story to be continued...

Feeling Crabby

“We got so much food in America we’re allergic to food. Allergic to food! Hungry people ain’t allergic to shit. You think anyone in Rwanda’s got a f-ing lactose intolerance?!” Chris Rock

 Ask me of my favorite food and my immediate answer is seafood. Oh how I love sweets, but I’ll take a succulent meal of shrimp, clams, mussels, lobster, scallops, and my absolute favorite, crab any day. Growing up along the Eastern Shore of Maryland, as I did, fosters seafood in one’s blood. Problem is I recently developed an allergy to my favorite food, more specifically shellfish. So far the reaction has not reached anaphylactic proportions, so until it does I will keep testing the limit of this allergy.

Last week I ate a little too much shellfish; the effects of my debauchery followed me days later as a reminder of this allergy I always conveniently forget. I made shrimp jambalaya from scratch from a recipe my New Orleans neighbors perfected. Filled with locally raised Andouille sausage, shredded rotisserie free range chicken, delicately sautéed peppers, onions, and sweet garlic left to braise in a broth of tomatoes and Cajun spices, with cilantro as a special twist, and the grande cerise sur le gateau, le grande finale: shrimp! The dish is tres irresistible!

My shrimp jambalaya was so good, so, so, so good I ate leftovers several days in a row for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Toward the end of the week I began to feel crappy and itchy. I attributed my foul discomfort to a tick that latched itself to an unmentionable part of my being earlier that day.

Ticks, coincidentally, fall into the same crustacean category as spiders and shellfish, however ticks are not on my menu. They are nasty, parasitic, disease carrying scourges of the planet. Seems the tick had me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. As a self-proclaimed hypochondriac I became symptomatic of every tick borne illness I could google. But none of the sites gave all over body itch as a symptom.

My itchiness began to turn welt like and hives appeared from head to toe. I was not pleasant to be around. I hollered at the kids, complained to my husband, growled at the dogs. I was in a real crabby mood. And then it hit me like a tsunami sized salt water wave: It’s the Jambalaya!

“Yes, that’s right,” I suddenly remembered, “I am allergic to shrimp. Silly me for forgetting!” Since my shellfish allergy has yet to reach the stage of throat closure, I do not feel terribly threatened, figuring a little shellfish every now and again is manageable. Treating myself with a couple of Benadryl, a dazed and confused sleep, the next day I was good as new.

A couple of days later I attended a crab fest. I do love me some crabs! Thus I took advantage of the all you can eat format and ate all I could eat crabs. The next day my allergy returned, this time with a little more of a vengeance. My throat began to tickle, my lips began to puff, and hives formed in all sorts of shapes all over my body. I realized I had pushed the limit with this allergy and needed a momentary change in diet and a more powerful antihistamine.

Today I am still feeling a little crabby and crappy; A little itch here, a little itch there. This too shall pass. Allergy or no allergy I will not be deterred from eating my favorite food: shellfish! I will continue on an antihistamine and take a couple weeks off. Hopefully by Labor Day weekend I’ll be back in the game for our annual blue crab fest, once again testing the limits of this most detestable, cruel allergy!

Why, oh why, would I put myself through such torture, such life threatening risk? I could think about that now but I’ll think about it tomorrow. Giving up something you love is never easy. When something is in your blood the task is near impossible. Crabs are the only thing that matter. Never will I give up shellfish! As blogging is my witness, I will persevere in even the worst of reactions until my dying day. I will endure the pain, the hives, the discomfort, the inconvenience. It’s the only thing in the world worth workin’ for, worth fightin’ for, worth dyin’, as long as I shall live, as long as it doesn’t kill me, and I will never go hungry again.

It's a Moby!

“A crab provides little food, so he is not easy to eat. But the little he does offer is the best food under the sky. To eat crab you must work, which makes you appreciate him more. He is the blessing, the remembrance. And no man or woman ever ate enough.” James A. Michener’s Chesapeake

 

James Michener’s excerpt captures the essence of what I think of as one of the finest foods placed upon this planet: blue crabs. With a most gorgeous hue of blue that turns to fiery red, these creatures provide the most succulent, sweetest, unique and delicate flavor to the palate. They also provide a haven, a coming together of souls, causing time to pause and allowing for reflection of the blessings, as Michener writes, that are bestowed upon us.

