It’s scary, really.
Three minutes ago, I turned 24. As in, I’ve been on this earth for 8,760 days, 210,240 hours, 12,614,400 minutes — you get the point.
I’m old. No, not compared to John Chaney. But compared to, well, me of yesteryear. Or even last year.
Consider my past year, probably the most exciting and peripatetic of my life.
A year ago today, I was getting readjusted to life in the United States. I was four days removed from being abroad, having returned from a three-and-a-half-month stay in Australia and a three-day vacation in New Zealand.
Living across the world was the best part of my life. Sure, there was school and an internship, but there was no stress. It basically was an extended vacation. I enjoyed every minute of it.
Then came my final semester of school at Albion College, which turned out to be, contrary to what I anticipated, my best few months at Albion. With a lighter workload than during my first three years, I enjoyed myself more — despite working five days a week — and as the final days approached, I dreaded the end.
But, sadly, it came. On May 12, I graduated from Albion — and was thrown out into the real world.
OK, that’s a lie. I moved back in with the nicest people in the world, my parents, and they didn’t even charge rent or room and board. I commuted 40 minutes each way to my part-time job at the Jackson Citizen Patriot. But I knew I couldn’t live at home and earn $9.50 an hour at a 28-hour-a-week job for long.
So in July I finalized plans to make the first major move of my life — an emigration to North Carolina to move in with my cousin/brother J-bo.
Late July and early August were great. Some of the best times of my life. First, my boy Tick and I went on our second annual baseball trip, visiting Milwaukee’s Miller Park, and Chicago’s Wrigley Field — my first time — and U.S. Cellular Field. In August, I flew to Utopia — aka Sandwich, N.H. — for two amazing weeks of hiking with J-bo and others.
And then the wait began. Late August and September slogged along until, at long last, I shed a few tears — seriously — and packed my Honda Civic for Durham, N.C. After a three-day stop in D.C., I arrived on a hot, humid day in early October.
… And now here I am, 24 — celebrating my birthday for the first time away from home. When I go to church tonight, there won’t be any animals — as is the tradition in telling Jesus’ story at the church in Ann Arbor. Tomorrow, I’ll bring in Christmas without any white stuff outside and without Mom, Bust and Ro sitting around me.
It’s all weird, kind of scary, kind of exciting. Yes, plenty of emotions.
But, honestly, I don’t feel 24 years old (I guess that’s a good thing). I feel about 18, maybe 19. I still love acting a kid. You wanna shoot hoops in the rain? I’m down. You wanna scalp cheap tickets then move down at a game? You better. The way I see it, you’re only old if you act old.
So now I move forward, with 365 days left until the Big No. 25. Will the next year of my life be as crazy and transient as this past one?
I can’t give a definitive answer, I really can’t, because I don’t want to commit to anything. There are only a few guarantees I can give:
I won’t step into a mall if I don’t have to. I’ll continue to watch hundreds of hours of sports games, and I’ll probably continue to write about sports.
I’ll eat a lot, I’ll probably sleep a lot, and I’ll definitely exercise a lot.
Lots of tennis, hoops and chess are in the works. I’ll also put to use my video camera, creating some YouTube classics for all you (one or two people) interested.
And maybe I’ll start living on a normal schedule, such as going to bed by 12 and waking up by 8.
Then again, that’s unlikely. After all, I don’t want to show any signs that my youth is fading. And if I can’t live by a college student’s hours, what kind of message will I be sending?
I know, that sounds nonsensical.
But forgive me. I’m still just a kid.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
12.18.2007: Keys to being frugal
When you’re making $8.50 an hour washing dishes.
When your freelance checks never arrive in your mailbox.
When you’ve got rent to pay, plus TV, Internet, electricity, water and newspaper monthly bills.
Yes, you have to be extremely frugal to get by.
So here, for anyone interested, are my keys to frugality:
— Absolutely no buying of clothes except for socks and boxers.
— Related to the above, get enough socks and boxers to only have to do laundry once a month; you can do it in two loads.
— Never turn the thermostat above 65, which really isn’t that cold to begin with.
— Drive a car that gets at least 35 mpg, but only drive when you can’t bike.
— If your workplace has food, eat as much as you can while there and bring some home to cut down on the need to buy groceries.
— Never use a light in the apartment unless needed. Turn off when done.
— Don’t buy a home phone. The only need for one is if there’s an emergency and you can’t tell the police your address.
— Rarely go out, and when you do, buy that night’s special.
— Use newspapers as wrapping paper.
— Never turn down a free meal.
— Use the apartment complex’s gym unless you work at a gym and get free access.
— Instead of buying books, join a library.
— Never eat out.
— Don’t date.
— Limit your friends. The more of them, the more you spend.
— Don’t travel.
— And, finally, never buy gas when it’s more than $3.00 a gallon. Be patient.
Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ve abided by all the rules listed above. As a result, I’ve volunteered to work Christmas Day — I normally don’t work Tuesdays — if anyone wants off.
Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.
Talk to you next week,
Jake
When your freelance checks never arrive in your mailbox.
When you’ve got rent to pay, plus TV, Internet, electricity, water and newspaper monthly bills.
Yes, you have to be extremely frugal to get by.
So here, for anyone interested, are my keys to frugality:
— Absolutely no buying of clothes except for socks and boxers.
— Related to the above, get enough socks and boxers to only have to do laundry once a month; you can do it in two loads.
— Never turn the thermostat above 65, which really isn’t that cold to begin with.
— Drive a car that gets at least 35 mpg, but only drive when you can’t bike.
— If your workplace has food, eat as much as you can while there and bring some home to cut down on the need to buy groceries.
— Never use a light in the apartment unless needed. Turn off when done.
— Don’t buy a home phone. The only need for one is if there’s an emergency and you can’t tell the police your address.
— Rarely go out, and when you do, buy that night’s special.
— Use newspapers as wrapping paper.
— Never turn down a free meal.
— Use the apartment complex’s gym unless you work at a gym and get free access.
— Instead of buying books, join a library.
— Never eat out.
— Don’t date.
— Limit your friends. The more of them, the more you spend.
— Don’t travel.
— And, finally, never buy gas when it’s more than $3.00 a gallon. Be patient.
Unfortunately, I can’t say I’ve abided by all the rules listed above. As a result, I’ve volunteered to work Christmas Day — I normally don’t work Tuesdays — if anyone wants off.
Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.
Talk to you next week,
Jake
Monday, December 10, 2007
12.10.2007 two-month update from North Carolina
For my weekly update this time around, I won’t bore you with self-deprecation or pester you with countless anecdotes. Rather, how ‘bout some numbers?
Saturday marked the two-month mark of my stay here in the shopping metropolis of Durham, North Carolina. So here, ladies and gentlemen, are some fascinating figures from my first 60-plus days in this beacon of college hoops.
1 — Number of times I have done laundry. I must admit, however, that I’m just days (and a couple dirty socks) away from being due again.
1 — Number of times, out of 17, J-bo has beaten me in tennis.
66 — Number of times J-bo and I have played chess (I lead 41-25).
0 — Number of times J-bo has played me in Boggle. If he did, he’d have a very large advantage.
3 — Number of times I have gone out on Franklin Street. This needs to increase.
2 — Duke basketball games I’ve covered. Hopefully more games — including ACC battles — to come.
20 — Number of dollars I owe my uncle Buzz from when he helped me buy furniture.
3,750 — Approximate amount of money I’ve burned since arriving. No worries, though. I’m back to my frugal ways, and I’m making a lofty $8.50 an hour washing dishes.
0 — Friends I’ve made outside of my family (and they were already my friends). Again, need to get out more.
137 — Approximate number of hours I’ve spent in front of our high-def, 37-inch, LCD TV. Again, I need to get out more.
3 — Number of sports magazines I now subscribe to — SI, ESPN, Sporting News. Which is two more than before the move. Yes, I know I need to diversify.
0 — Times I’ve been west to the mountains or east to the beach. Again, not cool.
1,418 — Estimated number of dishes I’ve already washed (not including at home).
804 — Amount of miles it took for J-bo and I to drive to Chicago for Thanksgiving.
2 — DVD documentaries I’ve made during my time here. Maybe I’ve found a new passion.
53 — Approximate number of whole carrots I’ve eaten. And my eyesight — except when it was blurred by some friendly work bleach — is very good.
12 — Estimated number of times J-bo and I have jumped in the community swimming pool after playing tennis. A few times, the water temperature was in the low 50s, according to J-bo’s expert analysis. Cold, very cold.
84 — Number of times I’ve gone up and down the three stories of stairs leading to our crib. No, this is not an exact figure.
OK, folks, I know the numbers are becoming stale. I promised not to put you to sleep. Hope you enjoyed. And, yes, a carrot a day is never a bad idea.
Saturday marked the two-month mark of my stay here in the shopping metropolis of Durham, North Carolina. So here, ladies and gentlemen, are some fascinating figures from my first 60-plus days in this beacon of college hoops.
1 — Number of times I have done laundry. I must admit, however, that I’m just days (and a couple dirty socks) away from being due again.
1 — Number of times, out of 17, J-bo has beaten me in tennis.
66 — Number of times J-bo and I have played chess (I lead 41-25).
0 — Number of times J-bo has played me in Boggle. If he did, he’d have a very large advantage.
3 — Number of times I have gone out on Franklin Street. This needs to increase.
2 — Duke basketball games I’ve covered. Hopefully more games — including ACC battles — to come.
20 — Number of dollars I owe my uncle Buzz from when he helped me buy furniture.
3,750 — Approximate amount of money I’ve burned since arriving. No worries, though. I’m back to my frugal ways, and I’m making a lofty $8.50 an hour washing dishes.
0 — Friends I’ve made outside of my family (and they were already my friends). Again, need to get out more.
137 — Approximate number of hours I’ve spent in front of our high-def, 37-inch, LCD TV. Again, I need to get out more.
3 — Number of sports magazines I now subscribe to — SI, ESPN, Sporting News. Which is two more than before the move. Yes, I know I need to diversify.
0 — Times I’ve been west to the mountains or east to the beach. Again, not cool.
1,418 — Estimated number of dishes I’ve already washed (not including at home).
804 — Amount of miles it took for J-bo and I to drive to Chicago for Thanksgiving.
2 — DVD documentaries I’ve made during my time here. Maybe I’ve found a new passion.
53 — Approximate number of whole carrots I’ve eaten. And my eyesight — except when it was blurred by some friendly work bleach — is very good.
12 — Estimated number of times J-bo and I have jumped in the community swimming pool after playing tennis. A few times, the water temperature was in the low 50s, according to J-bo’s expert analysis. Cold, very cold.
84 — Number of times I’ve gone up and down the three stories of stairs leading to our crib. No, this is not an exact figure.
OK, folks, I know the numbers are becoming stale. I promised not to put you to sleep. Hope you enjoyed. And, yes, a carrot a day is never a bad idea.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
12.5.2007 — updating my state of affairs
Sorry, folks, it’s been so long. And, no, I can’t even give the “I’ve been busy” excuse. A man who sleeps in until 2:36 p.m. on a non-descript Tuesday has no “busy” excuses.
And, plus, I’m not a man full of excuses. I tend to tell it how it is.
So let me get right to the juicy fat of my current situation. All of my free time lately — not including my sleepy time — has provided me plenty of opportunities to think about what I’m doing in life.
It’s an interesting thought process.
Currently, my life is like reading three hours out of boring textbooks each night with 10 minutes of stimulating novel reading sprinkled in.
Last Tuesday, I had the pleasure of covering the Wisconsin-Duke game for wral.com. Before the game, I sat in a press room that included ESPN commentator Dick Vitale and famous basketball author John Feinstein among other well-established writers. That right there made my night.
But it was only the beginning. Since there were numerous important media types at the nationally televised game between ranked teams, there wasn’t room for me on Duke’s press row. So I was relegated to the baseline of the court. Yes, I sat my ass on the wooden floor right next to the photographers.
And I was all over ESPN. Every time there was a scuffle under the basket for the ball or a fastbreak coming straight toward me, I prepared myself to be bowled over by huge, muscular basketball players. But, luckily, I never had to deal with this. Instead, when I retuned home later that night, I saw myself on SportsCenter’s “Top 10” plays twice.
Sure, I was paid a measly $65 to cover the game — not exactly enough to live on — but it still made my night. I’m banking on covering more games at Cameron Indoor Stadium in the days to come. It’s the best place to watch or cover a college hoops game.
The following night, I was scrubbing toilets for $7.50 an hour at the Hilton Garden Inn by the RDU airport. Boy, how I can go from the top of the world to its darkest dungeon in the course of 24 hours. While I want to cover sports for a living, the bitter reality right now is that with the intermittent stringing jobs I have, I need money on the side just to get by.
That means washing dishes four days a week at the Hilton for $8.50 an hour (and occasionally scrubbing johns). Not exactly a great job for a college graduate, but it’s what I gotta do, so I accept it. And — I must say — I’m the best damn dishwasher in the state of North Carolina. You got a pan you think isn’t cleanable? Bring it by my place and I’ll scrub it for you (at the cost of a six pack, of course).
While I’ve been encouraged by my opportunity to write game stories and features for wral.com and the Associated Press — I’m covering one of the high school football state championship games this Saturday — I’m resigned to the fact that I’m going to have to leave this area to procure my first full-time sports writing job. So every day I check journalism websites to see what’s available, to see if there’s anything worth applying for.
No luck so far, but it’s something I have to do if I want to achieve my goal of becoming a well-respected sports journalist.
While Thanksgiving in Chicago was fun this year — as it always is — it also was depressing. Every time I’m around my older cousins, Lou and Pete, I can’t help but feel inferior. Lou is now making $80,000 a year with the potential to make an additional $40-or-so K each year in Boston. Pete is in his first year of law school, all but certainly on his way to a bright career.
I know comparisons are ill-advised, but I can’t help placing myself next to them and their friends whenever I’m in their presence. Hmmm, let’s see. Law school vs. washing dishes. It’s like New England vs. Miami. I guess we’ll have to wait until Week 16 (but I’m pretty sure of the result).
But whatever. All I can do is move forward and live my life. One thing I’m proud of is my frugality. I know how to not spend money. I can make ends meet without a full-time gig despite $500-a-month rent and bills. And I own J-bo in tennis and chess.
In this cold world, you have to focus on the positives. If you don’t, the negatives will drown you.
All right, folks, I’m out. It’s getting late, and I actually plan on waking up before 2:36 tomorrow.
With peace and love,
Jake “Bloat” Lloyd
And, plus, I’m not a man full of excuses. I tend to tell it how it is.
So let me get right to the juicy fat of my current situation. All of my free time lately — not including my sleepy time — has provided me plenty of opportunities to think about what I’m doing in life.
It’s an interesting thought process.
Currently, my life is like reading three hours out of boring textbooks each night with 10 minutes of stimulating novel reading sprinkled in.
Last Tuesday, I had the pleasure of covering the Wisconsin-Duke game for wral.com. Before the game, I sat in a press room that included ESPN commentator Dick Vitale and famous basketball author John Feinstein among other well-established writers. That right there made my night.
But it was only the beginning. Since there were numerous important media types at the nationally televised game between ranked teams, there wasn’t room for me on Duke’s press row. So I was relegated to the baseline of the court. Yes, I sat my ass on the wooden floor right next to the photographers.
And I was all over ESPN. Every time there was a scuffle under the basket for the ball or a fastbreak coming straight toward me, I prepared myself to be bowled over by huge, muscular basketball players. But, luckily, I never had to deal with this. Instead, when I retuned home later that night, I saw myself on SportsCenter’s “Top 10” plays twice.
Sure, I was paid a measly $65 to cover the game — not exactly enough to live on — but it still made my night. I’m banking on covering more games at Cameron Indoor Stadium in the days to come. It’s the best place to watch or cover a college hoops game.
The following night, I was scrubbing toilets for $7.50 an hour at the Hilton Garden Inn by the RDU airport. Boy, how I can go from the top of the world to its darkest dungeon in the course of 24 hours. While I want to cover sports for a living, the bitter reality right now is that with the intermittent stringing jobs I have, I need money on the side just to get by.
