New England Mamas

The Lakeville Haunted House is no ordinary walk in the woods

Last weekend, ten friends and I willingly let ourselves be led into the woods and chased by men with chainsaws.

It was great fun.

I don't normally "do" scary (just ask my husband who has to listen to me whimper through PG movies), but I've been curious about the Lakeville Haunted House ever since I lived nearby and could hear screams coming from the woods. But, I never had the nerve to actually go to it.

But, living away from the screams that start up every weekend in October has made me brave, and so I agreed to go during the opening weekend of its 18th year.

From the vampire who sidled up to me and started growling in my ear, to the freaky clowns, blood-stained victims, witches, zombies and ghosts who popped out throughout, I spent my time alternating between screaming, jumping, and giggling madly. At one point, I just buried my face into my sister's back and walked as fast as possible.

The only thing that saved me is that the ghouls are not allowed to touch you. And, when I became overcome with fear, I'd remind them, "YOU CAN'T TOUCH ME!".

But, that didn't help me when our small group approached the witches and were told to line up in groups of two. "But I'm alone!", I wailed, as my husband was home watching the kids.

"Oh, that's ok, m'dear," the witch cackled sweetly. "We'll kill you first."

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The Lakeville Haunted House is open Fridays and Saturdays until the 30th of October, and if you can get down there by Saturday the 17th, download the $3 off coupon which will save you on the regular $13 admission. I love that this Haunted House operates as a non-profit with volunteers who spend their weekend nights scaring people; the proceeds from the Haunted House are donated to a bunch of local organizations.

Plan to spend some time, especially if you chose to go during the much-busier weekends close to Halloween. Visitors are grouped into small pods and spaced out for maximum creepiness, but this does mean you may be waiting a while to enter the woods. Dress warmly, wear good walking shoes and hope you make it out alive! And leave the kids home unless you really, really enjoy sleeping in their bed with all the lights on for the next five years.

Music to my Ears?

Ever since the first High School Musical movie debuted and a longish-haired space cadet of a character exclaimed, "Dude...I play the cello!" my seven-year-old son has wanted to play the cello.

Of course, I've called him on it over the years and said things like, "You only want to play the cello because of that dude guy in High School Musical." And of course, he always denied it with a whiny-sounding Noooo-uh!

I'd never discourage a musical instrument from my kids, mind you. I'm thrilled that my children's public elementary school offers an incredible Strings program starting in the second grade.  This is unusual, and I realize we are fortunate in this regard.  My own elementary school didn't offer any musical instrument studies until the fifth grade, whereupon a young Ruth Dynamite chose to play...the trumpet.  I had already been studying the piano since about the age of five or six, and I enjoyed branching out at school and tooting away on a shiny brass horn (even if I got embarrassed when people called me Hot Lips). 

No one calls me Hot Lips anymore, but I know that my years of music study - and years of complaining about having to practice music - helped me grow and develop in many other ways.

I've watched my nine-year-old daughter transform from an enthusiastic but cacophonous viola beginner to a reasonably melodious and confident novice.  When she plays, she beams with pride - and so do I.

And I know that my dude of a son will also grow and develop from the experience of rubbing a screechy bow against scratchy strings on some scaled-down, kid-sized cello that I nag him about practicing every week.   Because soon enough (and not soon enough, too) his screechy nails-on-a-chalkboard scratchings will be music to my ears.

[This post also appears on Ruthless in the Suburbs. ]

Back to School Tornado Season

It's that time again.  August.

The time when carefully constructed lists start to arrive in the mail.

Dear Parent,

Hope you're having a grrrrreat summer!  Your child will need the following supplies the first week of school. Or else.

• 311 glue sticks
• 45 pink erasers shaped like starfish
• 10 eco-friendly recycled notebooks made from bamboo or hemp
• 1 keg of fresh mountain spring water (preferably from New Zealand)
• 15 boxes of tissues
• And just one (1) industrial-sized package of name brand, non-toxic magic markers, colored pencils, pastels, crayons, faux charcoals, water color paints & brushes, and assorted mosaic tiles.

To me, these lists are like an advisory from the National Weather Service because the moment I enter a store to purchase school supplies, a tornado hits.

The winds pick up, electricity charges the air, and without notice, random packs of paper and thumb tacks and rulers leap off shelves and swirl before my eyes. For my own safety, I end up throwing everything within reach into my shopping cart: dry erase boards, quill pens, envelopes made of rice paper, bulk bags of butterscotch candies...

Even though my list gets misplaced during these tornadoes (of course!), I am hopeful that by filling my cart with every school and/or business supply ever produced for the retail marketplace, my children will have what they need.

Uh oh. It's time to batten down the hatches!  I think I'm beginning to feel the winds pick up right. about. now...

John Edwards: Just a Man

Oh John Edwards.

The world has enough sadness. Why invite more? 

I am sick about this breaking news.