Growing up in New Jersey I am a Jersey girl by birth where blue crabs do scavenge the floors of the Atlantic. A good portion of my life, however, was spent visiting my grandparents along the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Here is where salt water and all the fine creatures that inhabit these waters cultivated my eternal love for crabs and the art of eating them. I grew up on Trippe Creek; heaven on earth if ever there was.

If I were a wet rag you could squeeze me and out would fall droplets of Old Bay. Crabs and the murky waters of the Chesapeake are forever in my blood. August is the best time to harvest this crustacean. Of course you could crab all summer long, but any local would inform you that August is the best month along the Eastern Shore and Labor Day is the grand finale of the season.

We often visited my grandparents throughout the year, each season a unique and treasured experience. Traveling down Harleigh Lane, we turned towards their red brick Cape Cod style house facing west, with near panoramic views of Trippe Creek. During summertime, all of us cousins, aunts and uncles would spend a good portion of our time and energy crabbing. We used crab traps strung along the dock from the pilings. The trap was about a 2 foot x 2 foot metal netted cube with cylinder shaped nets in the center where the bait would rest.

Back in the day we used cut up eel as bait. It was smelly and stinky. Left to soak in the salty waters, the decomposing gray flesh of the eel faded to an almost white, with bone and mangled flesh eking out from the sides. The crabs really gravitated towards the eel, but as eel became more of a delicacy, and scarcer to find, eel was quickly replaced by chicken necks. Not as traditional but seemingly effective and just as stinky and nasty to the senses. I could argue the efficacy of eel vs. chicken necks countered with the decline in the blue crab population, but that is for another diction. Eel was better though…anyway.

Throughout the day my brothers, cousins and I would make many trips down to the dock.  “Look out for the loose board at the top of the dock. Make sure you wear shoes or you’ll get splinters. No going on the dock unless you wear your life jacket!” were some of the orders barked by our parents. We would shimmy the trap to the deck of the dock and count the crabs. We would pick out the keepers and release the babies to grow for next year.

Around mid-afternoon with an adult or two to supervise, we would hop aboard the little outboard, lovingly named the Crab Alley after my cousin Alison, who incidentally is not crabby at all. Using a trot line we would motor up and down Trippe Creek, each taking turns catching the assembly line of crabs.

Using a rope about 100 or so yards long, anchored by floaters (usually empty plastic milk bottles), weighted down to the creek floor by anchors, the trot line is basically an assembly line of bait spread about every couple of feet.

Slowing approaching the first buoy, a net (with metal netting so as not to tangle the crabs), is carefully dipped into the water, under the rope, then lifted and strategically placed on a roller. As the outboard creeps along, the roller moves the rope and bait. We were extremely silent during this phase so as not to scare off the crabs. With net discreetly in position, just barely under the water, a slight and steady hand would scoop the feeding crab into a rubber bucket filled with an inch or two of water.

When one of us missed our opportunity to net the crab silence would be broken as the rest of us would holler at the netter, “How could you miss that! Oh you blew it! Oh well it was too small anyway. That was the biggest crab of the day!” But with another crab waiting, we quickly enacted the "no speak zone" and silence resumed.

Sometimes one of us would net the crab but miss the bucket allowing a crab to escape and scurry free on the little Crab Ally. Such an event sent all toes on board mid-air. With benches on board that were hollowed underneath, the deceptive crab ran for cover. The net served not only to catch the crab but also to nudge and lure it into captivity. Toes safe with the rogue crab captured and resting in the bucket we went back to the business of crabbing.

Oh the excitement and adventure of catching crabs! The pinnacle of the catch, when we knew our day was done and nothing could top our work, was when someone hollered a phrase coined by my cousin David. In reference to the giant fish named Moby Dick by Herman Melville, we knew this crab could not be topped. To be such a large crab, so old and wise, experienced to the prowess of the trot line, yet so engrossed in its feeding, you could hear a pin drop, steady was everyone on deck, and then SNATCH! Echoing all over the creek could be heard, “It’s a Moby!”

With the harvest of the day coming to an end we would hand over our catch to our grandmother Gammie who would steam the crabs in a big, black pot speckled with white, reserved especially for crabs. Gammie, a Baltimore native, raised Quaker during the Depression era, saw her share of death and misery. As a result she was cold to the business of steaming crabs. She would pile in Old Bay and a can of beer. Outboards weren’t the only place a crab went rogue. Kitchen counters and floors gave one or two a glimpse of hope at escape but good ole’ Gammie quickly threw the crabby into her pot.