That means washing dishes four days a week at the Hilton for $8.50 an hour (and occasionally scrubbing johns). Not exactly a great job for a college graduate, but it’s what I gotta do, so I accept it. And — I must say — I’m the best damn dishwasher in the state of North Carolina. You got a pan you think isn’t cleanable? Bring it by my place and I’ll scrub it for you (at the cost of a six pack, of course).
While I’ve been encouraged by my opportunity to write game stories and features for wral.com and the Associated Press — I’m covering one of the high school football state championship games this Saturday — I’m resigned to the fact that I’m going to have to leave this area to procure my first full-time sports writing job. So every day I check journalism websites to see what’s available, to see if there’s anything worth applying for.
No luck so far, but it’s something I have to do if I want to achieve my goal of becoming a well-respected sports journalist.
While Thanksgiving in Chicago was fun this year — as it always is — it also was depressing. Every time I’m around my older cousins, Lou and Pete, I can’t help but feel inferior. Lou is now making $80,000 a year with the potential to make an additional $40-or-so K each year in Boston. Pete is in his first year of law school, all but certainly on his way to a bright career.
I know comparisons are ill-advised, but I can’t help placing myself next to them and their friends whenever I’m in their presence. Hmmm, let’s see. Law school vs. washing dishes. It’s like New England vs. Miami. I guess we’ll have to wait until Week 16 (but I’m pretty sure of the result).
But whatever. All I can do is move forward and live my life. One thing I’m proud of is my frugality. I know how to not spend money. I can make ends meet without a full-time gig despite $500-a-month rent and bills. And I own J-bo in tennis and chess.
In this cold world, you have to focus on the positives. If you don’t, the negatives will drown you.
All right, folks, I’m out. It’s getting late, and I actually plan on waking up before 2:36 tomorrow.
With peace and love,
Jake “Bloat” Lloyd
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Three weeks in the Triangle
October 30, 2007
Three weeks. As I sit here this Tuesday, in a rotating chair in Duke’s Bryan Center, which makes me a bit dizzy, I have now been a resident of Durham, N.C., for just about three weeks, 21 days, 504 hours, 30, 240 minutes, 1,814,400 seconds.
I have assembled my bedroom (which is now, appropriately, as messy as can be). I have bought a map, which hopefully I won’t have to use for too much longer (although this place can be downright confusing). I have found two football stadiums where I can run steps (that’s a good thing).
I have attended three basketball media days and a Duke scrimmage. I have not found a job (yet). I have beaten J-bo, my cousin and roommate, several times in both tennis and chess — the best way to boost my self-esteem after a tough day of biking around aimlessly (but now, I must admit, J-bo is gaining on me in both competitions).
Yes, I have been somewhat active since my relocation from Ann Arbor. But yet, at times, I still feel lost. I miss Ann Arbor, my hometown my entire life. I miss the fall leaves. I miss being able to bike anywhere in the city on residential roads. Here, by contrast, I have to deal with highways just about everywhere I go.
Of course my longing for Ann Arbor, I believe, is understandable. After all, it was my home for a whopping 23 years. And it was — basically — perfect. It spoiled me.
Things are different here. The Wal-Marts are red (yes, I had to shop there once to buy recycling bins, and they charged me for an extra bin). So are the Best Buys. Our area is dominated by shopping centers. I’m not exaggerating when I say there are at least 12 shopping outlets within three miles of our home in Alexan Farms apartments. If the rest of the world outside of the Triangle was destroyed by aliens/terrorists, we’d have enough supplies to last for at least a few years.
Which, of course, I hate. I can’t stand shopping centers. A “Target” is about as appealing to me as target practice (and you’ll never catch me clutching a gun in this lifetime). Not only that, but the stores all around give us an excuse to go buy things (such as an ice cream scooper, J-bo) even if we don’t need ‘em. I’d rather be 20 miles from the nearest store and have to survive on our supplies.
Oh, and let me mention the highways. Our apartment is off Garrett Road, which intersects with 15-501, a three-lane highway between Durham and Chapel Hill, just en eighth of a mile from our apartment. So in order to go anywhere (downtown Durham, downtown Chapel Hill, those shopping centers, the Boreykos house) we have to turn onto 15-501 or at least cross it. This is usually a time-consuming ordeal (especially during rush hour).
And then there’s the issue of biking places (which has to be a part of my daily routine). In order to bike to UNC’s campus, I have to cross 15-501 twice and climb the longest hill in the Western Hemisphere on Franklin Street (yeah, it’s, uh, a great workout). Overall, it’s about a 10-mile ride to the center of campus. Today I rode to Duke’s campus — where I am now — for the first time. While I was able to take a back way that didn’t involve crossing 15-501, it was one heck of a ride. I think it took close to an hour.
So I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting daily workouts on my Trek. On a pleasant side note, the odometer on the bike eclipsed 2,000 miles yesterday. I am so proud of my bike. I’ve had it now for at least seven or eight years, and it’s never given me a problem (including during the 650-mile ride around half of Lake Michigan).
Life with J-bo is interesting. We get along just fine. We disagree on things, but they’re all minor (“Why the $&#$*^% did you buy an ice cream scoop?”; “Take out the #$%$%^* trash”). Recapturing the magic of New Hampshire has been difficult, what with J-bo doing that graduate school thing every day and church thing on the weekends and me blogging, eating and reading — but we’ve persevered by playing tennis and chess on a regular basis.
Additionally, I’ve taught J-bo about the nuances of sports (the art of the onside kick) and he’s taught me how to play that guitar Playstation2 game.
Life with J-bo is fun, but I’ve come to the realization that if I want to have a nighttime social life, I’m gonna have to make some, um, friends. J-bo likes to hit the sack early — especially on the weekends — which isn’t exactly my style. I’ve never gone to bed at 10:30 p.m. on a Friday night except when I did paper routes, and although I could get a route here, the idea of waking at 5 a.m. every morning of the week to deliver papers is about as appetizing as six-month-old lasagna.
I have yet to experience the surrounding nightlife, but I figure to get my first taste of it tomorrow night at the Halloween extravaganza on Franklin Street, Chapel Hill’s main street. According to trusted sources (the Boreykos), some 60,000 raging lunatics crowd Franklin St. late into the night each Oct. 31, scaring each other and destroying anything in sight (OK, I made up that last part, but I wouldn’t be that surprised).
So that should be interesting. I still need to find a costume, however. Any ideas? I need to know soon.
Now I know I’ve been pretty negative to this point about my new home, so let me change gears a bit. There are some great things about the area, such as the passion for college basketball. OK, that was an understatement. People around here are nuts about college hoops.
Let me explain…
First, on my initial Friday in town, I attended “Late Night with Roy,” North Carolina’s version of “Midnight Madness.” It was such a big deal in Chapel Hill, the university brought in ESPN’s Stuart Scott to emcee. And 19,000 people showed up to watch members of the two UNC hoops teams perform skits and then — finally — scrimmage.
While many of the UNC fans should be ashamed of themselves for leaving during the actual scrimmage — isn’t the basketball supposed to be the night’s highlight? — it remained to me pretty remarkable that so many people attended the event. A student I ran into later said she stood in line for three hours to grab a good seat.
But “Late Night with Roy” was just prepping me for Duke’s Blue-White scrimmage, which I covered — as a stringer — for the television station WRAL’s website. It was nuts. If I wasn’t aware that it was Oct. 27 and that the regular season doesn’t commence until the second week of November, I would have thought it was a February ACC game.
The Cameron Crazies are, indeed, crazy, and the Blue Devils played with an intensity and furry that completely belied the non-importance of the 30-minute game. Afterward, members of the White team, which lost, were actually disappointed about the game’s outcome.
Covering a game at Cameron Indoor Stadium is a one-of-a-kind experience, let me tell you. In order to claim your spot on press row, you have to slide over the press table because the students are so close to the press chairs, there’s no room to walk in front of them. During the entire game, the students are literally breathing down your neck, screaming their guts out, chanting players' names after a big play, booing the refs…
Yeah, I hope I get the opportunity to cover more games inside the tiny arena (and it really is miniscule — I am surprised they fit 9,000-plus fans in there each game). There’s not a bad seat in the house. Cameron is easily the best basketball arena I’ve ever been inside. Experiencing a game there is like nothing else (yes, I agree with Dick Vitale on that one).
So as basketball season nears, excitement builds here in The Triangle. UNC is projected to be one of the top three teams in the country and win the ACC. Duke is expected to finish second in the league, and NC State has high hopes as well. Basketball season here should keep the blood pressure high until sometime in March.
Even as a Michigan football fan, I must admit basketball here seems to be a little bigger than football in Ann Arbor. Just by a little.
Another positive I can (kind of) point to is the weather. I can’t completely endorse it because we just experienced a terrible drought, which prevented me from washing my dirty Honda Civic. Water restrictions were put in place — people could only water their plants a certain number of times per week. There was a story about a family using dirty bath water to nourish the plants. Yeah, it got that bad.
And despite two full days of rain last week, we’re not out of the water yet (hah hah). The drought might have taken a two-day vacation, but don’t expect it to disappear forever. Well, at least my car’s now clean.
The temperatures have been excellent. No complaints from me. After two or three days of nasty 90-degree weather, global warming headed elsewhere, and we’ve been visited by temperatures in the 60s — and even 50s recently (I could actually see my breaths last night during a spirited tennis match).
Autumns here, though, are far from beautiful. Not compared to Michigan falls at least. Leaves remain on the trees. There are no pretty colors. Just massive Home Depots and Harris Teeters to look at.
But I am looking forward to winter, when it will be 50 here and 20 in Ann Arbor. Or so I hope. I want to be playing tennis here while hearing about massive snow shoveling missions taking place in Michigan.
That might boost my spirits a bit. Only time will tell.
In boring news, I’m still looking for part-time work to start rebuilding my bank account after the massive hit I’ve taken here in October (to the tune of $2,500). I opened an account at Wachovia Bank. Now there’s the issue of filling it with currency. I’m also looking for stringing work at the local newspapers. So far, not much luck, although WRAL might have some more Duke events for me to cover.
Again, only time will tell.
In the near future, I’d like to take trips out to the coast (about two and a half hours away) and to the beautiful Smoky Mountains (more like four hours to the west). Body surfing in the Atlantic and hiking in the Smokys are two options I didn’t have in Michigan. I’d be a fool to not take advantage of them. Don’t let me forget.
But for now it’s back to biking on back roads, driving on highways, playing lots of chess and tennis, and looking for work.
Oh, and I’ve been sleeping in lately.
There are everyday certainties (seeing shopping centers) and questions to consider every day when I wake up (what kind of work will I find?).
It’s been three quick weeks and much remains up in the air. Check back with me in another 21 days and the landscape could be different.
Only time will tell.
Three weeks. As I sit here this Tuesday, in a rotating chair in Duke’s Bryan Center, which makes me a bit dizzy, I have now been a resident of Durham, N.C., for just about three weeks, 21 days, 504 hours, 30, 240 minutes, 1,814,400 seconds.
I have assembled my bedroom (which is now, appropriately, as messy as can be). I have bought a map, which hopefully I won’t have to use for too much longer (although this place can be downright confusing). I have found two football stadiums where I can run steps (that’s a good thing).
I have attended three basketball media days and a Duke scrimmage. I have not found a job (yet). I have beaten J-bo, my cousin and roommate, several times in both tennis and chess — the best way to boost my self-esteem after a tough day of biking around aimlessly (but now, I must admit, J-bo is gaining on me in both competitions).
Yes, I have been somewhat active since my relocation from Ann Arbor. But yet, at times, I still feel lost. I miss Ann Arbor, my hometown my entire life. I miss the fall leaves. I miss being able to bike anywhere in the city on residential roads. Here, by contrast, I have to deal with highways just about everywhere I go.
Of course my longing for Ann Arbor, I believe, is understandable. After all, it was my home for a whopping 23 years. And it was — basically — perfect. It spoiled me.
Things are different here. The Wal-Marts are red (yes, I had to shop there once to buy recycling bins, and they charged me for an extra bin). So are the Best Buys. Our area is dominated by shopping centers. I’m not exaggerating when I say there are at least 12 shopping outlets within three miles of our home in Alexan Farms apartments. If the rest of the world outside of the Triangle was destroyed by aliens/terrorists, we’d have enough supplies to last for at least a few years.
Which, of course, I hate. I can’t stand shopping centers. A “Target” is about as appealing to me as target practice (and you’ll never catch me clutching a gun in this lifetime). Not only that, but the stores all around give us an excuse to go buy things (such as an ice cream scooper, J-bo) even if we don’t need ‘em. I’d rather be 20 miles from the nearest store and have to survive on our supplies.
Oh, and let me mention the highways. Our apartment is off Garrett Road, which intersects with 15-501, a three-lane highway between Durham and Chapel Hill, just en eighth of a mile from our apartment. So in order to go anywhere (downtown Durham, downtown Chapel Hill, those shopping centers, the Boreykos house) we have to turn onto 15-501 or at least cross it. This is usually a time-consuming ordeal (especially during rush hour).
And then there’s the issue of biking places (which has to be a part of my daily routine). In order to bike to UNC’s campus, I have to cross 15-501 twice and climb the longest hill in the Western Hemisphere on Franklin Street (yeah, it’s, uh, a great workout). Overall, it’s about a 10-mile ride to the center of campus. Today I rode to Duke’s campus — where I am now — for the first time. While I was able to take a back way that didn’t involve crossing 15-501, it was one heck of a ride. I think it took close to an hour.
So I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting daily workouts on my Trek. On a pleasant side note, the odometer on the bike eclipsed 2,000 miles yesterday. I am so proud of my bike. I’ve had it now for at least seven or eight years, and it’s never given me a problem (including during the 650-mile ride around half of Lake Michigan).
Life with J-bo is interesting. We get along just fine. We disagree on things, but they’re all minor (“Why the $&#$*^% did you buy an ice cream scoop?”; “Take out the #$%$%^* trash”). Recapturing the magic of New Hampshire has been difficult, what with J-bo doing that graduate school thing every day and church thing on the weekends and me blogging, eating and reading — but we’ve persevered by playing tennis and chess on a regular basis.
Additionally, I’ve taught J-bo about the nuances of sports (the art of the onside kick) and he’s taught me how to play that guitar Playstation2 game.
Life with J-bo is fun, but I’ve come to the realization that if I want to have a nighttime social life, I’m gonna have to make some, um, friends. J-bo likes to hit the sack early — especially on the weekends — which isn’t exactly my style. I’ve never gone to bed at 10:30 p.m. on a Friday night except when I did paper routes, and although I could get a route here, the idea of waking at 5 a.m. every morning of the week to deliver papers is about as appetizing as six-month-old lasagna.
I have yet to experience the surrounding nightlife, but I figure to get my first taste of it tomorrow night at the Halloween extravaganza on Franklin Street, Chapel Hill’s main street. According to trusted sources (the Boreykos), some 60,000 raging lunatics crowd Franklin St. late into the night each Oct. 31, scaring each other and destroying anything in sight (OK, I made up that last part, but I wouldn’t be that surprised).
So that should be interesting. I still need to find a costume, however. Any ideas? I need to know soon.
Now I know I’ve been pretty negative to this point about my new home, so let me change gears a bit. There are some great things about the area, such as the passion for college basketball. OK, that was an understatement. People around here are nuts about college hoops.
Let me explain…
First, on my initial Friday in town, I attended “Late Night with Roy,” North Carolina’s version of “Midnight Madness.” It was such a big deal in Chapel Hill, the university brought in ESPN’s Stuart Scott to emcee. And 19,000 people showed up to watch members of the two UNC hoops teams perform skits and then — finally — scrimmage.
While many of the UNC fans should be ashamed of themselves for leaving during the actual scrimmage — isn’t the basketball supposed to be the night’s highlight? — it remained to me pretty remarkable that so many people attended the event. A student I ran into later said she stood in line for three hours to grab a good seat.
But “Late Night with Roy” was just prepping me for Duke’s Blue-White scrimmage, which I covered — as a stringer — for the television station WRAL’s website. It was nuts. If I wasn’t aware that it was Oct. 27 and that the regular season doesn’t commence until the second week of November, I would have thought it was a February ACC game.
The Cameron Crazies are, indeed, crazy, and the Blue Devils played with an intensity and furry that completely belied the non-importance of the 30-minute game. Afterward, members of the White team, which lost, were actually disappointed about the game’s outcome.