Secret Spaces Hidden Gems: Not So Secret After All

PSST!  I have a secret.  Most of New England's natural treasures are not so secret after all.

Take this pond, for example. Situated in a wooded area in South Kingstown, Rhode Island, tucked away behind a few homes on privately owned land, just a stone's throw from Trustom Pond, this small pond is a well known secret to locals, a haven of peace and tranquility and some mighty good fishing.  While beachgoers from out of town flock to state beaches in droves, you might be more likely to find me and a few young anglers trekking through some friendly local's back yard (with permission, of course), poles in hand, for a quiet morning of fishing and fun.

A far more public but equally scenic and tranquil spot lies at West Cornwall Bridge, Connecticut  - or rather, underneath it.  For me, everything about this place is quintessential New England - from the antique covered bridge, the river, the nearby homes and gardens, to the delightful Wandering Moose Cafe. When I visited in June, the water was relatively low and calm.  Fly fisherman cast scenic silhouettes against a setting sun as children scampered across exposed areas of river rock, only occasionally slipping into the ankle deep water with a happy splash.

Having grown up "across the pond" on Long Island's north shore, and having spent innumerable hours riding ferries back and forth across Long Island Sound over the years, I am ashamed to admit a profound ignorance about the Connecticut coastline (barring, of course, the harbor yards at Bridgeport and New London, which don't really count).  My recent trip to the Thimble Islands near Branford, Connecticut opened my eyes to some of Connecticut's real treasures.  My kids and I boarded the Volsunga IV charter boat a couple weeks ago and listened as the hilariously dry Captain Bob gave a 45-minute historical and geographical guided tour of the islands.  I was shocked by the beauty of the place, by the abundant kayaks and sail boats, by the scenic and stunning views that were accessible to average folk like me. I will add "private island, preferably in the Thimbles" to my Christmas list, but in the meantime, I may just take a few more tours with Captain Bob.  You should too. 

My last not so secret hidden gem of a space is Surfside Beach located on the island of Nantucket, Massachusetts.  For the past couple years I've been fortunate enough to spend some time lolling about the shoreline about a half-mile or so from the public part of this most perfect ocean beach of all.  Standing on this unspoiled, sparsely populated beach even during the height of the summer season, you feel as if you are a million miles away from the rest of the world.  And guess what? You are.  Waves crash, gulls screech, children cry to be unburied...it simply can't be beat.

New England can't be beat. And that's why we live here.

America the Beautiful

I did not expect to get misty-eyed and contemplative after watching a local community fireworks display with my family last night, but there I was in Simsbury, CT at the Talcott Mountain Music Festival, eyes wide and lips quivering, awash with patriotism and pride.

Maybe it was the kahlua heath crunch ice cream I was eating, combined with the way I felt leaning back into my husband's arms with our children nestled by our sides, but when the Hartford Symphony Orchestra performed "Stars and Stripes Forever" and fireworks began to illuminate the night sky, I couldn't help but think about how lucky we are.

I looked around at the sea of families who had ventured out to share this experience, the children with mouths agape, fingers pointing to the sky. I looked at the lush green grass, the tall trees, and the ridge in the distance.  I listened to the collective oohs and ahhs as brilliant bursts of color exploded through the air.

I breathed it all in and tried to absorb it through every pore. I told myself in no uncertain terms: remember this moment.

"Mom," my son whispered, shielding his eyes after an especially bright burst of yellow erupted overhead, "why do we only have fireworks in July?"

I started to answer and ended up with a lump in my throat.  "We have fireworks in July to celebrate Independence Day, the day our country became a separate, independent nation. Fireworks represent the bombs that exploded in the air during the war..."  Oh brother. So much for my moment. Now my mind was flooded with images of muskets and boots with holes, torn flags, desert khakis, IEDs, blood, politics, and oil.

"So fireworks are bombs?" my son asked, intrigued.

I needed to have my moment back, so I shot my hand up in the air quicker than you could say I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy, and pointed at the streaks of blue that sparkled like fairy dust overhead.

"Ooooh!" I oozed, a little too loudly.  "Look at that one! Wow!"

And ahhh. I had my moment back.

Good Old-fashioned Play

Something strange has been happening in my neighborhood since school let out last week, and it's got many eyebrows raised.

You see, a curiously large gaggle of kids of varying ages has come together to play - in a good, old-fashioned, spontaneous and creative, unstructured sort of way.

From dawn till dusk, children circle the block en masse on bikes and scooters. They assemble teams and play raucous games of kickball and wiffle ball. They jump on pogo sticks and shoot hoops. They collect insects  and study their squirms, then run off in bathing suits to the nearest slip-n-slide or sprinkler.

Sometimes they just linger, hanging on branches of the nearest tree or lying belly-down on the grass. 

Wanna have a lemonade stand? Hey - let's have a sleep over tonight!  Sure, I'll play badminton with you.  How high can you climb?

Of course, every day sees its fair share of drama. Knees get scraped and egos bruised, a natural consequence of group dynamics at any age.