Every now and then there was a crab that fell through the cracks, not quite meeting keeper requirements. As she tonged the crab into the pot, she’d pick up the baby crab, pause for a moment then say, “Well babies die all the time” and in plopped the crab.

With the screen porch overlooking the creek as the venue, long tables covered in newspaper were set with instruments for cracking: wooden hammers, metal crackers, and knives made especially for digging out vestiges of crab meat. The chefs at the grill brought in barbeque chicken breasts, local Maryland corn and sliced tomatoes as the rest of us anxiously awaiting the tray full of crabs.

Inevitably there were a few squabbles placing claim over who caught what crab, but nobody argued with the catcher of the Moby! Moby was theirs to covet. A big chunk of meat would warrant the champion crabber to dangle their prize in front of whomever was sitting next to them, and while unappreciated, perfectly fair game.

With our family huddled on the porch, the sun setting over Trippe Creek, the scent of salt water wafting through the screen, the sounds of the end of the day settling in, we sat diligently picking crabs. Knowing another summer had come to an end, and that the next time we would all gather would be Thanksgiving, we cherished our time, our moment, and the remembrance of such a blessing.

If You Just Believe

“Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world – stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death – and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.” Henry Van Dyke

The Christmas season came and went this year without too much of a peep. The kids and I picked out the biggest tree we could find: Ten feet tall and five feet wide. I prepared the usual pomp and circumstance of the season by decking my house from the inside out with lights and garland, wreaths and sparkling presents. Decorations were dazzling halls, cookies were baked and eaten, stockings hung on the chimney with great cheer, holiday parties happened, and carols were sung all over town.

My children were nestled all snug in their beds with the hopes that St. Nick would soon be near. Here in North Carolina not a single snowflake fell, and many a December day felt more like a warm summer’s eve than a scene from a Norman Rockwell holiday card. Still I’m sure the spirit was alive, I just didn’t feel it as much as usual. I am not really sure why.

Perhaps because Thanksgiving was a week later this year and everything Christmas had to be crammed into a shorter period of time? In an effort to put on the holiday show was there less time to savor and immerse oneself in the season? I noticed more people wishing “Merry Christmas” with pride and exuberance versus the hesitant “Happy uh, um Holidays?” so surely the spirit was alive more than ever.

I remembered the reason of the season and reminded the kids we were celebrating Jesus’s birthday. We went to church and prayed for peace and happiness throughout the land, filled shoe boxes to send to children in need, adopted an angel from a tree, listened to bells toll, and told stories from the past. All signs of good tidings were evident and we came all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant.

My kids counted down the days to see if Santa thought they were naughty or nice. Would he bring them everything their hearts desired? Did they remember to tell him about the Furby, or that giant Nerf gun, or that last minute wish for that special Harry Potter wand? We were all very merry with yuletide trimmings shouting “Noel!”

Every morning my sweet five year old would come barreling into my room and tell me how many more days until Santa arrives. He would hold out his hand and count his fingers with such authority and assertiveness, and then smile with giant excitement in his eyes, giggling like a bowl full of jelly.

My eleven year old, bless his heart, still believes. He tried to talk himself out of the magic a year ago, but I talked him right back into it telling him that he’ll have everything he needs if he just believes.

My darling nine year old daughter was humble with her requests. She really did lose her two front teeth, plucked from her mouth by the dentist. Yet she could still whistle Merry Christmas.

All signs of everything Christmas were in full force, and I know the spirit was too, I just didn’t feel it like I usually do. Then it happened, just when I thought all hope of having my heart brimming with the enchanting aura of the holy time would escape me, I felt it.

Christmas Eve we made our annual hop, skip and jump to my aunt’s home for the traditional carving of the Roast Beast dinner. The table set with fine china and family heirlooms, with place cards thoughtfully arranged, we enjoyed the company of our family and friends. We ended the evening with a reading of “Twas the Night Before Christmas” recited by my younger cousin. The reading was a tribute to my most respected and missed uncle who passed too soon and not that long ago. The moment was bitter sweet.

Christmas morning arrived. I knew long before the kids that Santa had not forgotten our home. She was up until 3:30 am wrapping presents and filling stockings with “The Christmas Story” marathon playing in the background. Nonetheless three innocent pairs of gingery footsteps trounced into my room to wake me, anxious to see if Santa came.