Covering a game at Cameron Indoor Stadium is a one-of-a-kind experience, let me tell you. In order to claim your spot on press row, you have to slide over the press table because the students are so close to the press chairs, there’s no room to walk in front of them. During the entire game, the students are literally breathing down your neck, screaming their guts out, chanting players' names after a big play, booing the refs…
Yeah, I hope I get the opportunity to cover more games inside the tiny arena (and it really is miniscule — I am surprised they fit 9,000-plus fans in there each game). There’s not a bad seat in the house. Cameron is easily the best basketball arena I’ve ever been inside. Experiencing a game there is like nothing else (yes, I agree with Dick Vitale on that one).
So as basketball season nears, excitement builds here in The Triangle. UNC is projected to be one of the top three teams in the country and win the ACC. Duke is expected to finish second in the league, and NC State has high hopes as well. Basketball season here should keep the blood pressure high until sometime in March.
Even as a Michigan football fan, I must admit basketball here seems to be a little bigger than football in Ann Arbor. Just by a little.
Another positive I can (kind of) point to is the weather. I can’t completely endorse it because we just experienced a terrible drought, which prevented me from washing my dirty Honda Civic. Water restrictions were put in place — people could only water their plants a certain number of times per week. There was a story about a family using dirty bath water to nourish the plants. Yeah, it got that bad.
And despite two full days of rain last week, we’re not out of the water yet (hah hah). The drought might have taken a two-day vacation, but don’t expect it to disappear forever. Well, at least my car’s now clean.
The temperatures have been excellent. No complaints from me. After two or three days of nasty 90-degree weather, global warming headed elsewhere, and we’ve been visited by temperatures in the 60s — and even 50s recently (I could actually see my breaths last night during a spirited tennis match).
Autumns here, though, are far from beautiful. Not compared to Michigan falls at least. Leaves remain on the trees. There are no pretty colors. Just massive Home Depots and Harris Teeters to look at.
But I am looking forward to winter, when it will be 50 here and 20 in Ann Arbor. Or so I hope. I want to be playing tennis here while hearing about massive snow shoveling missions taking place in Michigan.
That might boost my spirits a bit. Only time will tell.
In boring news, I’m still looking for part-time work to start rebuilding my bank account after the massive hit I’ve taken here in October (to the tune of $2,500). I opened an account at Wachovia Bank. Now there’s the issue of filling it with currency. I’m also looking for stringing work at the local newspapers. So far, not much luck, although WRAL might have some more Duke events for me to cover.
Again, only time will tell.
In the near future, I’d like to take trips out to the coast (about two and a half hours away) and to the beautiful Smoky Mountains (more like four hours to the west). Body surfing in the Atlantic and hiking in the Smokys are two options I didn’t have in Michigan. I’d be a fool to not take advantage of them. Don’t let me forget.
But for now it’s back to biking on back roads, driving on highways, playing lots of chess and tennis, and looking for work.
Oh, and I’ve been sleeping in lately.
There are everyday certainties (seeing shopping centers) and questions to consider every day when I wake up (what kind of work will I find?).
It’s been three quick weeks and much remains up in the air. Check back with me in another 21 days and the landscape could be different.
Only time will tell.
Friday, September 7, 2007
9/7/2007: Passing the time
What, exactly, is my purpose on this earth?
I hate to be asking such a deep, mind-wending question, but I can't seem to get past it right now. My life is at a crossroads. At times I'm a glibber, not worrying about a thing, telling myself that the only way to live is humorously.
Don't take anything too seriously. Live lightly. Be delectable.
At the same time, however, I exhort myself to not become chaff. I read articles — every day, it seems — about men who have overcome so much to become very successful members of society. As I move from paragraph to paragraph — which detail the drug-induced siblings and friends shot to death — I always tell myself that with my facile upbringing, I'm not going to be a nobody.
I'm going to do big things with my life, with my amazing opportunity in this world...
This thinking process usually lasts about a day before I drift back into my indolent mode, which isn't to say that I'm a lazy person — just a comfortable person.
It's hard to overcome, too. Sometimes I wish I didn't have such an easy upbringing. Sometimes I wish I had had to overcome a large obstacle as a child, like a divorce, or a tragedy.
Just something to push me forward. To make my life more urgent now.
Then again, maybe I'm simply still transitioning to post-college life. To not having my fall planned out. At times it's scary, but at time's it's nice as well.
No papers. No tests. While I yearn for school again, I'm sure that if I were back in the classroom, I might not feel the same way.
— 9/7/2007
I hate to be asking such a deep, mind-wending question, but I can't seem to get past it right now. My life is at a crossroads. At times I'm a glibber, not worrying about a thing, telling myself that the only way to live is humorously.
Don't take anything too seriously. Live lightly. Be delectable.
At the same time, however, I exhort myself to not become chaff. I read articles — every day, it seems — about men who have overcome so much to become very successful members of society. As I move from paragraph to paragraph — which detail the drug-induced siblings and friends shot to death — I always tell myself that with my facile upbringing, I'm not going to be a nobody.
I'm going to do big things with my life, with my amazing opportunity in this world...
This thinking process usually lasts about a day before I drift back into my indolent mode, which isn't to say that I'm a lazy person — just a comfortable person.
It's hard to overcome, too. Sometimes I wish I didn't have such an easy upbringing. Sometimes I wish I had had to overcome a large obstacle as a child, like a divorce, or a tragedy.
Just something to push me forward. To make my life more urgent now.
Then again, maybe I'm simply still transitioning to post-college life. To not having my fall planned out. At times it's scary, but at time's it's nice as well.
No papers. No tests. While I yearn for school again, I'm sure that if I were back in the classroom, I might not feel the same way.
— 9/7/2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
New Hampshire 2007: It passed too quickly
New Hampshire 2007…
Usually I write this in the Red House Journal. Unfortunately, as the following words will dictate, this year’s stay at the Red House passed way too quickly — so fast, in fact, that I didn’t even get a chance to make my annual journal post.
So, blessed by the graciousness of technology, this year’s entry is going on the Internet. As a disclaimer, if you don’t like mountains and hiking, you’d probably be better off spending your morning/afternoon/evening reading the obituaries, but if bushwalking is your thing (or, of course, if you’re a RHSR — Red House Summer Resident), then read on.
This is for you…
It started with the traverse and concluded with the annual three-day hike. In between, there was some ladder hiking, a tribute hike, and lots (I mean LOTS) of bocce ball.
In all, J-bo — my primary hiking companion — and I hiked 66 miles over the course of two weeks. What follows is the approximate breakdown:
The Traverse — 24 miles
Morgan & Percival — 5 miles
Whiteface — 8 miles
Three-day hike — 29 miles
Total — 66 miles
It was easily our best hiking summer ever, which is pretty impressive considering all the summers we’ve spent amid New Hampshire’s White Mountains (I can only remember missing one summer). In the past I’ve usually been able to shape my summer job around two and half weeks (or more) of time in Sandwich, N.H. But this year, my first as a college graduate, getting two weeks from my current employer — even though I only work part-time — wasn’t easy.
At least I think I made the most of the time.
Tennis nearly every day. Did I mention bocce ball? Swimming in Squam Lake nearly daily. Mini golf twice (more on that later). Our annual movie-seeing experience (go see “The Bourne Ultimatum”). Great family dinners. Another pretty successful field day (the negative later). And the hiking.
I flew into Boston in the morning of Sunday, July 29. By that late afternoon (after a dreadful stop — instigated by my big cousin, Pete “Franchise” Wolf — at the Tilton outlets) I was in Sandwich swimming with J-bo, my cousin Caitlin, 15, my aunt Vick and Franchise.
The first two days consisted of plenty of tennis, swimming and board games, mainly “Sorry” with Caitlin, now known to us close to her as “Pudds” (greatest nickname ever), and “Stratego,” aka “Strat” with J-bo.
The Red House is probably the main reason why I haven’t lost my love for board games. We play them every day. They are intense, crazy competitive. Especially “Strat.” This year it even got to the point where J-bo surreptitiously went online to look up strategies.
They didn’t work. Although he managed to steal the summer’s final game from my grasp, I won the series 5-4. J-bo has pledged to bring the phenomenal game to our new apartment in Durham, N.C. It’s safe to say that there will be plenty of strategizing as soon as I make the move down South.
The Traverse
On Wednesday morning, J-bo, his friend Mark, 34, and I woke up at 3:10 a.m. (the earliest I’ve ever awakened for a reason other than taking a leak or watching a Tigers game live from Australia). It was time for the traverse; that is, the climbing of New Hampshire’s 11 presidential mountains, 10 of which are 4,000-plus feet.
It was crazy. Vick called us insane.
But toward the end, I named it “the greatest day of my life.”
No kidding.
For record-keeping purposes, here is the order of the 11 summits we ascended:
Webster (the lone sub-4,000-footer), Jackson (4,000), Pierce (4,300), Eisenhower (4,700), Franklin (5,000), Monroe (5,300), Washington (6,200), Clay (5,500), Jefferson (5,700), Adams (5,800) and Madison (5,500).
We began hiking at 5 a.m. and finished at 9:30 p.m. That adds up to 16 and a half hours on the trail. As J-bo would say, “So fast, so furious.”
We hiked at a steady pace the entire way, stopping briefly on each peak for pictures, a video marking the accomplishment of reaching the summit (also a chance for me to make inane comments), and food/water.
Luckily, three of the AMC’s wonderful huts — Mitzpah, Lake of the Clouds, and Madison — were right along the trail, providing us the opportunity to refill our water bottles. Because of this, each of us needed just two water containers each to complete the traverse without dry throats. It should also be mentioned that at LOTC, we ate some absolutely ravishing chocolate chip brownies fresh out of the oven. I don’t know if I’d have made it up Washington — the next summit — if not for the warm delight.
Despite the length of the traverse, we managed to remain satiated throughout. We packed four sandwiches apiece (two turkey, two PB&J) and an assortment of energy bars and candy bars. I don’t want to think about all the glucose I absorbed throughout the day.
But it was worth it. Way worth it. Despite my affinity for rain, I must admit the day of the traverse needed clear skies to make the trek successful. That’s what we got. As soon as we beasted up Webster’s steep trail, we were greeted by amazing visibility in all directions.
Once we reached the top of Jackson, we could see most of our journey in front of us. At the time, Washington’s ugly, building-and-tourists-infested top was in the clouds. But, amazingly enough, as we hiked, the sky seemed to open up for us. From the top of Franklin, which — unlike the other peaks — wasn’t easy to find, we had a really cool view of Washington right behind Monroe’s false and actual summit.
We had perfect visibility the rest of the day, even seeing Chocorua and Whiteface, two mountains close to Sandwich, from many of the peaks.
J-bo wasn’t shy about letting other hikers know our journey. Whenever they asked him the customary, “Where y’all heading today?” he responded, “We’re doing all 11 presidentials!”
This, usually, was followed by a gasp, a “wow” or a look that said, “You crazy??” While J-bo wasn’t exactly modest in describing our hike, he said there was a reason for disclosing it to the hordes of people we saw on the trails.
“It might give them the idea,” he said, “just like we got it last year.”
And he was right. We had never thought of the traverse until we met two young fellows a year earlier doing it who gave us the idea. While the casual hikers J-bo told are sure not to duplicate our feat, it’s possible that J-bo was inspiration for a couple of future traversers.
The peaks
By 6:30 p.m. we were sitting on top of Madison, trying to fathom the fact that we had just summated 11 pretty big (not to mention rocky) hills. We had survived injuries — Mark had a bad knee the entire hike, amazing us with his gutsy ability to drag on and even stay in front of J-bo and I for most of the final half of the traverse, which is the toughest part. J-bo also twisted his ankle, but simply walked it off.
We had also seen hundreds of fellow hikers (no fellow traversers, though) and a handful of headstrong dogs, including Enma and Toby, two beautiful dogs belonging to a older-aged man we met on top of Eisenhower. The man shocked me when he said that Enma, just four and a half, had ascended all 48 of New Hampshire 4,000-footers. Enma’s feat proved to be motivation for J-bo and I, who plan to summit all 48 within in the next couple years (we’ve already got about 20).
The best part of the traverse, of course, was getting to sit on top of 11 large mountains, which afforded incredible views and simply made us feel as though we were on top of the world. When you’re up there, you forget any real-world worries. You forget about crime, war, poverty. There’s nothing better. Believe me.
After the hike, J-bo and I ranked the 11 summits based on the views they afforded, their rock shapes, and their comfortability. Here are our lists:
J-bo
1. Adams
2. Monroe
3. Clay
4. Eisenhower
5. Jackson
6. Jefferson
7. Madison
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
Me
1. Monroe
2. Clay
3. Adams
4. Madison
5. Jackson
6. Eisenhower
7. Jefferson
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
The end
It’d be pretty difficult for a 24-mile hike to go completely smoothly. Ours did.
Until, about, the final longgggggggg mile.
So here’s what happened (from my standpoint; J-bo, feel free to add to this). We started down the Watson Craig trail, which was supposed to take us to our final path of the day, the Valley Way. Our previous trails had been the Webster Cliff Trail (to Mitzpah), the Crawford Path (to LOTC, then up Washington), and the Gulfside Trail (to Madison).
Well, I got way ahead of J-bo and Mark, mostly because Mark was having a very difficult time with the descent, rightfully so, because of his bad knee. I, meanwhile, kept a steady pace until the path finally crossed the stream I’d been seeking. There I stopped to soak my feet in ice cold water (I couldn’t keep them in for more than 30 seconds, no joke).
About 15 to 20 minutes passed before my comrades graced me with their presence long enough to take a picture of me in front of a mini waterfall and continue on (I think they wanted Frosties that badly). Figuring they’d continue at a slower pace, I took my time putting my wool socks and New Balance sneakers back on and preparing for the easy final stage of our long journey.
And then I hit the trail. I came to a sign, which said to bear right for the Brookside trail, which, apparently connected with the Valley Way. I was interested in the Valley Way, so I went that way. After about a mile, with dusk starting to set in, I spotted something black in the middle of the trail roughly 30 yards ahead of me. Warning: The next sentence will sound really stupid; if you don’t enjoy stupid sentences, skip ahead two paragraphs.
I thought it was either a black bear or a large puddle.
Maybe I was hallucinating or being delusional, but all I can say for myself is that I thought a big, strong bear might be in my way. With no one near me and darkness on its way, that was a scary proposition.
So I turned around.
I headed back up the path (yes, back up the mountain). I ran. I sweated. I began thinking things like…
“Isn’t this when all the animals come out??”
“What if there’s a crazy guy who appears at night and eats lost hikers like me?”
Yeah, I almost lost it.
But I didn’t. Unfortunately for you readers, the rest of the story is pretty boring. I took a ridge trail out of my way to get to Inlook Trail, which finally starting going down the mountain as I was enveloped by black (causing me to get out my savior, my trusty headlamp).
I called J-bo, my brotha from another motha, who directed me the rest of the way, on about 17 different paths. I ran the whole way and somehow never fell (don’t ask me how; it must have been the black New Balances).
Remarkably enough, despite hiking about an extra 2 miles, I made it to Vick’s car just 10 to 15 minutes after J-bo and Mark did via the good ‘ole Valley Way. According to J-bo, Mark had become delusional on the way down, swaying back and forth and falling several times. I like my bear story better.
Even though I would be teased for several days after the traverse about my bear story, it was worth it. It added a little excitement to the usual business-like descent. When I think about it now, it was the perfect ending to our hectic, insane, amazing day.
The Copper Tribute Hike
I hate to break this to you, but I despise resting. Even after a 24-mile hike. So, no, I didn’t spend the days after the traverse sitting around the Red House twiddling my thumbs. I did stuff.
More tennis. More beach. A little biking. Plenty of Strat. Not to mention another mountain climb.
On Friday, less than two days since the beginning of the traverse, J-bo and I decided to tackle Morgan and Percival, a two-summit hike (they’re both a little higher than 2,000 feet) off the curvy road (Route 113) between Sandwich and Holderness. It was a nice “cool-down” hike, and we met a bunch of young campers on top, who scared us (by talking about flying while on the peak of a steep mountain) and loved J-bo (“We’ll remember you,” a 13-year-old girl kept telling him).
Easy, J-bo.