Secrets aren't nice.  No, I don't want to.  Hey - gimme back my bike!  I 'm going home.

By dinnertime, parents round up their offspring for a quick bite before relinquishing them once again to the intoxicating draw of friends.  The final hours of daylight echo with shrieks of laughter and shouts of, "Hey!  Wait up!" 

Reluctantly, as darkness falls, children trudge home. Just 10 more minutes? Please can we just finish this game? But I don't want to go home.  

"You can play again tomorrow," the parents say.

And the next day...and the day after that, too.

Like it should be.

Honoring Tim Russert

What a terrible shock to hear of the sudden death at age 58 of Tim Russert.   I so admired his intelligence and tenacity and was particularly moved by his outward display of love toward his family - and especially for his father, son, and wife. My heart aches for them.

It aches, too, for another loss that occurred under very similar circumstances just about ten years ago.

Having just retired from a long and successful career, my father-in-law to be spent the day playing golf on his favorite course with his best friend.  Golf was his passion, and he worked at it - even going so far as to set up a mock driving range inside his garage.  (Yes - he was an engineer.)

I have imagined him on that day. His game was good - not great - but good enough for a Tuesday. I don't think he really cared too much about his scores that day, but rather spent the day enjoying time on a beautiful course - his favorite - with his very best friend.

As they walked back to the parking lot after 18-holes of good healthy fun, my father-in-law to be collapsed and died.  Heart attack.  Widow-maker.  Dead - in an instant.

He was 58.

That day, I was busy at work in corporate America when my husband-to-be called me.  "Come home now," he said. 

"Why? What's going on?" I asked, confused and a little annoyed.

"Just come home now."

Such a terrible shock and still, to this day, an ache. An ache, a sadness, a question mark for all that might have been.

I will miss you, Tim Russert, though I never knew you personally.  And I ache your loss for your dear family, who loved you so and who knew, unequivocally, your love for them.  Peace to you all.

We're Just Human in Hartford

My city's been getting a bad rap by national media this week following a heinous crime that was captured by surveillance video.  It's a frightening sight that's been hard a miss: A 78-year-old local man was struck by a speeding car traveling in the wrong lane while onlookers and passersby did absolutely nothing. 

The man lay flat on his back, unconscious, while cars momentarily slowed and then continued on their way. A few witnesses stopped and just stood there; others took a quick glance and kept on walking.

No one ran to the man's side.
No one took off in pursuit of the assailants.
No one was seen calling for help.

After a couple minutes, a Hartford police officer happened upon the scene, and the man was soon transported to the hospital where he remains today in a paralyzed state.

Since then, news reporters have run the video ad nausea and spoken to "experts" about what this brazen crime and absent response reveals about our society. Have we devolved into a bunch of self-centered, disconnected, apathetic, impotent cads? Have new media technologies dulled our senses and left us numb to horrific events that happen before our eyes?

Perhaps.

Or maybe, it's simply that we're human.

Humans make mistakes.  We don't know all the answers. We get scared. We freeze. 

Is it right? No. Is it reality? Yes - for each and every one of us at some place and time.

In the face of horrific tragedy or crime, we may fall victim to our own shock, fear, and ignorance, and paralyzed, we can do little more than breathe. 

Breathe.  Look around.  Breathe.

I know the city of Hartford to be divinely human. It's vibrant, flawed, beautiful, and complicated - just like the people who live and work there. And the victims who witnessed this heinous crime - and I do view them as victims - deserve more than snap judgments based on a two-minute video clip.

Have we devolved into a bunch of self-centered, disconnected, apathetic, impotent cads? Have new media technologies dulled our senses and left us numb to horrific events that happen before our eyes?

Perhaps.

Are we human?

Yes.  For better and for worse.

Cross-posted on Ruthless in the Suburbs.

Day Tripping in Western Connecticut

Looking for a great day trip? Do you love quaint small towns, leisurely bike rides, and ice cream cones? Well load your bikes onto the car and begin your journey with a scenic drive that leads you through the meandering roads of Connecticut's Litchfield County. 

Just a stone's throw past the town of Sharon on Connecticut's western edge sits the Harlem Valley River Trail, a paved bike trail that was constructed on abandoned rail beds.  The trail has grown incrementally since it first opened in 1996 and now boasts 15 miles of flat, paved trail bordered by fragrant wild honeysuckle, low bogs, farmland, and forest.

Simply beautiful, and a treat for all ages and abilities.

Follow up your bike adventures with a stop in Millerton, NY, one of the "coolest small towns" around. Of course, if you're so fortunate as to take an easterly route back home, you should detour through the lovely town of Cornwall, CT.

Drive across the historic West Cornwall bridge, grab an outside table at the cool and casual Wandering Moose Cafe, and soak it all in: the fly fishermen casting their lines, the gardens at nearby homes, the sights and sounds of all things New England.

This is why we live here.  Enjoy!