Just as they were about to race down the stairs I halted them, “Stop, let me check to see if he came!” but it was too late, their excitement could no longer be contained. In a peaceful truce with a cordial friendship in the works, their dad appeared shortly thereafter to share in the festive frenzy.

In a sea of paper and presents, the room was covered from tree to chimney. Not a single regret or complaint of disappointment was uttered, and smiles and happiness exploded amidst the mass of mess. All five of us, mom, dad, and three children, sat down to a lovely breakfast served in the dining room with Christmas carols enhancing the scene. We shared some laughs and stories, recounted our packages and showed thanks. But that was not when I was struck with the spirit.

My three children gathered their belongings and were off for the next week to spend some quality time with their dad. I spent the day in a quiet, reminiscent silence. Though I was not alone and my euphoric state had me flying.

Later that evening I was invited to the home of my dear neighbors and friends Dave and Debbie for Christmas dinner. Joined by their daughter Kristen, and Dave’s mom visiting from Ohio, we enjoyed a most delicious feast of a special secret family recipe called Shrimp Mangino, served with roasted brussel sprouts and Caesar’s salad. Dave, the ultimate wine connoisseur, selected the most delectable wine to pair with the meal.

Two years prior I had the honor of joining them on this very sacred night. We sat at the same table and enjoyed the same meal with the same company. Dave’s mom remembered our meeting and both of us were happy to be reunited. She is a pip of a hoot and a lady with a pep in her step and a sass in her humor. She said to me, “The last time I saw you, you looked older. You look younger now.”

Two years ago I spent my first Christmas dinner without my family. Although that seemed like eons ago, I recall the time not being one of my happier days. I may have had a smile on my face, but my sadness hung heavy and she remembered. She could tell that evening how sincerely time had healed me and I confided a little secret to her. She was beaming.

Amazing how much time truly heals. I spent a wonderful evening with my best friends and though my children were not with me, I was living in the moment, not dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. We gathered around the piano and their daughter Kristen played a most gorgeous Christmas ensemble that brought tears to my eyes. I asked her to play it again and she did. Then Debbie and Kristen sang a Silent Night duet. That was the moment. Music, the gift from heaven, the voice of God, brought the magic and spirit of the season to my heart. What a beautiful life.

Christmas came and went this year without a peep. I neglected to get out my Christmas cards, there were people I wished I had showed my thoughts with actions, I didn’t bake nearly the cookies I wanted to bake, didn’t spend nearly the time I wanted to spend with my children. Our gingerbread houses collapsed and we never made it to our traditional showing of the Nutcracker. I confess, we never filled those shoeboxes. Somehow our annual viewing of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” escaped us, while our traditional readings of such sentimental works as The Polar Express or Santa Mouse sat on the shelf too often.

As for that Elf on the Shelf, screw him, he’s creepy and was never invited to our house anyway. I ran out of steam when decorating, so much that the last few strings of lights I just threw on a bush and called it a day. My gorgeous tree hatched a rather large family of spiders that brought new babies on the twelve days of Christmas. I didn’t walk around stores with that effervescent spirit of good will towards men. I spent more money than my budget allowed.

But on the final hour of this season, the spirit rained down upon me. And the day after all is calm, all is quiet. And I’m in love. Everything I asked for and more is under my tree. I can’t wait for next Christmas season.

Merry Christmas!!

Red Haired Red Neck

I dedicate this posting to a new friend whom inspired me to let my inner red neck out...that and too much Duck Dynasty as of late.

“Ain’t no point in beatin’ a dead horse….’course, can’t hurt none either.” Author Unknown

I am Master of my domain, Queen of my castle, Lady of my manor, Countess of the county! Prior to my single status, I was exempt from certain responsibilities. Now certain challenges have fallen upon me and I have tackled them with hesitancy and reservation. Once accomplished though I have become empowered. I am woman, hear me roar! I speak of yard work.

While I have alluded, alright admitted, to my princess status in a previous blog or two, I am not afraid to work hard and get my hands dirty. When it comes to yard work, I don’t really have a choice. Since my current budget does not allow the luxuries of a gardener, though that would be fun, I must dive in and do it myself. My yard, while fit for a castle, is a beast of a yard. It rests on an acre and a half on a rather steep hill, surrounded by a moat of trees. To maintain such an estate requires use of several pieces of mechanical equipment.