Despite ruining the mountains with their loud shouting, the campers were great. So J-bo and I invited them into our picture on top of Percival before waving goodbye. And as far as I know, they all made it down the mountains, which wasn’t a bad accomplishment, considering all the “flying” talk and stumbling they were doing.
That hike wasn’t just a cool-down from the traverse, however. It was also a warm-up for the Copper Tribute Hike, which took place the following Tuesday. I decided before my trip to NH that we would hike up Whiteface Mountain, all 4,020 feet of it, in honor of Copper, my family’s amazing Golden Retriever (we think; he might have had some Irish Setter in him), who passed away earlier this summer at the age of 7.
Just two years ago, Copper accompanied J-bo and I up Whiteface’s steep cliffs under a searing sun. We had to help him up a couple rock faces, and he became absolutely exhausted, but he made it to Whiteface’s peak (then slept for the next two days). I’ll always remember that climb as one of Copp’s crowing moments.
(My mom prefers to call it one of the dumbest decisions I’ve ever made).
So it was only appropriate that we hiked Whiteface once again to remember Copp. And as I climbed up cliff after cliff, I felt more and more amazed that Copp, who weighed a solid 95 pounds, had been able to scale them.
When J-bo, Pudds and my uncle Buzz stopped on a cliff for a short water break, a beautiful orange and black butterfly appeared. Only later, when the creature reappeared on the mountain’s summit, did I begin to believe that it represented Copper’s spirit. I’ll never forget that butterfly.
On the peak, I gave a brief speech in memory of Copp — maybe the second speech I’ve presented in my non-oratory life — and each of us released a pinchful of Copp’s ashes into the high-altitude air. It was the perfect tribute to a dog that I’ll never forget.
The end is near
The days that followed before my stay’s climax, the three-day hike, were one final opportunity to enjoy all of the things that make the Red House and Sandwich so perfect every summer.
On Tuesday night, I saw my cousin Kristen and her boyfriend, Brad, for the first time, meaning I had seen all the usual family members during my stay. (Franchise left that Sunday after beating me in tennis, leaving him unbeaten for the summer… yeah, I was a bit peeved).
Wednesday was the second rainy day in three days, but there’s not a day to waste in Sandwich, so we made the most of it, playing bocce at Squam, buying hiking shoes and playing some hardcore tennis. (During the first rainy day, I should mention, Pudds, Vick and I took an incredible swim during a downpour in a very tranquil Squam). That night the cousins played mini golf one last time, and I put together my best round ever, a 3-under-par 37. I didn’t ace any holes, but I didn’t need to. The night before the first round of golf’s fourth major, the PGA Championship, I felt like Tiger.
(OK, that was an awfully inaccurate sentence. How about, I felt like one of those kids who wins the annual putt-putt championship and a gift certificate to Chucky Cheese?)
Thursday, despite being the day before the hike, was no time to rest. After treating J-bo, the birthday kid, the 22-year-old, to breakfast at the general store (and stuffing myself with hash browns, which would keep my stomach on lock until dinner time), we played a couple of great final tennis sets.
First, my aunt Sal and I bested Brad — the top player among us — and J-bo, 7-6 (4), coming back from a 4-0 deficit in the tiebreak. Then I beat J-bo in singles, 7-6(7). It was the perfect way to close out what had been nearly two weeks of great tennis. I feel like I improved leaps and bounds as did my competitors, especially J-bo, whom I will play with daily down in North Carolina.
Then it was time for the annual Old Home Week event we call “Field Day.” Some things never get old. Field Day is certainly one of them. It’s an afternoon filled with races. The rotten kids run and so do the adults. Ribbons are handed out to the top three finishers in each race.
As is usually the case, the Red House members didn’t disappoint, bringing home an array of blue (first place), red (second place) and yellow (third place) ribbons. The highlight race had to be the 50-yard three-legged version, in which J-bo and Brad finished second and Rose and I took third. I thought we had a real chance to pull off the upset (I never beat J-bo in that race, but that’s usually because he’s with Seth Duda, and their chemistry is impeccable), but we stumbled about midway through when we had the lead, and we had to accept the yellow. It wasn’t bad, however, considering Ro and I had never raced together.
Following the races and a terrible defeat in the Camp Hale-Sandwich tug-o-war (you have to understand, Camp Hale is made up of strong men; Sandwich, during the summer, is infiltrated with 5-year-olds), it was time for the main event, the blueberry pie-eating contest.
I guess I understand that most people don’t consider it the prime competition. In fact, most adult men are too embarrassed to compete in it or give 110 percent (see, J-bo), but not me. In my mind, it’s what friendly competition is all about.
The rules are simple. Eat the pie in front of you, with your arms behind your back, faster than your fellow eaters. Accomplishing the feat is another story. In this year’s version of the BPEC, I got a great start — two gigantic bites and swallows — but when J-bo, who wasn’t even pretending to eat his pie, starting laughing, I lost my concentration and any hope of winning the darn thing.
It was disappointing, frustrating mal-nourishment at its best. To say I’m already thinking about next year would be an understatement. It’s the only Field Day event in which a Lloyd/Wolf/Boreyko has never ribboned. I want to make the family proud.
The Mountains
The most difficult part of each summer is the day after the three-day hike. Returning to the valley. Seeing cars again. Having to look up at the mountains.
That was even tougher this summer after probably the best three-day hike I’ve ever experienced.
We had a record number of family members put on their hiking shoes and packs this summer. There were the regulars — my dad, Bust, J-bo, Sal, me, Brad, Kristen & Pudds — but Rose also participated in her first three-day hike and my cousin Lou, recovering from many ailments, was able to return after missing it the past two years. It was great to have so many loved ones in tow.
But that didn’t mean that I waited for them at each sign. My goal entering the hike was to summit all nine possible 4,000-footers, and that’s exactly what I did.
On the first day, we hiked up the Gale River Trail to Gailhead Hut. From there, some of us made the most of the late afternoon window before dinner (one thing I’ll never do is miss a hut dinner; the bread it out-of-this-world good), making the steep ascent to South Twin and North Twin Mtns.
And, boy, were we rewarded. The view from the top of South Twin (approximately 4,900 feet) was the best I’ve ever had from the top of a mountain. Yep, better than the view from any presidential. I mean, we could simply rotate our heads and see nothing but peaks in every direction. No buildings, not the ugly Mt. Washington Hotel in the valley (it was perfectly blocked by a summit). As I lay on the flat rock atop the peak, I literally thought I was in heaven. It was unbelievable.
The South Twin experience didn’t ruin the last two days of the hike, however. They were just as amazing. On Saturday, we hiked the up-and-down-and-back-up-then-down Garfield Ridge Trail through trees and rocks. We stopped for a good while on the summit of Mt. Garfield, which afforded us splendid views of what lay ahead of us (mainly Mt. Lafayette), and presented a good spot to bust out our second-day food (mainly PB&N sandwiches — that’s, peanut butter and Nutella, for those unfamiliar).
On that subject, let me quickly tangent to the food on mountains subject. I’ll be blunt. While I love food all the time, wherever I am, there is no doubt that food tastes better when eaten on a mountain. No doubt about it. Cheese and crackers at 5,000 feet is tantamount to steak and potatoes at sea level. Don’t question me on this one. It’s true.
Now back to the hike. After leaving Garfield, we continued on the ridge to the summit of Lafayette, or “Lafers,” as J-bo would later eloquently term it. The hike up “Lafers” showed another one of the mountains’ great attributes: crazy weather.
Winds were gusting at up to 30 mph, we were in the clouds, we couldn’t see farther than 30 or 40 yards. My adrenaline level kept increasing… and increasing as we climbed past false peak after false peak before finally locating the actual top of the mountain (the 5,000-footers really make you earn them; there are no gimmes in mountain climbing).
But when you do reach the top of a 5,000-footer, there’s nothing better in the world. Especially when the sky is clear, as we learned on Day 3.
After a delicious meal from an awesome Croo at Greenleaf Hut and an unofficial win in hearts by J-bo (it wasn’t over when the other participants declared bedtime), Day 2 was in the books. I was less than 48 hours away from being in Ann Arbor, staring at 100-foot green hills, wondering where all the mountains went. But I wasn’t there yet on Sunday, and along with J-bo and Brad, I made sure to take advantage of one final day up above reality.
While the other members of our group decided to take a shorter route down, the three of us didn’t take it “easy” on Day 3. In fact, we took it hard. We made it our toughest day of hiking. But also our most rewarding.
We hiked the 1.1 miles back up to Lafers’ summit (the third time J-bo and I had traversed that path — we ascended it to relieve Sal and Ro of their packs late Saturday). And then we headed to Lincoln, aka “The Linc,” Little Haystack, aka “Stackers,” Liberty, aka “Libs,” and Flume, aka “Flumer.”
None of us had ever climbed any of the four 4,000-plus-footers, so the terrain was new to us. And for bushwhackers like us, there’s nothing more exciting than traveling on a new path with clear skies.
J-bo stopped every few minutes to put the digital camera to use. Brad climbed out on a precarious, totem-pole-looking rock structure for a picture that will remain a classic for generations to come. We were followed by an interesting Appalachian Trail hiker who was excited about a condo a woman was letting him use once he reached the valley (but he was not pleased that she didn’t come with its use; gotta love them through hikers).
Day 3 encompassed what hiking is all about. And I haven’t even gotten to the climax yet.
OK, I’m there now. The Flume Slide Trail. The trail that the AMC book specifically said NOT TO DESCEND. The trail that we told Bust and Sal we wouldn’t go down. We didn’t want to worry them. But by the time Brad had climbed onto the totem pole (what could be more dangerous?), we had decided that we HAD to experience the FST. It would be the perfect ending to our trip. Just like hiking the Knife’s Edge at the conclusion of the AT.
We had heard horror stories about the FST. Guys in the hut, apparently, told Bust how they fell 25 feet trying to go up it. Imagine what could take place going down. As we sat on the top of Flume, which, appropriately, was jagged and not suited for the comfortable meal, eating our cheese and crackers, we professed our death wishes. I told Brad and J-bo that it would be a successful descent if two of us survived.
Well, I guess it was super successful, because not only did we all survive, but only one of us fell and no one got hurt. That’s not to say, however, that the trail wasn’t difficult. We had to participate in more butt-sliding than the normal person does in a lifetime. We had to constantly be on the lookout for footholes. It took us about an hour and a half to slide down the .8 miles of slides.
BUT WE MADE IT!
We survived. I survived to write about the experience. And now we’re all ready to go up it (no easy task either) in the near future. On our way down, we passed about 15 people and two dogs, including a beautiful 8-month-old Golden named Jackson. Free bones to both dogs for tackling such a beast of a trail.
After the slides, there was nearly 4 more miles of mild, simple hiking. The woods were quiet, the vegetation very green. It was a great time to think and reflect on my time in New Hampshire’s woods.
As I plodded along, my new shoes climbing over endless roots and navigating stepping rocks at what seemed like 10 different stream crossings, I dreaded the end of the trail. I detested the thought of hopping on a plane less than 24 hours later and returning to civilization.
I knew I couldn’t escape what was coming… the car ride to Boston, the night at Lou’s nice condo, the subway rides to the airport, the plane, the car ride back home, the work the next night.
It was all inevitable. It was my life.
But I told myself, with each step, that I’d do whatever it takes in the years to come to make the mountains, and New Hampshire, and my extended family (and bocce ball) central parts of my life.
Because what else would I have written 4,540 words about when I have laundry piling up and cat litter to empty?
PS — I hate to say this, but Brad won our annual bridge-guessing contest. He surmised an astronomically low 30 bridges for the entire three-day hike, but won after we crossed just 98. Pudd’s guess of 221 placed her second.
Usually I write this in the Red House Journal. Unfortunately, as the following words will dictate, this year’s stay at the Red House passed way too quickly — so fast, in fact, that I didn’t even get a chance to make my annual journal post.
So, blessed by the graciousness of technology, this year’s entry is going on the Internet. As a disclaimer, if you don’t like mountains and hiking, you’d probably be better off spending your morning/afternoon/evening reading the obituaries, but if bushwalking is your thing (or, of course, if you’re a RHSR — Red House Summer Resident), then read on.
This is for you…
It started with the traverse and concluded with the annual three-day hike. In between, there was some ladder hiking, a tribute hike, and lots (I mean LOTS) of bocce ball.
In all, J-bo — my primary hiking companion — and I hiked 66 miles over the course of two weeks. What follows is the approximate breakdown:
The Traverse — 24 miles
Morgan & Percival — 5 miles
Whiteface — 8 miles
Three-day hike — 29 miles
Total — 66 miles
It was easily our best hiking summer ever, which is pretty impressive considering all the summers we’ve spent amid New Hampshire’s White Mountains (I can only remember missing one summer). In the past I’ve usually been able to shape my summer job around two and half weeks (or more) of time in Sandwich, N.H. But this year, my first as a college graduate, getting two weeks from my current employer — even though I only work part-time — wasn’t easy.
At least I think I made the most of the time.
Tennis nearly every day. Did I mention bocce ball? Swimming in Squam Lake nearly daily. Mini golf twice (more on that later). Our annual movie-seeing experience (go see “The Bourne Ultimatum”). Great family dinners. Another pretty successful field day (the negative later). And the hiking.
I flew into Boston in the morning of Sunday, July 29. By that late afternoon (after a dreadful stop — instigated by my big cousin, Pete “Franchise” Wolf — at the Tilton outlets) I was in Sandwich swimming with J-bo, my cousin Caitlin, 15, my aunt Vick and Franchise.
The first two days consisted of plenty of tennis, swimming and board games, mainly “Sorry” with Caitlin, now known to us close to her as “Pudds” (greatest nickname ever), and “Stratego,” aka “Strat” with J-bo.
The Red House is probably the main reason why I haven’t lost my love for board games. We play them every day. They are intense, crazy competitive. Especially “Strat.” This year it even got to the point where J-bo surreptitiously went online to look up strategies.
They didn’t work. Although he managed to steal the summer’s final game from my grasp, I won the series 5-4. J-bo has pledged to bring the phenomenal game to our new apartment in Durham, N.C. It’s safe to say that there will be plenty of strategizing as soon as I make the move down South.
The Traverse
On Wednesday morning, J-bo, his friend Mark, 34, and I woke up at 3:10 a.m. (the earliest I’ve ever awakened for a reason other than taking a leak or watching a Tigers game live from Australia). It was time for the traverse; that is, the climbing of New Hampshire’s 11 presidential mountains, 10 of which are 4,000-plus feet.
It was crazy. Vick called us insane.
But toward the end, I named it “the greatest day of my life.”
No kidding.
For record-keeping purposes, here is the order of the 11 summits we ascended:
Webster (the lone sub-4,000-footer), Jackson (4,000), Pierce (4,300), Eisenhower (4,700), Franklin (5,000), Monroe (5,300), Washington (6,200), Clay (5,500), Jefferson (5,700), Adams (5,800) and Madison (5,500).
We began hiking at 5 a.m. and finished at 9:30 p.m. That adds up to 16 and a half hours on the trail. As J-bo would say, “So fast, so furious.”
We hiked at a steady pace the entire way, stopping briefly on each peak for pictures, a video marking the accomplishment of reaching the summit (also a chance for me to make inane comments), and food/water.
Luckily, three of the AMC’s wonderful huts — Mitzpah, Lake of the Clouds, and Madison — were right along the trail, providing us the opportunity to refill our water bottles. Because of this, each of us needed just two water containers each to complete the traverse without dry throats. It should also be mentioned that at LOTC, we ate some absolutely ravishing chocolate chip brownies fresh out of the oven. I don’t know if I’d have made it up Washington — the next summit — if not for the warm delight.
Despite the length of the traverse, we managed to remain satiated throughout. We packed four sandwiches apiece (two turkey, two PB&J) and an assortment of energy bars and candy bars. I don’t want to think about all the glucose I absorbed throughout the day.
But it was worth it. Way worth it. Despite my affinity for rain, I must admit the day of the traverse needed clear skies to make the trek successful. That’s what we got. As soon as we beasted up Webster’s steep trail, we were greeted by amazing visibility in all directions.
Once we reached the top of Jackson, we could see most of our journey in front of us. At the time, Washington’s ugly, building-and-tourists-infested top was in the clouds. But, amazingly enough, as we hiked, the sky seemed to open up for us. From the top of Franklin, which — unlike the other peaks — wasn’t easy to find, we had a really cool view of Washington right behind Monroe’s false and actual summit.