To entertain use of such equipment, I fashion my work shoes, some raggedy pants, and a beat up t-shirt. With my hair up, visor on, and $5 shades from Wal-Mart, I am quite the picture of ruggedness ready to tackle a manly job. Each item has had its own nuances, requiring the right amount of that special touch to get ‘em going: the leaf blower, the weed whacker, the hedge trimmer, the lawn mower, and alas my coveted John Deere tractor.

The leaf blower is really fun to use. Of course, taking care of leaves with some good old fashioned raking is better exercise but, considering the size of my lot, I have a lot of ground to cover and blowing is more efficient. Besides perusing the yard with a motor on my back is enough work for one gal. I am an expert blower now but back when I was a virgin I had the darnedest time trying to get that thing started. I would pump the gas into the fuel line, pull the string thing, fluctuate the gear settings, get a little motor action and then nothing. I spent hours doing this, cursing, sweating, shouting, and eventually kicking the thing where the sun don't shine. Then one day my neighbor and I were talking. I told him I couldn’t get my leaf blower to work. He pointed out to me that the off switch was on. You know what? I flicked the switch to “on” and that baby started right up. I am now really good at blowing.

Ugh, the dreaded weed whacker; my most despised piece of yard equipment. If I were smarter and of the more technical mind, I would invent a better weed whacker. One that doesn’t quit so quickly, doesn’t break its string every five seconds, one that automatically reloads and doesn’t require pounding on pavement, one that is more user friendly, careful not to have such a quick trigger, shooting debris into shins and eyes. There is just so much I would do to improve on this mechanical tool. I have yet to master the weed whacker and I have about given up trying. In fact, it currently sits in my garage, dissected into three pieces. To rectify the edging and weed creeping into garden beds, I have caved and resorted to using Round Up to edge my beds. I hate doing because I try to be environmentally friendly, but it gets the job done without all the mess and hassle. (I know I will be hearing from my EPA cousin on this one.).

The hedge trimmer is a beautiful creation of electronic yard equipment I just recently discovered. A well groomed yard goes a long way in keeping in good with the neighbors. Those shrubs grow fast. I found that a good bush whacking cleans things up nicely and the hedge trimmer is the piece to get the job done. There are some precautions to consider. First, while it works really well on shrubs and hedges, it also works really well on jeans and extension cords. I have learned that whatever is in its way, it will trim. I am lucky to have my leg and my life. Cutting live wires is a risky proposition.

Ah the lawn mower, my little hummer. This has had very little to learn surprisingly. I can start it up just fine but every now and then it needs gas. “Hmmm, which hole for the gas? Not the one for the oil. Oops!! Oh and what this random cap I found on the garage floor? I don’t know, don’t think I need it so I’ll just throw it out. Oops! Gas tank lid for mower. That’s alright, nothing a little Saran Wrap, aluminum foil and a hair band can’t cure.” Thanks to some creative ingenuity, my little hummer is leak free and happy.

The tractor; I am queen of the hill on my coveted John Deere; master of my domain. I rule the tractor. There is just something about the power of the motor under your body. With all the quirks in the topography of the yard I sometimes feel like I an expert downhill skier maneuvering moguls on an icy slope. Focus and strategy are key. You do not want the mower to tip. That would be bad. Too steep in one area and the grass clippings and I will become one. Patience is key. Sometimes Johnny can be sensitive. He is limited in his capabilities as he strictly cuts grass, but he does it so well. Sometimes I tempt him by running over pine cones, rocks, tennis and whiffle balls, but he lets me know such adventures are too much and he responds by growling as he viciously spits out the debris torn in shreds. Some days Johnny just doesn’t feel like starting. When this is the case, I give my ole Deere a rest and try to rev him up later.

Recently, with fall in full force, and the moat of trees around my house, I had to contend with a real leaf project. Several weeks had passed since Johnny and I had ridden. I went to start him up and he just wouldn’t turn over. I gave some lubrication to the motor, caressed the engine a little and still I couldn’t get Johnny up and running. I was really in the mood to ride him. I had leaves to run over and he was just the piece for the job. I was forced to resort to my trusty leaf blower. I spent hours blowing until the sun set and darkness prevailed. I still hadn’t forgotten about Johnny. I was curious if perhaps the mood suited him now that he had some time to think about working for me? So I moseyed on over to my Deere, jumped right on, turned him on, and low and behold he was ready to ride.