We had perfect visibility the rest of the day, even seeing Chocorua and Whiteface, two mountains close to Sandwich, from many of the peaks.
J-bo wasn’t shy about letting other hikers know our journey. Whenever they asked him the customary, “Where y’all heading today?” he responded, “We’re doing all 11 presidentials!”
This, usually, was followed by a gasp, a “wow” or a look that said, “You crazy??” While J-bo wasn’t exactly modest in describing our hike, he said there was a reason for disclosing it to the hordes of people we saw on the trails.
“It might give them the idea,” he said, “just like we got it last year.”
And he was right. We had never thought of the traverse until we met two young fellows a year earlier doing it who gave us the idea. While the casual hikers J-bo told are sure not to duplicate our feat, it’s possible that J-bo was inspiration for a couple of future traversers.
The peaks
By 6:30 p.m. we were sitting on top of Madison, trying to fathom the fact that we had just summated 11 pretty big (not to mention rocky) hills. We had survived injuries — Mark had a bad knee the entire hike, amazing us with his gutsy ability to drag on and even stay in front of J-bo and I for most of the final half of the traverse, which is the toughest part. J-bo also twisted his ankle, but simply walked it off.
We had also seen hundreds of fellow hikers (no fellow traversers, though) and a handful of headstrong dogs, including Enma and Toby, two beautiful dogs belonging to a older-aged man we met on top of Eisenhower. The man shocked me when he said that Enma, just four and a half, had ascended all 48 of New Hampshire 4,000-footers. Enma’s feat proved to be motivation for J-bo and I, who plan to summit all 48 within in the next couple years (we’ve already got about 20).
The best part of the traverse, of course, was getting to sit on top of 11 large mountains, which afforded incredible views and simply made us feel as though we were on top of the world. When you’re up there, you forget any real-world worries. You forget about crime, war, poverty. There’s nothing better. Believe me.
After the hike, J-bo and I ranked the 11 summits based on the views they afforded, their rock shapes, and their comfortability. Here are our lists:
J-bo
1. Adams
2. Monroe
3. Clay
4. Eisenhower
5. Jackson
6. Jefferson
7. Madison
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
Me
1. Monroe
2. Clay
3. Adams
4. Madison
5. Jackson
6. Eisenhower
7. Jefferson
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington
The end
It’d be pretty difficult for a 24-mile hike to go completely smoothly. Ours did.
Until, about, the final longgggggggg mile.
So here’s what happened (from my standpoint; J-bo, feel free to add to this). We started down the Watson Craig trail, which was supposed to take us to our final path of the day, the Valley Way. Our previous trails had been the Webster Cliff Trail (to Mitzpah), the Crawford Path (to LOTC, then up Washington), and the Gulfside Trail (to Madison).
Well, I got way ahead of J-bo and Mark, mostly because Mark was having a very difficult time with the descent, rightfully so, because of his bad knee. I, meanwhile, kept a steady pace until the path finally crossed the stream I’d been seeking. There I stopped to soak my feet in ice cold water (I couldn’t keep them in for more than 30 seconds, no joke).
About 15 to 20 minutes passed before my comrades graced me with their presence long enough to take a picture of me in front of a mini waterfall and continue on (I think they wanted Frosties that badly). Figuring they’d continue at a slower pace, I took my time putting my wool socks and New Balance sneakers back on and preparing for the easy final stage of our long journey.
And then I hit the trail. I came to a sign, which said to bear right for the Brookside trail, which, apparently connected with the Valley Way. I was interested in the Valley Way, so I went that way. After about a mile, with dusk starting to set in, I spotted something black in the middle of the trail roughly 30 yards ahead of me. Warning: The next sentence will sound really stupid; if you don’t enjoy stupid sentences, skip ahead two paragraphs.
I thought it was either a black bear or a large puddle.
Maybe I was hallucinating or being delusional, but all I can say for myself is that I thought a big, strong bear might be in my way. With no one near me and darkness on its way, that was a scary proposition.
So I turned around.
I headed back up the path (yes, back up the mountain). I ran. I sweated. I began thinking things like…
“Isn’t this when all the animals come out??”
“What if there’s a crazy guy who appears at night and eats lost hikers like me?”
Yeah, I almost lost it.
But I didn’t. Unfortunately for you readers, the rest of the story is pretty boring. I took a ridge trail out of my way to get to Inlook Trail, which finally starting going down the mountain as I was enveloped by black (causing me to get out my savior, my trusty headlamp).
I called J-bo, my brotha from another motha, who directed me the rest of the way, on about 17 different paths. I ran the whole way and somehow never fell (don’t ask me how; it must have been the black New Balances).
Remarkably enough, despite hiking about an extra 2 miles, I made it to Vick’s car just 10 to 15 minutes after J-bo and Mark did via the good ‘ole Valley Way. According to J-bo, Mark had become delusional on the way down, swaying back and forth and falling several times. I like my bear story better.
Even though I would be teased for several days after the traverse about my bear story, it was worth it. It added a little excitement to the usual business-like descent. When I think about it now, it was the perfect ending to our hectic, insane, amazing day.
The Copper Tribute Hike
I hate to break this to you, but I despise resting. Even after a 24-mile hike. So, no, I didn’t spend the days after the traverse sitting around the Red House twiddling my thumbs. I did stuff.
More tennis. More beach. A little biking. Plenty of Strat. Not to mention another mountain climb.
On Friday, less than two days since the beginning of the traverse, J-bo and I decided to tackle Morgan and Percival, a two-summit hike (they’re both a little higher than 2,000 feet) off the curvy road (Route 113) between Sandwich and Holderness. It was a nice “cool-down” hike, and we met a bunch of young campers on top, who scared us (by talking about flying while on the peak of a steep mountain) and loved J-bo (“We’ll remember you,” a 13-year-old girl kept telling him).
Easy, J-bo.
Despite ruining the mountains with their loud shouting, the campers were great. So J-bo and I invited them into our picture on top of Percival before waving goodbye. And as far as I know, they all made it down the mountains, which wasn’t a bad accomplishment, considering all the “flying” talk and stumbling they were doing.
That hike wasn’t just a cool-down from the traverse, however. It was also a warm-up for the Copper Tribute Hike, which took place the following Tuesday. I decided before my trip to NH that we would hike up Whiteface Mountain, all 4,020 feet of it, in honor of Copper, my family’s amazing Golden Retriever (we think; he might have had some Irish Setter in him), who passed away earlier this summer at the age of 7.
Just two years ago, Copper accompanied J-bo and I up Whiteface’s steep cliffs under a searing sun. We had to help him up a couple rock faces, and he became absolutely exhausted, but he made it to Whiteface’s peak (then slept for the next two days). I’ll always remember that climb as one of Copp’s crowing moments.
(My mom prefers to call it one of the dumbest decisions I’ve ever made).
So it was only appropriate that we hiked Whiteface once again to remember Copp. And as I climbed up cliff after cliff, I felt more and more amazed that Copp, who weighed a solid 95 pounds, had been able to scale them.
When J-bo, Pudds and my uncle Buzz stopped on a cliff for a short water break, a beautiful orange and black butterfly appeared. Only later, when the creature reappeared on the mountain’s summit, did I begin to believe that it represented Copper’s spirit. I’ll never forget that butterfly.
On the peak, I gave a brief speech in memory of Copp — maybe the second speech I’ve presented in my non-oratory life — and each of us released a pinchful of Copp’s ashes into the high-altitude air. It was the perfect tribute to a dog that I’ll never forget.
The end is near
The days that followed before my stay’s climax, the three-day hike, were one final opportunity to enjoy all of the things that make the Red House and Sandwich so perfect every summer.
On Tuesday night, I saw my cousin Kristen and her boyfriend, Brad, for the first time, meaning I had seen all the usual family members during my stay. (Franchise left that Sunday after beating me in tennis, leaving him unbeaten for the summer… yeah, I was a bit peeved).
Wednesday was the second rainy day in three days, but there’s not a day to waste in Sandwich, so we made the most of it, playing bocce at Squam, buying hiking shoes and playing some hardcore tennis. (During the first rainy day, I should mention, Pudds, Vick and I took an incredible swim during a downpour in a very tranquil Squam). That night the cousins played mini golf one last time, and I put together my best round ever, a 3-under-par 37. I didn’t ace any holes, but I didn’t need to. The night before the first round of golf’s fourth major, the PGA Championship, I felt like Tiger.
(OK, that was an awfully inaccurate sentence. How about, I felt like one of those kids who wins the annual putt-putt championship and a gift certificate to Chucky Cheese?)
Thursday, despite being the day before the hike, was no time to rest. After treating J-bo, the birthday kid, the 22-year-old, to breakfast at the general store (and stuffing myself with hash browns, which would keep my stomach on lock until dinner time), we played a couple of great final tennis sets.
First, my aunt Sal and I bested Brad — the top player among us — and J-bo, 7-6 (4), coming back from a 4-0 deficit in the tiebreak. Then I beat J-bo in singles, 7-6(7). It was the perfect way to close out what had been nearly two weeks of great tennis. I feel like I improved leaps and bounds as did my competitors, especially J-bo, whom I will play with daily down in North Carolina.
Then it was time for the annual Old Home Week event we call “Field Day.” Some things never get old. Field Day is certainly one of them. It’s an afternoon filled with races. The rotten kids run and so do the adults. Ribbons are handed out to the top three finishers in each race.
As is usually the case, the Red House members didn’t disappoint, bringing home an array of blue (first place), red (second place) and yellow (third place) ribbons. The highlight race had to be the 50-yard three-legged version, in which J-bo and Brad finished second and Rose and I took third. I thought we had a real chance to pull off the upset (I never beat J-bo in that race, but that’s usually because he’s with Seth Duda, and their chemistry is impeccable), but we stumbled about midway through when we had the lead, and we had to accept the yellow. It wasn’t bad, however, considering Ro and I had never raced together.
Following the races and a terrible defeat in the Camp Hale-Sandwich tug-o-war (you have to understand, Camp Hale is made up of strong men; Sandwich, during the summer, is infiltrated with 5-year-olds), it was time for the main event, the blueberry pie-eating contest.
I guess I understand that most people don’t consider it the prime competition. In fact, most adult men are too embarrassed to compete in it or give 110 percent (see, J-bo), but not me. In my mind, it’s what friendly competition is all about.
The rules are simple. Eat the pie in front of you, with your arms behind your back, faster than your fellow eaters. Accomplishing the feat is another story. In this year’s version of the BPEC, I got a great start — two gigantic bites and swallows — but when J-bo, who wasn’t even pretending to eat his pie, starting laughing, I lost my concentration and any hope of winning the darn thing.
It was disappointing, frustrating mal-nourishment at its best. To say I’m already thinking about next year would be an understatement. It’s the only Field Day event in which a Lloyd/Wolf/Boreyko has never ribboned. I want to make the family proud.
The Mountains
The most difficult part of each summer is the day after the three-day hike. Returning to the valley. Seeing cars again. Having to look up at the mountains.
That was even tougher this summer after probably the best three-day hike I’ve ever experienced.
We had a record number of family members put on their hiking shoes and packs this summer. There were the regulars — my dad, Bust, J-bo, Sal, me, Brad, Kristen & Pudds — but Rose also participated in her first three-day hike and my cousin Lou, recovering from many ailments, was able to return after missing it the past two years. It was great to have so many loved ones in tow.
But that didn’t mean that I waited for them at each sign. My goal entering the hike was to summit all nine possible 4,000-footers, and that’s exactly what I did.
On the first day, we hiked up the Gale River Trail to Gailhead Hut. From there, some of us made the most of the late afternoon window before dinner (one thing I’ll never do is miss a hut dinner; the bread it out-of-this-world good), making the steep ascent to South Twin and North Twin Mtns.
And, boy, were we rewarded. The view from the top of South Twin (approximately 4,900 feet) was the best I’ve ever had from the top of a mountain. Yep, better than the view from any presidential. I mean, we could simply rotate our heads and see nothing but peaks in every direction. No buildings, not the ugly Mt. Washington Hotel in the valley (it was perfectly blocked by a summit). As I lay on the flat rock atop the peak, I literally thought I was in heaven. It was unbelievable.
The South Twin experience didn’t ruin the last two days of the hike, however. They were just as amazing. On Saturday, we hiked the up-and-down-and-back-up-then-down Garfield Ridge Trail through trees and rocks. We stopped for a good while on the summit of Mt. Garfield, which afforded us splendid views of what lay ahead of us (mainly Mt. Lafayette), and presented a good spot to bust out our second-day food (mainly PB&N sandwiches — that’s, peanut butter and Nutella, for those unfamiliar).
On that subject, let me quickly tangent to the food on mountains subject. I’ll be blunt. While I love food all the time, wherever I am, there is no doubt that food tastes better when eaten on a mountain. No doubt about it. Cheese and crackers at 5,000 feet is tantamount to steak and potatoes at sea level. Don’t question me on this one. It’s true.
Now back to the hike. After leaving Garfield, we continued on the ridge to the summit of Lafayette, or “Lafers,” as J-bo would later eloquently term it. The hike up “Lafers” showed another one of the mountains’ great attributes: crazy weather.
Winds were gusting at up to 30 mph, we were in the clouds, we couldn’t see farther than 30 or 40 yards. My adrenaline level kept increasing… and increasing as we climbed past false peak after false peak before finally locating the actual top of the mountain (the 5,000-footers really make you earn them; there are no gimmes in mountain climbing).
But when you do reach the top of a 5,000-footer, there’s nothing better in the world. Especially when the sky is clear, as we learned on Day 3.
After a delicious meal from an awesome Croo at Greenleaf Hut and an unofficial win in hearts by J-bo (it wasn’t over when the other participants declared bedtime), Day 2 was in the books. I was less than 48 hours away from being in Ann Arbor, staring at 100-foot green hills, wondering where all the mountains went. But I wasn’t there yet on Sunday, and along with J-bo and Brad, I made sure to take advantage of one final day up above reality.
While the other members of our group decided to take a shorter route down, the three of us didn’t take it “easy” on Day 3. In fact, we took it hard. We made it our toughest day of hiking. But also our most rewarding.
We hiked the 1.1 miles back up to Lafers’ summit (the third time J-bo and I had traversed that path — we ascended it to relieve Sal and Ro of their packs late Saturday). And then we headed to Lincoln, aka “The Linc,” Little Haystack, aka “Stackers,” Liberty, aka “Libs,” and Flume, aka “Flumer.”
None of us had ever climbed any of the four 4,000-plus-footers, so the terrain was new to us. And for bushwhackers like us, there’s nothing more exciting than traveling on a new path with clear skies.
J-bo stopped every few minutes to put the digital camera to use. Brad climbed out on a precarious, totem-pole-looking rock structure for a picture that will remain a classic for generations to come. We were followed by an interesting Appalachian Trail hiker who was excited about a condo a woman was letting him use once he reached the valley (but he was not pleased that she didn’t come with its use; gotta love them through hikers).
Day 3 encompassed what hiking is all about. And I haven’t even gotten to the climax yet.
OK, I’m there now. The Flume Slide Trail. The trail that the AMC book specifically said NOT TO DESCEND. The trail that we told Bust and Sal we wouldn’t go down. We didn’t want to worry them. But by the time Brad had climbed onto the totem pole (what could be more dangerous?), we had decided that we HAD to experience the FST. It would be the perfect ending to our trip. Just like hiking the Knife’s Edge at the conclusion of the AT.
We had heard horror stories about the FST. Guys in the hut, apparently, told Bust how they fell 25 feet trying to go up it. Imagine what could take place going down. As we sat on the top of Flume, which, appropriately, was jagged and not suited for the comfortable meal, eating our cheese and crackers, we professed our death wishes. I told Brad and J-bo that it would be a successful descent if two of us survived.
Well, I guess it was super successful, because not only did we all survive, but only one of us fell and no one got hurt. That’s not to say, however, that the trail wasn’t difficult. We had to participate in more butt-sliding than the normal person does in a lifetime. We had to constantly be on the lookout for footholes. It took us about an hour and a half to slide down the .8 miles of slides.
BUT WE MADE IT!