The yard was pitch dark but my Johnny has some pretty strong headlights. He’s manufactured for such situations. I rode my hot rod all over the yard, seeing nothing but the couple of feet he lit for me. Up and down, back and forth, together we worked to make a beautiful landscape.

Apparently we were really loud. My neighbors Debbie and Dave happened to be outside checking out their Christmas lights. They heard a mower in the distance. They turned to each other and said, “Is someone mowing their lawn at night?” Dave turned to Debbie and said, “I bet it’s MB.”

The next morning Debbie called to inquire what the racket was on my property. She inquisitively inquired, “Were you cutting your lawn in the dark last night?”

To which I excitedly replied, “Yes, yes, yes!! It was exhilarating, empowering, so much fun using those headlights. I always wanted to ride in the dark. Debbie, there is nothing like cutting the grass at night.”

To which she replied…

“You may be a red neck when you mow your lawn in the dark.”

Don’t that just crack yer yaller. I was grinning like a opossum shitting peach seeds. Can’t argue with that one. I done did that. Not worth a hoot and a holler. If ifs and buts were candied nuts oh what a Christmas it would be. That’s all I gots to say.

DWTS Close Encounter of the Third Kind

"To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak." Hopi Indian Saying

After having arrived in Pennsylvania two days prior, Thanksgiving morning my brother, sister-in-law, two nephews, three kids, and myself piled into the car and made an hour and half drive due east to Central Jersey, venue of Turkey Day, home to Dad (aka Cranky) and Nona (aka Mrs. Cranky). They have a lovely home and Thanksgivings with them are always filled with warmth and good food. Mrs. Cranky’s family always joins the grateful gathering and I thoroughly enjoy their company. I expected to spend the day with the usual crowd.

So imagine my surprise when I enter the foyer, and lo and behold, beaming at the other side of the room, is a tall and handsome, OK gorgeously, beautiful man. Was it Christmas already? Had my gift come early? He spoke. My sister-in-law and I had to hold each other up as we were weak in the knees and fixed in a trance. With a deep and soft Russian accent this beautiful specimen spoke, “Hello, very nice to meet you. I am Andre.”

“Andre so nice to meet you. Do you want to marry me?” Well I didn’t actually say this. I did just meet the man.

“This is my wife Lena and my little boy Sergei.” Lucky for Andre he was married.

“Oh, so nice to meet all of you.” I say a little caught off guard, but not because he was married. Over the years I have met many unfamiliar faces at Mrs. Cranky’s, though they are usually named Uncle Paulie, Uncle Louie, Uncle Mikey, or Uncle Sal just to name a few. Mrs. Cranky has a large family of Italian heritage. I have never met an Uncle Andre with a beautiful Russian accent. Curious of their connection to Nona I ask, “So Andre and Lena, how do you know Mrs. Cranky?”

“From dance studio, “replies Lena. Nona works as the office manager at a ball room studio. I start to put the connection together. Lena continues, “Vee are dancers. Zough I don’t dance anymore after bebe born.”

“Oh, dancers!” I am instantly in awe.

Nona yells from the kitchen, “It’s his studio. He’s my boss so be nice.”

“Oh!” I am still in awe. “Oh, nice. Wow, ball room dancers. Are you familiar with Dancing with the Stars?” Stupid question.

“Ov course vee are.” replies Lena.

“Have you ever competed against any of the dancers?”

“Oh yes, dancing community very small. We know zem all.”

“Have you ever met Maks Smirsmirninoff?” I love Maks. He is one fine bad boy and who doesn’t love a bad boy?

“You mean Maks Chmerkovskiy?”

“Oh yes, sorry my Russian pronunciation is not very good.”

“Yes, ve know Maks. He wants to be an actor now.” She rolls her eyes.

“Do you know any of the other dancers?”

“Yes vee know all ov zem. Mark Balas and Tony Dovolani, zey plays in band together. Yes, vee know zem all. We pearformed vis dem. Dancing community very small.”

“You danced viz them, I mean with them?”

“Oh yes. Andre danced on first show season. Vee too busy to be on show. Andre vaz asked but vee no time. Too busy viz studio, students and now bebe.”

“Andre was on the show?!”

From the background my stepmom, aka Mrs. Cranky, hollers at me, “What are you, a celebrity whore?”

I respond with quite shameful pride, “Yes, I am. I am surrounded by greatness right now.” I mean, what are the chances? Here I am traveling to dumpy Central Jersey, and it is a little dumpy. I grew up there, I can say that. And here I am having a celebrity encounter of the third kind. Yes, I am a celebrity whore. I know it’s wrong but it feels so good. I can’t help but ogle and obsess with fascination. After my great interrogation of these poor, innocent guests I retreated a little and mingled with my family, but my eyes were on the dancers. Andre’s posture alone looked as if he were dancing standing in place.

Brunch was ready and it was time to sit down for round one of the feast filled day. Mrs. Cranky had a beautiful dining room table set and decorated. My dad and brothers sat at one end of the table and Mrs. Cranky’s family at the other. Since I was so caught up ogling and obsessing, all the seats at the big table became taken. There wasn’t a spot left. I was stuck sitting at the fold out table attached via “T” style, parked in the foyer, next to the front door. Being the princess that I am, I was slightly miffed. After all, I just drove north with three kids and a dog, eleven hours in horrendous traffic, and then hopped in the car again. I spent a lot of time traveling to spend time visiting my family and I get stuck at the kiddie table?! Really? This is how her majesty is treated?! “Oh well, no biggie,” I thought and quickly got off my thrown.

I took my place at the head of the fold out table and started to eat my bacon while five kids ages three through eleven reached and grabbed, were active and loud. Ready to pull out my hair, Andre and Lena joined me in the chaos. Suddenly the fold out table by the front door felt like the head table at the royal ball. I felt like I got the big end of the wishbone and my wish came true.

My daughter, mom and I watch the show “Dancing with the Stars” religiously. In fact, we just finished immersing ourselves in Season 17. We love the show and the dancers. We have gained such a keen eye we are able to accurately predict the judges’ scores and comments. The glitz and glamour is magnificently eye catching, and the dancers, those dancers, they are so talented. They are artists and athletes wrapped in a pretty, perfect packaged. They perform flawlessly to any dance style, have multiple routines seamlessly memorized like a pianist memorizes a ten page classical piece. But my fascination with ball room dancing goes even beyond the show.

Andre, Lena, and I conversed very nicely. They are super down to earth and very Americanized for two people who seem so foreign to me. As new parents, they were so cute and doting, and I loved observing their family interaction. We traded parenting stories, laughing all the while. But I felt compelled to tell them a story.

“Andre and Lena, let me tell you a story. A couple of years ago I was at your studio when Mr. and Mrs. Cranky had their après wedding celebration. Remember?”

“Yes, I do.” Andre responds.

“Well Andre, I was at a very low point in my life when I attended the party. I was going through something extremely traumatic and stressful.”

Lena said, “Traumatic and stressful? Try having to stand in line for a roll of toilet paper.” Well she didn’t really say this but I imagine she was probably thinking it.

“I was going through a difficult period. I felt very sad and my heart was very heavy. A dark cloud hung over my head.”

“I see,” said Andre.

“Well you see Andre, that night was magical. One of your dancers from the studio went around asking guests to dance. I was one of the chosen ones. This dancer asked me to dance the waltz with him. Why I had never danced the waltz before? Playing in the background was this beautiful piece. This dancer gently reached for my hand and told me he would teach me. He instructed me to dance one, two, three, four, in a square pattern. We glided around the entire ballroom as if we were floating on a white, fluffy cloud. I felt transported to a place of beauty. I felt stunning. We glided around and around. I felt elated. This dancer ignited a spark inside of me that was dead. I felt alive, I felt so alive. I felt happy, I felt so happy. I was glowing. That gift of dance reminded me what happiness was and gave me hope. Andre, after the song ended, I gave the dancer a hug and thanked him so much for giving such a gift. To this day I remember the feeling of gliding along the dance floor and how high I felt. Something as simple as music and a dance awakened my soul. I will never forget that experience.”

Andre listened so intently to my diatribe and replied, “Zat is za feeling I get every time I dance. Dancing is like a drug.” When he told me this he was glowing and beaming, truly loving and grateful for his talent and fortune to be able to have dancing in his life. Lena too, shook her head in agreement.  I felt as if as if I understood their world, speaking the same language, albeit a brief and passing moment.

Then Andre gently reached for my hand, held it lightly, and said, “My dear, I vaz za vone zat taught you the valtz. I am glad you enjoyed za dance.”