We survived. I survived to write about the experience. And now we’re all ready to go up it (no easy task either) in the near future. On our way down, we passed about 15 people and two dogs, including a beautiful 8-month-old Golden named Jackson. Free bones to both dogs for tackling such a beast of a trail.
After the slides, there was nearly 4 more miles of mild, simple hiking. The woods were quiet, the vegetation very green. It was a great time to think and reflect on my time in New Hampshire’s woods.
As I plodded along, my new shoes climbing over endless roots and navigating stepping rocks at what seemed like 10 different stream crossings, I dreaded the end of the trail. I detested the thought of hopping on a plane less than 24 hours later and returning to civilization.
I knew I couldn’t escape what was coming… the car ride to Boston, the night at Lou’s nice condo, the subway rides to the airport, the plane, the car ride back home, the work the next night.
It was all inevitable. It was my life.
But I told myself, with each step, that I’d do whatever it takes in the years to come to make the mountains, and New Hampshire, and my extended family (and bocce ball) central parts of my life.
Because what else would I have written 4,540 words about when I have laundry piling up and cat litter to empty?
PS — I hate to say this, but Brad won our annual bridge-guessing contest. He surmised an astronomically low 30 bridges for the entire three-day hike, but won after we crossed just 98. Pudd’s guess of 221 placed her second.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
July 18: A moment of reflection
Oh, do I yearn for the good ole’ days. And oh, do I love being reminded of them. Like right now.
At this very moment, I am sitting in a tranquil park, watching an adolescent boy hit ground balls to his younger brother, providing positive encouragement the whole time. How often do we see something like this anymore?
Kids these days would rather sit in their basement playing video games or glued to their computer, browsing facebook profiles (believe me, I know from having a sister). The days of kids spending endless summer afternoons under the burning sun, playing pickup baseball games are in the past. Very rarely do I ever see kids with baseball mitts anymore.
But as I watch this pair of youngsters — even though the younger one hasn’t caught a single fly ball yet — I think there may be hope for today’s youth, if just an ounce or two.
I think one of the main reasons why I can’t get along with my sister is our disconnect when it comes to afternoon activities. Even though the Internet’s been around since I was a kid, I didn’t really start using it until later in high school. I didn’t have an AIM screename until my junior year.
Instead, I spent endless afternoons outside, playing baseball, football, basketball, soccer — you name it. That’s just what us kids did. The outdoors was our playground. Today’s adolescents, however, if not involved in after-school activities, rely on the Internet to entertain them.
Hence, the ridiculous number of overweight children in our society.
I wish I saw more kids like the two brothers in front of me this morning outside, playing catch, shooting some hoops, tossing a football.
But I know that in today’s high-technology world, that’s about as likely as cows learning to fly.
At this very moment, I am sitting in a tranquil park, watching an adolescent boy hit ground balls to his younger brother, providing positive encouragement the whole time. How often do we see something like this anymore?
Kids these days would rather sit in their basement playing video games or glued to their computer, browsing facebook profiles (believe me, I know from having a sister). The days of kids spending endless summer afternoons under the burning sun, playing pickup baseball games are in the past. Very rarely do I ever see kids with baseball mitts anymore.
But as I watch this pair of youngsters — even though the younger one hasn’t caught a single fly ball yet — I think there may be hope for today’s youth, if just an ounce or two.
I think one of the main reasons why I can’t get along with my sister is our disconnect when it comes to afternoon activities. Even though the Internet’s been around since I was a kid, I didn’t really start using it until later in high school. I didn’t have an AIM screename until my junior year.
Instead, I spent endless afternoons outside, playing baseball, football, basketball, soccer — you name it. That’s just what us kids did. The outdoors was our playground. Today’s adolescents, however, if not involved in after-school activities, rely on the Internet to entertain them.
Hence, the ridiculous number of overweight children in our society.
I wish I saw more kids like the two brothers in front of me this morning outside, playing catch, shooting some hoops, tossing a football.
But I know that in today’s high-technology world, that’s about as likely as cows learning to fly.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
July 14: Talking to Mom again
"When I graduated, I got a job at a state employment agency where I tried to help people find jobs. It was one of those government programs that really didn't do much at all."
Then she got a job as a welfare worker. She thought she'd be able to help people and she think she did in some aspects, but it wasn't easy. She had to go out to houses, where the people on welfare weren't happy to see the workers (they thought they were snoopers). She had one group of clients in South Philly and another in Southwest Philly.
She remembers visiting an Italian family with five or six kids in South Philly. "They were very poor, but very nice, very gracious to me."
She did the welfare gig for nine months, then she quit.
After that she spent a summer in Berkley, Calif., with some friends. This was after she had met Jamie, her first boyfriend. They would hitchhike into San Francisco, sit in at some classes, hang out, and she had a boyfriend with a motorcycle. "I didn't like him, I liked the motorcycle." They would take trips out to the ocean.
One time her friend, Angie, came to San Francisco, and they hitchhiked into the city for an exhibition where they saw a waterbed for the first time. On the way back, they needed one more ride, and a "Hell's Angel" pulled up. They didn't want to go with him. They ignored him. He looked mean. But he persisted, and he turned out to be the nicest guy.
Mom said she wouldn't hitchhike now. "I just think there are more creepy people around."
The other thing Mom remembers about Berkley was getting a terrible sunburn, and screaming when a man she was dancing with touched the area where she was burned.
One of the woman Mom was living with, Janice, had a cat with a urinary infection, which made it pee green on a beige carpet. That made them lose their security deposit.
They also went to Oakland during the beginnings of the Black Panther Movement and listed to a speech by Eldridge Clever. They also were tear-gassed in a park during a Black Panthers rally in Berkley. "I could feel a little bit of the effects, not that much, but I wasn't in direct line of the attack."
Speaking of marches, Mom and Jamie went to a peach march in Washington, D.C., which was very exciting.
In the fall of 1968 she came back to Philly and moved into an apartment in West Philly. She worked at a mental hospital in North Philly. The program she was involved in tried to get the patients out of the hospital and into the community. The staff would get together with the patients and have community meetings. "I remember some of the guys there, they were actively hallucinating all of the time."
One of the guys, Mom said, had been placed in the hospital for basically no reason, for having a little too much to drink one day. "I remember finding a place for him and visiting him at his new place." He went to live in a house with an older African American woman. "And he was so happy, he had a life again... I remembered his name for a long time.
"So I didn't keep that job for very long either."
Then she got a job as a preschool teacher with low-income kids in the bottom of a church in North Philly. "And it turned out to be a nightmare of a job for me." She was taken advantage of by the kids. She wasn't eating much. "So it was kind of a bad year."
One good thing, however, was that she had a friend that was close to a family called the Zippins. They lived down near the Art Museum in a small house. She would cook with the Mom, Sue, or just hang out and talk with her. "Actually, Don smoked a lot of marijuana."
She met them through her friend, Sarah. There was another friend of Sarah's with an old Cadillac convertible. She stayed at the preschool job for about nine months. And she had a terrible experience when she tore a boy's shirt, which almost got her fired.
So, done with that job, "Sarah and I decided to go to Mexico that summer (1970 she thinks)." They flew across the country to California. Then they went down the coast to Mexico and took a bus. There were huge water bugs on the buses. Which was just part of the adventure.
At one point she began talking to a man named Victor. But Sarah spoke Spanish more fluently, so she began speaking to Victor -- and they eventually got married.
They ran into a man named Gordon, who had a trailer attached to his truck, and he invited them to go down to Guadalajara, Mexico. One night they stopped at a restaurant, which made Mom very sick.
In Mexico City they stayed at a place for international students, which was pretty crummy. At the Anthropology Museum a guy followed Mom around and asked Mom and Sarah to a bar, where Mom experienced straight Tequila for the first time. She didn't see him again.
They visited the Aztec Ruins. They checked out some other historical places as well.
After Mexico, Mom went back to California and then to Colorado, where she enrolled in graduate school. Once she arrived, she realized she would need her teacher's certificate in order to become a school teacher. Instead, she enrolled in vocation rehabilitating counseling.
She learned a lot about disabilities. She had a few psychology classes. Not much significant happened.
For Thanksgiving that year, Mom went to her friend's house, where there were many extended family members. It was just a different experience from living in a city her entire life. Lots of cowboys. Lots of Westerners.
At the end of the program, she did a program at Fort Logan Medical Center in Denver. She lived with the parents of her roommate from Northern Colorado. They were very strict Baptists. She enjoyed talking with the husband, Wendell. Mom had the basement to herself — it was a great space.
One time Wendall's wife wanted to talk to Mom. She thought Mom was coming onto her husband. "I don't know if she and I ever were friends again."
At Fort Logan, she was part of a team effort to talk about patients. And that was when she met David Gruner, who was part of a group learning about transactional analysis, a type of therapy. Mom started seeing David, which led to Mom getting an apartment in downtown Denver. It was close to David's communal house, made up of a group of hippies.
Then the two of them moved into a convent next to a great Mexican family with several kids. Mom got a job working in a church, which was a helpline. People would call in with emergencies. "And I didn't really like it. I think I took it because I couldn't find anything else."
Toward the end of Mom's time there, she had the car accident in which she broke her neck. She was in the hospital for a few days, then she couldn't work anymore.
So that summer of '71 David and Mom drove to Ann Arbor because he got into the school of Social Work. They got a duplex on Montgomery Street, which is off of Washington. Mom bought a car with insurance money because it hadn't been her fault when she'd suffered the neck accident. "It was this gremlin, it was a ridiculous car, I don't know why I bought it." It had a cut-off back, kind of a poorly made station wagon. But it was heavy, which made Mom feel more secure after the accident, which had occurred when she was driving a Volkswagon Bug.
Mom, the vagabond, was in Ann Arbor, and little did she know it, but she was there to stay.
Then she got a job as a welfare worker. She thought she'd be able to help people and she think she did in some aspects, but it wasn't easy. She had to go out to houses, where the people on welfare weren't happy to see the workers (they thought they were snoopers). She had one group of clients in South Philly and another in Southwest Philly.
She remembers visiting an Italian family with five or six kids in South Philly. "They were very poor, but very nice, very gracious to me."
She did the welfare gig for nine months, then she quit.
After that she spent a summer in Berkley, Calif., with some friends. This was after she had met Jamie, her first boyfriend. They would hitchhike into San Francisco, sit in at some classes, hang out, and she had a boyfriend with a motorcycle. "I didn't like him, I liked the motorcycle." They would take trips out to the ocean.
One time her friend, Angie, came to San Francisco, and they hitchhiked into the city for an exhibition where they saw a waterbed for the first time. On the way back, they needed one more ride, and a "Hell's Angel" pulled up. They didn't want to go with him. They ignored him. He looked mean. But he persisted, and he turned out to be the nicest guy.
Mom said she wouldn't hitchhike now. "I just think there are more creepy people around."
The other thing Mom remembers about Berkley was getting a terrible sunburn, and screaming when a man she was dancing with touched the area where she was burned.
One of the woman Mom was living with, Janice, had a cat with a urinary infection, which made it pee green on a beige carpet. That made them lose their security deposit.
They also went to Oakland during the beginnings of the Black Panther Movement and listed to a speech by Eldridge Clever. They also were tear-gassed in a park during a Black Panthers rally in Berkley. "I could feel a little bit of the effects, not that much, but I wasn't in direct line of the attack."
Speaking of marches, Mom and Jamie went to a peach march in Washington, D.C., which was very exciting.
In the fall of 1968 she came back to Philly and moved into an apartment in West Philly. She worked at a mental hospital in North Philly. The program she was involved in tried to get the patients out of the hospital and into the community. The staff would get together with the patients and have community meetings. "I remember some of the guys there, they were actively hallucinating all of the time."
One of the guys, Mom said, had been placed in the hospital for basically no reason, for having a little too much to drink one day. "I remember finding a place for him and visiting him at his new place." He went to live in a house with an older African American woman. "And he was so happy, he had a life again... I remembered his name for a long time.
"So I didn't keep that job for very long either."
Then she got a job as a preschool teacher with low-income kids in the bottom of a church in North Philly. "And it turned out to be a nightmare of a job for me." She was taken advantage of by the kids. She wasn't eating much. "So it was kind of a bad year."
One good thing, however, was that she had a friend that was close to a family called the Zippins. They lived down near the Art Museum in a small house. She would cook with the Mom, Sue, or just hang out and talk with her. "Actually, Don smoked a lot of marijuana."
She met them through her friend, Sarah. There was another friend of Sarah's with an old Cadillac convertible. She stayed at the preschool job for about nine months. And she had a terrible experience when she tore a boy's shirt, which almost got her fired.
So, done with that job, "Sarah and I decided to go to Mexico that summer (1970 she thinks)." They flew across the country to California. Then they went down the coast to Mexico and took a bus. There were huge water bugs on the buses. Which was just part of the adventure.
At one point she began talking to a man named Victor. But Sarah spoke Spanish more fluently, so she began speaking to Victor -- and they eventually got married.
They ran into a man named Gordon, who had a trailer attached to his truck, and he invited them to go down to Guadalajara, Mexico. One night they stopped at a restaurant, which made Mom very sick.
In Mexico City they stayed at a place for international students, which was pretty crummy. At the Anthropology Museum a guy followed Mom around and asked Mom and Sarah to a bar, where Mom experienced straight Tequila for the first time. She didn't see him again.
They visited the Aztec Ruins. They checked out some other historical places as well.
After Mexico, Mom went back to California and then to Colorado, where she enrolled in graduate school. Once she arrived, she realized she would need her teacher's certificate in order to become a school teacher. Instead, she enrolled in vocation rehabilitating counseling.
She learned a lot about disabilities. She had a few psychology classes. Not much significant happened.
For Thanksgiving that year, Mom went to her friend's house, where there were many extended family members. It was just a different experience from living in a city her entire life. Lots of cowboys. Lots of Westerners.
At the end of the program, she did a program at Fort Logan Medical Center in Denver. She lived with the parents of her roommate from Northern Colorado. They were very strict Baptists. She enjoyed talking with the husband, Wendell. Mom had the basement to herself — it was a great space.
One time Wendall's wife wanted to talk to Mom. She thought Mom was coming onto her husband. "I don't know if she and I ever were friends again."
At Fort Logan, she was part of a team effort to talk about patients. And that was when she met David Gruner, who was part of a group learning about transactional analysis, a type of therapy. Mom started seeing David, which led to Mom getting an apartment in downtown Denver. It was close to David's communal house, made up of a group of hippies.
Then the two of them moved into a convent next to a great Mexican family with several kids. Mom got a job working in a church, which was a helpline. People would call in with emergencies. "And I didn't really like it. I think I took it because I couldn't find anything else."
Toward the end of Mom's time there, she had the car accident in which she broke her neck. She was in the hospital for a few days, then she couldn't work anymore.
So that summer of '71 David and Mom drove to Ann Arbor because he got into the school of Social Work. They got a duplex on Montgomery Street, which is off of Washington. Mom bought a car with insurance money because it hadn't been her fault when she'd suffered the neck accident. "It was this gremlin, it was a ridiculous car, I don't know why I bought it." It had a cut-off back, kind of a poorly made station wagon. But it was heavy, which made Mom feel more secure after the accident, which had occurred when she was driving a Volkswagon Bug.
Mom, the vagabond, was in Ann Arbor, and little did she know it, but she was there to stay.
Friday, July 13, 2007
July 13: Talking to Mom
At the age of 23, I am starting to think deeper about myself and the meaning of life. One of the conclusions I've come to is that you cannot live fully unless you know where exactly you've come from and the histories of those who brought you into the world. That has pushed me to sit down with my parents and really delve into as much of their history as I can. Here is what I learned from my Mom yesterday about growing up in North Philadelphia in the 1950s.
Mom grew up in North Philadelphia in a place Feltonville. "It was kind of a working class, middle class neighborhood mainly inhabited by Catholics and Jews. The Jews were first-generation, so were the Catholics probably and the street that I lived on was comprised, right across the street actually, that whole block was comprised of a lot of small businesses."
There was a deli, a five-and-dime, a supermarket (called Leon's). "Everybody knew everybody else, the aisles were much smaller. They sold mostly packaged goods. We would go to the butcher to get our meat, it was a kosher butcher."