Lena, Andre and Sergei said their goodbyes as it was time for their son’s nap. They would not join us for dinner. My encounter with them was short but out of this world. I had been transported to another planet. I was grateful for so many things that Thanksgiving day. To be able to gather with family in a warm home with good food and good company is a blessing. Being able to revisit a special moment and catch a glimpse into a world of such talented individuals was the whipped cream on my pumpkin pie.

See for yourselves the beauty these too bring to the world. Thanks Andre and Lena!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1xlzbkyQXA 

Decisions, Decisions....

“Travel penetrates your consciousness, but not in a rational way.” Milton Glasser

The countdown to Turkey Day is tomorrow. Well at least it was when I wrote this blog. This past Tuesday the three kids and I, and the dog, drove north to be with our family for Thanksgiving. I had hoped to beat the major holiday rush. The kids missed two days of school, but I figured it would be worth it to get a jump start on the traffic. Maybe bypass most of it?

The trip started out promising. The roads weren’t too bad until, as expected, we hit traffic right before Washington, DC. I was hopeful we would bypass this likely scenario but no such luck. I accepted this setback as I always prepare for traffic at this stage of the trip. I was still hopeful that after we passed through our nation’s capital, the trip would be smooth sailing.

The rest of the trip was horrendous is the best word I can use. We hit pocket after pocket of traffic. For four hours traffic was stop and go, at speeds of 5 and 15 mph. What should have been a seven hour trip turned into eleven hours in a Nor’easter, with rain and wind attacking the road ways.

Keeping a sharp eye on the road for eleven straight hours, and grappling with the potential for hydroplaning, takes a toll on the body and mind; lights in front and to the rear, rain reflecting in every direction; stop and go, red and white, stop and go, red and white. My three kids were angels but even they reached their limit, and then mutiny erupted.  

Dehydration set in as I did not allow myself consumption of too many liquids in an effort to deter too many potty visits. I tried passing the time with The Sundays, Dave Matthews, John Mayer, Billy Joel, Rage Against the Machine (too much to censor), and finally peace with Chopin at my son’s request. We could sail along at turtle speed with Chopin: Nocturnes, Fantasies, Polonaise, and Waltz. But then I couldn’t take them anymore!

I made a couple of phone calls of vents and complaints to my family. Some cuss words thrown in beneath my breath. Regretting my decision to make the trip, I swear to the kids that, “We will never, ever, ever make the drive north again over the Thanksgiving holiday.”

Inch by inch we finally arrive. Four hours after our initial ETA, I needed a big glass of wine. That night I didn’t sleep at all. I was so wired from the trip I had the worst case of insomnia. While awake through the night I did a lot of thinking. I did a lot of thinking about what I thought about on the eleven hour trip and what I thought about on the eleven hour trip was the same subject. The more I tried to change the subject in my head, the more it kept coming back at me. I was having a post travel break down and dwelling, alright obsessing, over past decisions.

Wednesday was a new day. Thanksgiving was a great day. Thursday night I was stricken with the same stomach bug my nephew contracted. So Friday and Saturday, not so good. The drive home, although late at night, was pleasant and fortunately I was not plagued with another episode of insomnia from a long drive. But while reflecting on the trip I wondered, was my decision to make this journey the right decision? We could have stayed in the comfort of our home, spent Thanksgiving with my aunt and cousins in North Carolina, and had plenty of chillax time; maybe gotten our Christmas tree a little early and savored decorating our house in preparation for Santa, saved some gas money too. But no, I had to revel in the thought of spending solid quality time with family members I rarely get to see. Nothing wrong with that but was it worth it? Was the pain of the journey worth the payoff?  I believe it was.

However, in questioning my decision, I flirt with a little philosophy on decision making in general. What I have concluded is that decisions are made based on the knowledge provided at the time. Choices are made for a reason. Make them and move forward. Make them with courage of conviction. Don’t turn back, because sometimes the roads are too deep for a U-turn.   

In the case of traveling during Thanksgiving week, the negatives were minor: a rather unpleasant day spent driving, a sleepless night, and the day after road lag. OK, and the stomach virus was not so good. However, the payoff of being with family was worth the minor discomforts. Other decisions have much greater consequences with pain so great that only time can heal and only time can tell where that choice will lead. Don’t look back. Was the choice a mistake? Maybe, but mistakes are part of life. We learn from them as parents always say. They leave room for growth and direction for the next trip; hopefully with no traffic to slow down the journey.