Mr. Learner sold fish and vegetables and fruit. "He always was wearing a bloody apron."
There was a local shoe store, local dress shop, Marty's Candy Store, which sold a lot of penny candy. There was a lot of penny candy and then a modern-day candy bar like a Snickers was about 10 cents.
Budin's Pharmacy was the name of Mom's drugstore. "Handlers," another drugstore, was right across the street. Grandma made their store a littler "homier and it was always very clean." And there was always a boy working in the shop who would serve ice cream and tend to other chores. "Handlers" was quite a bit smaller. They had prescriptions and sundries — over-the-counter medicines.
Ted Budin bought the store in 1947, when Mom was 2 years old. He bought the stock of the store and they always rented the house. Mom's family never owned a house.
Then they moved to Atlantic City for about a year during Mom's last year of college (she had lived at home the first three years).
"I guess I really didn't like being there, but I was really busy," Mom says of living at home.
Mom lived by herself her senior year at Temple. "It was just easier to get a place by myself, and I kind of wanted that freedom."
It was downtown and she had to take the subway about 15 minutes to get to the Temple University campus. Frank's Bar was on the corner and "The Tip Top Bar" was just a couple blocks away. Mom would go there and dance with the Greek men, although traditionally Greek men would dance by themselves.
They had rock-n-roll on the jukebox. "I loved dancing to Jefferson Airplane, I still do," Mom says.
Mom had to pay about $120 for the apartment, which had a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom/living room. Mom says she didn't get that lonely. She was busy and there was another apartment at the other end of the hallways. Mom was friendly with the people who lived there. First, she got to know a gay man named Rick and then Cheryl, an organ player at a church.
Mom "HATED" her land lady. She says it was the only lady she ever wanted to kill. Mom snuck a cat into the apartment, and the lady made her give the cat away.
Mom grew up in North Philadelphia in a place Feltonville. "It was kind of a working class, middle class neighborhood mainly inhabited by Catholics and Jews. The Jews were first-generation, so were the Catholics probably and the street that I lived on was comprised, right across the street actually, that whole block was comprised of a lot of small businesses."
There was a deli, a five-and-dime, a supermarket (called Leon's). "Everybody knew everybody else, the aisles were much smaller. They sold mostly packaged goods. We would go to the butcher to get our meat, it was a kosher butcher."
Mr. Learner sold fish and vegetables and fruit. "He always was wearing a bloody apron."
There was a local shoe store, local dress shop, Marty's Candy Store, which sold a lot of penny candy. There was a lot of penny candy and then a modern-day candy bar like a Snickers was about 10 cents.
Budin's Pharmacy was the name of Mom's drugstore. "Handlers," another drugstore, was right across the street. Grandma made their store a littler "homier and it was always very clean." And there was always a boy working in the shop who would serve ice cream and tend to other chores. "Handlers" was quite a bit smaller. They had prescriptions and sundries — over-the-counter medicines.
Ted Budin bought the store in 1947, when Mom was 2 years old. He bought the stock of the store and they always rented the house. Mom's family never owned a house.
Then they moved to Atlantic City for about a year during Mom's last year of college (she had lived at home the first three years).
"I guess I really didn't like being there, but I was really busy," Mom says of living at home.
Mom lived by herself her senior year at Temple. "It was just easier to get a place by myself, and I kind of wanted that freedom."
It was downtown and she had to take the subway about 15 minutes to get to the Temple University campus. Frank's Bar was on the corner and "The Tip Top Bar" was just a couple blocks away. Mom would go there and dance with the Greek men, although traditionally Greek men would dance by themselves.
They had rock-n-roll on the jukebox. "I loved dancing to Jefferson Airplane, I still do," Mom says.
Mom had to pay about $120 for the apartment, which had a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom/living room. Mom says she didn't get that lonely. She was busy and there was another apartment at the other end of the hallways. Mom was friendly with the people who lived there. First, she got to know a gay man named Rick and then Cheryl, an organ player at a church.
Mom "HATED" her land lady. She says it was the only lady she ever wanted to kill. Mom snuck a cat into the apartment, and the lady made her give the cat away.
Friday, July 6, 2007
July 11: Remembering the amazing Copp
Copp passed on last Friday afternoon.
The only dog who's ever been a part of our family.
The only dog I've ever loved with all my heart.
Copp, who suffered from cancer, was having a difficult time last week -- and his condition wasn't improving -- so we felt that Friday afternoon would be the right time to put him down.
In the final hour, mom, dad and I sat around our beautiful Golden Retriever, petting him, looking at photo albums and recalling some of his greatest memories.
I even pulled out a poem I wrote about Copp for a creative writing class my senior year of high school. Before I give you my favorite Copper memories, here's that poem in its entirety.
MDC - This poem is dedicated to my dog, Copper
"Damn" I accost the front door thinking.
physics calc and Spanish tonight
IM SCREWED......
And then I glimpse him.
Wagging that tail so hard it could kill a baby.
crying in joy like an adolescent figure skater after scoring 6.
Eyes gleaming like those of a 13-year-old boy watching a nude scene
MY DOG COPP
Golden fur as silky as Aunt Lilly's napkins
tongue hanging like kids in the park off jungle gyms.
ears pointing up like satellites to space
MY DOG COPP
He never fails to amaze,
from when we first picked him
out of a hundred begging dogs
cramped in cages smaller than my bed.
MY DOG COPP
He drinks out of a bowl "half full."
Walks with a wondrous waggle
Always loves me,
lacks lament -- one hundred percent.
MY DOG COPP
He'll lead me on adventures through
burr-stabbing woods
down mud-riddled paths over green grassy knolls
Screaming down trails chasing brave n' dumb squirrels
yet always retreats to check on me
MY DOG COPP
He'll lick pimple-scattered face as if it's ice cream
raise eyebrows in search of beef
you can conclude by the eyes
so caring and loving
MY DOG COPP
We hike together
Swim with each other
and play tug o war with spit-covered shredded-to-pieces toys
MY DOG COPP
He's there for me when I'm struggling.
He's there for me when I'm distraught.
He's there for me when I'm....
NOT there to take him out or feed him.
A wag of the tail.
A wink of the eye.
An electrifying bark.
A sniff of the shirt.
With school erased from mind
I kneel down to scratch his head
its all love in the air
Hey, Copp, wanta go for a walk?
FAVORITE MEMORIES FROM ALMOST 7 YEARS
We got Copp from the Humane Society on September 18, I believe, of the year 2000. When my family first laid eyes on him, stuck in that cramped cage, it was love at first sight. He was so handsome, so perfect.
Yet our dog-person relationship didn't exactly take off from the beginning. I'll never forget the afternoon in Hunt Park when he began biting the leash inexorably, scaring me silly and forcing me to drop the tattered leash. My sister, Rose, and I were able to bait him back to the house, but I must admit that at that point, I didn't want to keep Copp.
But that sentiment didn't last long. Thanks to dog obedience school and the infamous prong collar, which we didn't have to use for very long, Copp and I became best friends. Seriously. I'm not just being clichéd. Copp was the one creature outside of my parents who I could always count on to be my pal, to hang out and go for walks as long as it wasn't thundering (T-storms scared Copp silly).
My favorite general memories from an incredible seven — way too short — years spent together:
-- going for walks to Barton Dam, where I'd let him off the leash and watch him swim several times.
-- arriving home from wherever, whenever and being greeted by his crazy wailing cry. Bust and Mom tried to stop his habit, but I quietly hoped Copp never would cut out the crying. It was sweet.
-- the humping. OK, at times it may have been embarrassing to the family when Copp jumped on the back of some innocent friends of ours, gyrating against them, but I thought these episodes were hilarious. Only Copp. Only Copp.
-- the expressions. Copp had some of the quirkiest expressions. His best was when you'd stare at him for a long period, invariably making him self-conscious. To let you know about this, Copp would move his eyebrows up and down, rolling his eyes the entire time.
-- his friendliness. I know it sounds shallow, but Copp was simply the most innocuous, friendliest creature of any kind I've ever met. He didn't have a single bad bone in his body. He genuinely — yes, I'm talking about a dog; but I believe this — loved everyone around him. I never thought of Copp as "just a dog." He was always much more.
-- playing keep-away. Copp was never the fastest dog. I'm sure if he could have talked, he'd have admitted this. But this deficiency didn't keep him from playing keep-away with Bust and I on countless nights in Hunt Park. Once he got the frisbee/football/whatever, he'd dodge between us like Barry Sanders before we eventually coaxed the object from him (usually just after he became disinterested).
-- watching him put anything in his mouth. Throughout the years, Copp became infamous as a socks thief. Whenever someone would arrive home, he'd become excited, and he'd need to put something in his mouth to go along with the enthusiasm. Usually he'd find some dirty sock lying around. However, Copp didn't just go for socks. In fact, over the last year, he became especially fond of my collection of hats. Tigers hats. Winter hats. You name it. He'd grab them off the couch and calmly sink his teeth into them (although he'd never cause them any more pain than drooling on them). Copp loved having an object in his mouth, whether it was a sock, a rag, a hat or a stuffed animal.
-- taking him to New Hampshire. I don't think Copp was a big fan of our trips to Sandwich, N.H. For one, it was a lot of time sitting in the car in addition to a few days in the Red Roof hotel room in Philly. Then, in N.H., the walks just weren't as special as they were at Bird Hills and Barton. Still, Copp did have some great times out east, including a few rides on pontoon boats when we were able to coax him to jump into Squam Lake. Good times.
And now, I must present a few of my favorite specific Copper memories:
-- the hike up Whiteface. This has to go down as Copp's greatest achievement. In the summer of 2005, my cousin J-bo and I took Copper up the 4,000-foot mountain named Whiteface outside of Sandwich, NH. It was the most difficult climb Copp ever experienced. We had to help him up steep cliffs and over huge boulders. We had to take a 5-minute break to let him rest. But Copp made it to the top, a grand accomplishment for a dog as big as him (nearly 100 pounds). He was absolutely smashed when we returned to the Red House. He conked out on the carpet for several hours. But he had done it. He had conquered Whiteface.
-- the earring episode. I credit Copp for allowing me to realize that earrings aren't all they're made out to be. In high school I thought it was "cool" to get my ear pierced, get a little fake diamond stud hanging off my left lobe. But then one evening Bust and I were playing keep-away with Copp, and as Copp ran swiftly between us, Bust and I butted heads (including me left ear). The earring was pushed into my lobe, requiring a minor surgery at the neighborhood clinic. It's safe to say I've stayed away from earrings since.
-- the first jump. It took us awhile, but finally we were able to coax Copp into taking flight. When Copp first jumped off the pontoon boat in New Hampshire it was a sight to see. The actual leap was, of course, preceded by several minutes of him pacing up and down the boat crying, but once he was in the clear Squam Lake water, there was no more whimpering, just frantic doggie-paddling.
-- the last day. As sad of a day as it was, I could still tell that Copp was with us, that Copp would never leave us. His eyes were always so telling. He wasn't wagging his tail or showing any signs of happiness — he really was miserable — but I could still see my dog through his eyes. He hadn't left us. Five days later, I still catch myself thinking that Copp will greet me at the front door after a long night at work, that Copp will be there to take me for a walk — and a reprieve from everything else — during the afternoon. I think it'll take awhile for me to get over this.
And that's perfectly OK. I don't ever want to forget Copp. He was that special of a dog.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
July 5: Being successful
I'm sick and tired of mediocrity. Plain and simple.
I'm decent, fair, OK at a lot of things. I'm a decent tennis player, a fair basketball player, a decent reporter, a fair biker. That's cool, but not cool enough.
I want to be really good at something. I want to go out and do something and feel invincible, feel like I'm in complete control. I think I want to become a better tennis player. I want to play every day and develop a consistency that I can't seem to maintain in my life. That's always been my problem. I might be good on the tennis court one day, but the next day I suddenly can't hit a forehand.
It's ridiculously frustrating. I want to be good at something day in and day out.
Watching Wimbledon these past few days, I've come to appreciate just how good the world's top players are. Rarely do they fudge up ground strokes. Most of the time, points don't end until a winner is hit — unless there is a killer serve. While I have no aspirations of becoming a professional tennis player, I just want to become consistently good.
I think doing so would boost my overall confidence. It would show me that if I put the time and effort in, I can become very good at something.
So it's time to throw mediocrity out the door. While I applaud those who have a variety of talents, I can no longer sit content being decent at a number of ventures. I need to become good at doing something, even if it's only a single vocation. Maybe it'll be tennis, maybe something else.
But I can guarantee you that I'll put in the hours, minutes and seconds to hone my skills in a particular area. I owe it to myself.
I'm decent, fair, OK at a lot of things. I'm a decent tennis player, a fair basketball player, a decent reporter, a fair biker. That's cool, but not cool enough.
I want to be really good at something. I want to go out and do something and feel invincible, feel like I'm in complete control. I think I want to become a better tennis player. I want to play every day and develop a consistency that I can't seem to maintain in my life. That's always been my problem. I might be good on the tennis court one day, but the next day I suddenly can't hit a forehand.
It's ridiculously frustrating. I want to be good at something day in and day out.
Watching Wimbledon these past few days, I've come to appreciate just how good the world's top players are. Rarely do they fudge up ground strokes. Most of the time, points don't end until a winner is hit — unless there is a killer serve. While I have no aspirations of becoming a professional tennis player, I just want to become consistently good.
I think doing so would boost my overall confidence. It would show me that if I put the time and effort in, I can become very good at something.
So it's time to throw mediocrity out the door. While I applaud those who have a variety of talents, I can no longer sit content being decent at a number of ventures. I need to become good at doing something, even if it's only a single vocation. Maybe it'll be tennis, maybe something else.
But I can guarantee you that I'll put in the hours, minutes and seconds to hone my skills in a particular area. I owe it to myself.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
July 4: Thinking about my life
It's time to dig deep, to truly try to understand what wends itself through my head as each day, each 24-hour capsule, passes.
I'm more than 23 and a half years old, and yet I feel old. That can't be a good thing. I constantly reminisce about the good ole days, when — obviously — I should be considering the world of opportunities in front of me. I am full of regrets, which I know I can do nothing about.
High school. College. I now know I didn't come close to making the most out of those opportunistic eight years. In high school I was shy and afraid — scared to take chances, such as try out for the sport I had always loved, baseball. I didn't partake in any of the events that are featured in high school collages — the prom, homecoming, school sports.
Those voids left me nervous during my search for the perfect college. Instead of truly considering what school would be best for my academic interests, I went with the institution — Albion College — where I felt most comfortable during my visits (the blueberry muffins were simply ravishing). And then I snuffed out my first three years of college with a bevy of homework, newspaper work and work work. It took a trip to the other side of the world — Sydney, Australia, to be exact — for me to realize just how special and unique the college years are. Unfortunately, that was my senior year, and my final semester passed quicker than an hour's sleep. I enjoyed it, but before I could soak it up, it was complete. I stood in the grass of Albion's quad, holding a black diploma, surrounded by family and a few friends, wondering, "What next?"
Now, nearly two months later, I'm in a rut, which I'm having a hard time getting out of. I'm living at home, commuting 40 minutes each evening to Jackson for part-time newspaper work, delivering papers during the day for the Ann Arbor News, and spending most of my free time reading, sleeping and eating. I know this isn't healthy. I know I need to take charge of my life. But I'm having a hard time following these thoughts.
I feel as though I'm an emotional rollercoaster. On the way to Muskegon this past weekend to visit friends, I felt excited, enthused by the plethora of possibilities that lay ahead of me in life. As I cruised west on I-96 late on a Friday night, with the radio blaring the latest raunchy hip-hop beats, I felt as if I was at a large candy shop, with juicy lolly pops and crunchy chocolate bars displayed on endless shelves in front of me.
But this feeling didn't last. Two nights later, after watching "Blood Diamond" before bed, I couldn't fall asleep. I was as restless as I'd been in quite sometime, and it wasn't because of the violence that dominated the movie I'd just watched. The weekend had been depressing. I hadn't done anything right. I'd lost two tennis matches and three ping-pong matches, costing me a $50-plus dinner check on Saturday night and two Tigers tickets for later this season. It wasn't just my losses that had me distraught, however. It was the sense that I couldn't succeed, that whenever I sensed a twinge of momentum, it turned on me and I couldn't do a thing to slow it down.
In the second tennis match, I won the first set quite handedly, 6-2. But then — about three games into the second set — I suddenly couldn't hit a hard forehand, my biggest strength, in bounds. Every one of my strong forehands sailed long or wide. In a matter of minutes, I lost all my confidence in that shot. That killed me. Without my greatest weapon, I couldn't hold off the opponent. I didn't have a winning shot. I could volley back and forth with him, using weak drop shots, but I couldn't end a point myself. I had to rely on him making mistakes.
I think the tennis match was indicative of where I am right now in life. I see great possibilities. Through reading, I know of all the great things people are doing throughout the world, and I want to be a part of such things. "Blood Diamond" showed how a journalist helped bring an African country out of an awful, barbarous civil war. I want to make an impact on society with my sports writing, and I know I'm capable of it. I just finished reading "Hurricane," the book about Rubin "The Hurricane" Carter's battle for freedom in New Jersey. The former boxer was wrongfully convicted — twice — of committing a triple murder. But he, his lawyers and a dedicated group of Canadian activists persevered and eventually freed Carter. It just went to show that if enough effort is put in, things can be turned around.
I know deep inside what I'm capable of. Yet something still holds me back. Maybe it's a lack of confidence. Maybe it's an inherent laziness borne from growing up in a relatively stress-free environment (middle-class, two parents, no crime, no bullies, no financial troubles). Whatever it is, I need to break out of it and realize my full potential. I'm beginning to think that will mean a change of location. I'm ready to leave everything I have here — my good part-time job in Jackson, my family, my friends, Michigan sports, the Tigers — to look for a fresh start in Chapel Hill alongside my cousin, J-bo. As sad as this might sound, I think I need someone similar in age and interests (that would be J-bo) to push me on a daily basis. I need structure in my life, and the more I think about it, the more I think I might be able to find it in Chapel Hill.
Nothing is set. I still don't hold concrete plans to move. But it's certainly in my mind. Something needs to happen to bring me the kind of consistent happiness that's been lacking for quite some time now.
I'm more than 23 and a half years old, and yet I feel old. That can't be a good thing. I constantly reminisce about the good ole days, when — obviously — I should be considering the world of opportunities in front of me. I am full of regrets, which I know I can do nothing about.
High school. College. I now know I didn't come close to making the most out of those opportunistic eight years. In high school I was shy and afraid — scared to take chances, such as try out for the sport I had always loved, baseball. I didn't partake in any of the events that are featured in high school collages — the prom, homecoming, school sports.
Those voids left me nervous during my search for the perfect college. Instead of truly considering what school would be best for my academic interests, I went with the institution — Albion College — where I felt most comfortable during my visits (the blueberry muffins were simply ravishing). And then I snuffed out my first three years of college with a bevy of homework, newspaper work and work work. It took a trip to the other side of the world — Sydney, Australia, to be exact — for me to realize just how special and unique the college years are. Unfortunately, that was my senior year, and my final semester passed quicker than an hour's sleep. I enjoyed it, but before I could soak it up, it was complete. I stood in the grass of Albion's quad, holding a black diploma, surrounded by family and a few friends, wondering, "What next?"
Now, nearly two months later, I'm in a rut, which I'm having a hard time getting out of. I'm living at home, commuting 40 minutes each evening to Jackson for part-time newspaper work, delivering papers during the day for the Ann Arbor News, and spending most of my free time reading, sleeping and eating. I know this isn't healthy. I know I need to take charge of my life. But I'm having a hard time following these thoughts.
I feel as though I'm an emotional rollercoaster. On the way to Muskegon this past weekend to visit friends, I felt excited, enthused by the plethora of possibilities that lay ahead of me in life. As I cruised west on I-96 late on a Friday night, with the radio blaring the latest raunchy hip-hop beats, I felt as if I was at a large candy shop, with juicy lolly pops and crunchy chocolate bars displayed on endless shelves in front of me.
But this feeling didn't last. Two nights later, after watching "Blood Diamond" before bed, I couldn't fall asleep. I was as restless as I'd been in quite sometime, and it wasn't because of the violence that dominated the movie I'd just watched. The weekend had been depressing. I hadn't done anything right. I'd lost two tennis matches and three ping-pong matches, costing me a $50-plus dinner check on Saturday night and two Tigers tickets for later this season. It wasn't just my losses that had me distraught, however. It was the sense that I couldn't succeed, that whenever I sensed a twinge of momentum, it turned on me and I couldn't do a thing to slow it down.
In the second tennis match, I won the first set quite handedly, 6-2. But then — about three games into the second set — I suddenly couldn't hit a hard forehand, my biggest strength, in bounds. Every one of my strong forehands sailed long or wide. In a matter of minutes, I lost all my confidence in that shot. That killed me. Without my greatest weapon, I couldn't hold off the opponent. I didn't have a winning shot. I could volley back and forth with him, using weak drop shots, but I couldn't end a point myself. I had to rely on him making mistakes.
I think the tennis match was indicative of where I am right now in life. I see great possibilities. Through reading, I know of all the great things people are doing throughout the world, and I want to be a part of such things. "Blood Diamond" showed how a journalist helped bring an African country out of an awful, barbarous civil war. I want to make an impact on society with my sports writing, and I know I'm capable of it. I just finished reading "Hurricane," the book about Rubin "The Hurricane" Carter's battle for freedom in New Jersey. The former boxer was wrongfully convicted — twice — of committing a triple murder. But he, his lawyers and a dedicated group of Canadian activists persevered and eventually freed Carter. It just went to show that if enough effort is put in, things can be turned around.
I know deep inside what I'm capable of. Yet something still holds me back. Maybe it's a lack of confidence. Maybe it's an inherent laziness borne from growing up in a relatively stress-free environment (middle-class, two parents, no crime, no bullies, no financial troubles). Whatever it is, I need to break out of it and realize my full potential. I'm beginning to think that will mean a change of location. I'm ready to leave everything I have here — my good part-time job in Jackson, my family, my friends, Michigan sports, the Tigers — to look for a fresh start in Chapel Hill alongside my cousin, J-bo. As sad as this might sound, I think I need someone similar in age and interests (that would be J-bo) to push me on a daily basis. I need structure in my life, and the more I think about it, the more I think I might be able to find it in Chapel Hill.
Nothing is set. I still don't hold concrete plans to move. But it's certainly in my mind. Something needs to happen to bring me the kind of consistent happiness that's been lacking for quite some time now.
Monday, June 25, 2007
June 24, 2007: Biking into the past
OK, I'm actually going to start posting regularly now -- I promise.
One of the things I enjoys most is biking, and today I biked 52.7 miles with Bust (my Dad) for the annual Eco Ride. To pass the time, I asked Bust lots of questions about his past. I love listening to him tell stories about his childhood. I love learning as much as possible about what he was like back in the day.
Among the things I learned today:
Bust went to the same high school named T.C. Williams that "Remember the Titans" is named after his freshman year in Alexandria, Va. It was integrated then. Bust actually doesn't remember anything about that supposed football story. Then he transferred to a predominantly white high school for his final three years. He remembers seeing just a single black student.
Bust and family only lived in Birmingham, Michigan from when he was 3 until he was 6. Grandpa Bart moved them back to Alexandria because he really didn't enjoy his job as a minister. It was too consuming. He had to do way too much. Also, Bart caught flack for owning the area's lone Volkswagen during the auto industry's boom in and around the Motor City.
I've got to mention the incident.
When Bust was in third grade, his older brother Buzz, who was in ninth grade, convinced him to ride on Buzz's shoulders down a steep hill, which Bust equated to Spring Street -- long and steep. Yeah, that's right. Buzz was standing up and Bust was sitting on his shoulders. Somehow they survived, and Bust isn't sure if Grandma Roz even knows about the incident to this day.
Bust also gave me a rundown of his family's pets. There was "Tiger" the cat, who predictably had the countenance of a tiger. There was "Sparky" the dog, who was a little feller with some bugle in him. Sadly, Sparky's existence came to an end when he was hit by a car (which made me realize that my aunt Vicky has witnessed two dogs -- also Gus -- die in car accidents). There was "Gloria" the cat, who was black and had several litters of kittens.
Finally, there was the famous "Georgia," a dog who could open the front door of Bust's family's front door. Man, I wish I could have met these pets
Still, it was great learning about them. As it was learning how Bust turned from sports to music around the beginning of high school. The three reasons he gave me?
-- he got cut from the freshman baseball team
-- he became good friends with a guy named Keith, who was a musician but also was "connected," especially with girls
-- he became immersed in the radical movement of the 1960s. In other words, he became a hippie. Sports figures were generally conservative during that time, and Bust was liberal -- so he kind of gravitated away from the sports world.
Not only was the bike ride great exercise, it was also very educational. Nothing is more enjoyable than learning about my elders' past.
Other highlights from the ride:
-- We biked through "Hell," a tiny town in the middle of Michigan that boasts a single morgue of a store and a bunch of motorcyclists.
-- There were lots of Cliff Bars to eat.
-- Strawberry Lane is a great road to bike on.
When we got back from the ride, we took Copp to Barton. Copp, who suffers from cancer, is on his last legs. So we have to make the most of our time with him. He definitely doesn't lack energy. He led us on a long tour of Barton this afternoon as we videotaped him.
I'm pretty sure we're going to put together a movie of Copp. Should be fun. He's so photogenic.
Funny anecdote: As we were entering Barton, Bust found a cell phone on the ground. When he said the owner was a "Malcom," I instantly knew that it was a kid's who we had just passed who I knew I recognized from Albion. I ran toward Malcom's car and got it to his friend right before they drove off. The kid was disappointed when I handed him the phone.
He thought it was a joint.
One of the things I enjoys most is biking, and today I biked 52.7 miles with Bust (my Dad) for the annual Eco Ride. To pass the time, I asked Bust lots of questions about his past. I love listening to him tell stories about his childhood. I love learning as much as possible about what he was like back in the day.
Among the things I learned today:
Bust went to the same high school named T.C. Williams that "Remember the Titans" is named after his freshman year in Alexandria, Va. It was integrated then. Bust actually doesn't remember anything about that supposed football story. Then he transferred to a predominantly white high school for his final three years. He remembers seeing just a single black student.
Bust and family only lived in Birmingham, Michigan from when he was 3 until he was 6. Grandpa Bart moved them back to Alexandria because he really didn't enjoy his job as a minister. It was too consuming. He had to do way too much. Also, Bart caught flack for owning the area's lone Volkswagen during the auto industry's boom in and around the Motor City.
I've got to mention the incident.
When Bust was in third grade, his older brother Buzz, who was in ninth grade, convinced him to ride on Buzz's shoulders down a steep hill, which Bust equated to Spring Street -- long and steep. Yeah, that's right. Buzz was standing up and Bust was sitting on his shoulders. Somehow they survived, and Bust isn't sure if Grandma Roz even knows about the incident to this day.
Bust also gave me a rundown of his family's pets. There was "Tiger" the cat, who predictably had the countenance of a tiger. There was "Sparky" the dog, who was a little feller with some bugle in him. Sadly, Sparky's existence came to an end when he was hit by a car (which made me realize that my aunt Vicky has witnessed two dogs -- also Gus -- die in car accidents). There was "Gloria" the cat, who was black and had several litters of kittens.
Finally, there was the famous "Georgia," a dog who could open the front door of Bust's family's front door. Man, I wish I could have met these pets
Still, it was great learning about them. As it was learning how Bust turned from sports to music around the beginning of high school. The three reasons he gave me?
-- he got cut from the freshman baseball team
-- he became good friends with a guy named Keith, who was a musician but also was "connected," especially with girls
-- he became immersed in the radical movement of the 1960s. In other words, he became a hippie. Sports figures were generally conservative during that time, and Bust was liberal -- so he kind of gravitated away from the sports world.
Not only was the bike ride great exercise, it was also very educational. Nothing is more enjoyable than learning about my elders' past.
Other highlights from the ride:
-- We biked through "Hell," a tiny town in the middle of Michigan that boasts a single morgue of a store and a bunch of motorcyclists.
-- There were lots of Cliff Bars to eat.
-- Strawberry Lane is a great road to bike on.
When we got back from the ride, we took Copp to Barton. Copp, who suffers from cancer, is on his last legs. So we have to make the most of our time with him. He definitely doesn't lack energy. He led us on a long tour of Barton this afternoon as we videotaped him.
I'm pretty sure we're going to put together a movie of Copp. Should be fun. He's so photogenic.
Funny anecdote: As we were entering Barton, Bust found a cell phone on the ground. When he said the owner was a "Malcom," I instantly knew that it was a kid's who we had just passed who I knew I recognized from Albion. I ran toward Malcom's car and got it to his friend right before they drove off. The kid was disappointed when I handed him the phone.
He thought it was a joint.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The power of a good story
An era of my life officially ended what now seems a very long three-plus weeks ago. That would be my graduation from
But I didn't really feel like my undergraduate career was over -- in the books, you might say -- until this past Sunday. That is when a conglomerate of old people -- aka friends of my family but not necessarily my similarly-aged friends -- came to our stone house on Spring Street to bask in my glory.
I'm not one for ceremonies or graduation parties, or anything, for that matter, that puts the focus squarely on me. (That's why, I suppose, I chose journalism, in which I focus on the pursuits and actions of others). So, besides the display of food my mother ordered, I wasn't particularly looking forward to the four-hour Sunday evening event.
But, gauging by how fast the 240 minutes passed, I must have had fun (either that, or the cliché’s incorrect). As mom said later that night, once all the visitors had said their goodbyes and good lucks, she had never seen me talk as much as I did that night.
One of the great things about conversing with elder generations is the plethora of anecdotes they have to tell. To me, nothing's better than a story. If a person asks me whether I'd like to debate the fate of the 2007 Detroit Tigers or hear their story from Friday night's Tigers' game, I'm probably going to choose the story. For one thing, when another person is telling an anecdote, all I have to do is listen (and listening is one of my few strengths and, of course, another reason why I chose journalism). Additionally, many of the stories I hear are fascinating.
My favorite from Sunday came from a fellow I just met that evening named Barry. We were talking about the best sports movies we'd ever seen, when he brought up the story of his great aunt. According to Barry, his great aunt was at the 1932 World Series game when Babe Ruth called his shot against the Chicago Cubs. Barry's great aunt told Barry that one of the reasons Ruth pointed his finger toward the right-field grandstands before putting the baseball there was that Cubs fans had been hassling he and his wife all day, both on the way to the ballpark and once they arrived.
So Ruth jabbed his finger toward right field and said, "I'm gonna hit the ball over that stupid ivy fence."
And, of course, he did just that. It may have been 51-plus years until my conception, but Barry's story brought the day in 1932 to life for me. Images popped into my head as I imagined what it must have been like. Ah, the power of a good story.
On Sunday night I didn't just learn that it's good to invite a lot of adults to your graduation party -- mo people, mo money. I also learned how educational a good anecdote can be.
Maybe, in the years to come, I'll be the one telling the great story. Maybe I'll be telling of that one game where Magglio Ordonez hit a three-run homer while I was sitting in a hostel in
There's a new story to tell every day.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Rain, rain and more rain
Yesterday was a long, long day.
It also involved a lot of rain.
I personally am enamored by rain, especially warm rain. To me, there is nothing like going outside during a summer rainstorm and getting absolutely soaked. Whether I'm playing hoops, playing baseball, biking, swimming or doing something else, soaking up a summer monsoon is refreshing.
But yesterday was not the right day for rain. I was covering the Division 3 state track meet in
Because of an afternoon rainstorm, however, I had to leave the meet early -- with my stories in progress -- to get back to the office in
And that is when I got caught smack dab in the eye of the storm. I felt as though the storm was attached to me like a magnet. It didn't matter what highway I was on. I drove through a monsoon -- AND a traffic jam -- on I-96 for two hours. Then, as I took a southward turn onto less-crowded 127 South, the rain followed suit.
It didn't leave me until I was 10 minutes from the office.
By then, though, I had been on the road for close to two and a half hours (usually the drive takes approximately an hour and a half), lagging along at a pace of about 40-50 mph.
As I pulled into the office, prepared to make a harried attempt at calling coaches and patching my stories together at the final moment, I cursed the rain for my predicament.
It was that kind of day. A rare rain-cursing day at that.
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