Swearing 101

I live in a small town. Yes, you already know that. And I know that you know that. I acknowledge your knowledge of my small town existence.

I also acknowledge that I love to swear. A lot.
That makes me frustrated, because despite a zero tolerance policy for bullying at the local elementary school, bullying is rampant and the general feeling is that kids will be mean.

So you would think that swearing would be out of control. But, apparently in this small town, swearing is frowned upon. I understand that swearing might be unacceptable in school. In fact, my child was reprimanded for allowing himself to be goaded, by a girl in his class, into saying the "eff" word. Three times. In the lunchroom. Good god, it's anarchy. Small children saying words that mean nothing to them and getting into trouble.

What is the world coming to?

But parents mustn't swear.

What the fuck is up with that?

Pumpkin Festival

A few years ago someone, who shall remain nameless (since I don't know who it was), came up with the idea to "borrow" from Keene, NH and start a pumpkin festival.

What exactly, you may ask, is a pumkin festival? Around here it might be the night when the locals go feral and start knawing on the pumpkin heads of innocent scarcrows. But why limit them to one night? (I do not qualify as a local yet. I haven't been here long enough and I am still shunned by the good christians who live here. Oh my God! Who said that? It wasn't me. I must have been possessed by some vampirical pumpkin).

Okay, a little digression, but I'm back. And no. I'm not bitter.

Ah, the pumpkin festival. Celebrating that most pagan of holidays, Samhain. Townsfolk bring their carved pumpkins to the village green during the day. They are set up for display on tables, chairs and haybales. Then, around dusk, the jack-o-lanterns are lit. The road is closed. The band is set up and ready to play. Popcorn is popped and cider mulled. A cresent moon glows in the deepening sky. And the locals arrive, many with small people, some of whom are spookily attired.  And some of whom are the requisite princess.

There is a spooky haunted graveyard covered thickly in "fog" and making it very difficult to breathe. The spooks in the graveyard are mostly third graders standing on the side and then jumping in front of trespassers as they wander along the path. They are not particularly scary but they are having too much fun to care.

As night descends the true artistry of the illuminated carved pumpkins reveals itself. Some are amazing. Some are traditional. But the best ones are those that were carved by the kids. Without help from an adult.

At the peak of this two hour event, the green is mobbed. It's too dark to really see who people are. There is a steady flow of bodies moving past the display. The band is in Pink Floyd mode, playing "Dark Side Of The Moon", and the only screams coming from the haunted graveyard are those of the self-appointed scarers.

About a half hour before the event ends, the cider, hot chocolate and popcorn starts to run out. The crowd thins and one-by-one the jack-o-lanterns start to disappear as they go home with their owners.

Our third grader has spent the evening with his cronies trying to scare people. He seems unconcerned that he didn't really have a good look at the pumpkins. And, because we stayed until the bitter end, he's ready to go without complaint. It's cold and he's tired.

Promptly at eight, the band thanks everyone for coming and launches into their final offering. A rock/heavy metal version of Louis Armstrong's "Wonderful World".


A fitting ending.

Musings on Small Town Relationships

Yesterday I was reading a magazine article about friendship. How having friends is necessary for your health and how friendships change as we move through our lives.


The author gave an anecdote about picking up her child at school and trying to make small talk with another mom. The other mom was, to put it kindly, unreceptive to the author's attempt to connect. The author felt that it may have been that the other mom was just not very social, until some more moms arrived and the other mom was at the center of the gaggle.

When I read this it gave me pause, because this is how I feel about many of the moms in my small town. When I pick up my son from school, which I try not to do too often, this is the very scene that meets my eyes. Groups - no cliques - of moms standing in their little circles. Excluding. There are a few of us, the excluded, who smile a brief sympathetic smile to each other. This is a place we hate to be. It's more than just being alone in a crowd. It's being ostracized by the crowd.

High school never ends for some people. They never really grow up. Just move from clique to clique.

One mom in particular has a son who, at one time, was in my son's class in school. The boys are involved in the same activities/teams, and yet not only will she not speak to me, she will not make eye contact with me. I happened to see her in the grocery store one day recently and I actually went out of my way to avoid crossing paths with her, which created a great deal of anxiety and I ended up rushing aimlessly around the store. Just so I wouldn't have to make the pretense of being polite to someone who wouldn't reciprocate. In the end, it was futile for our paths crossed anyway. I tried to be pleasant and said "hi". I got a terse, barely audible "hi" in reply. With no eye contact past the moment of recognition.
You may think, well - don't be polite, just ignore her. But, see, here's the thing. I wasn't brought up that way. I was brought up to be polite and outwordly friendly to an acquaintance.

I'm trying to get over that.

And I'm trying to understand the blatant judgemental dislike this woman has for me. Obviously, I can't let it go.

But, owing to the season, I can offer a theory...

She's a witch.

Books, Coffee and Trader Joes

Books are probably one of the most important things in my life (next to my son and coffee - GOOD coffee). Now if only I smoked, eh?

As mentioned in yesterday's post, bookstores are scarce around here. One of the the first things I missed when I moved away from suburban sprawl was Trader Joes. The second thing I missed was Barnes & Noble. A big bookstore with a cafe serving Starbucks in the back, and only about a mile and a half from home.

That bookstore was a destination for me. I'd go in, get a coffee, and browse the new age section, the children's section, the magazine racks. Get a bunch of stuff to peruse and go find a place to sit. If I was lucky it was one of the comfy chairs.

Then we moved and I pined. I pined for the bookstore. I pined for a nearby Starbucks. I pined for Trader Joes.

I have very simple needs. Good coffee, a good book and good, inexpensive food.

My Mom and I took a road trip to the nearest Trader Joes a couple of days ago. It's a 60 mile roundtrip drive (Trader Joes are you listening?) I'll go back again sometime before Christmas. After that it'll be a few months until I make another trip. sigh.

A Starbucks appeared in the hood a couple of years ago. When I say "in the hood" what I really mean is that it's in the next town over which is about 8 miles away. But I go. I have to go. The same town has the only decent bookstore within miles, although there's no cafe. But they do carry a great selection of bags. As in purses. As in cool accessories. As in I'm a girl, okay?

And cards and journals too.

It's a tradeoff. Today I will suffer through a cup of joe I make for myself. And it will probably give me a headache. But I get to live in a town where chickens wander along the side of the road, there are only three traffic lights, and rush-hour is the backup in front of the elementary school during morning drop off.

Across from the school and down the road maybe a quarter of a mile is a view of the river as it winds it's way through town. This time of year it's a sight to behold. The river becomes glass and the sky and foliage reflect like mirror images. It reminds me to breath. Which is good because I'm usually stuck behind someone doing the speed limit.

Steamtown National Historic Site

So it's a week later. What do you want from me? It's been a very stressful week and the diazepam sitting in my cupboard, from the time I was incapacitated by my back, is calling to me loud and clear. Can you hear it? Well, I guess it's Soft and Clear. That very small voice saying...

come to me...

come to me...

one little pill...

That's how it begins y'know. That slippery slope into peace and bliss. With that one tiny yellow pill.

Mmmmmm. 

Or is it pink?

Okay, I'm back.

No, I'm not bipolar.

Yet.

Steamtown. Yes, I remember I was going to post pictures. But it took me this long to download them from the many memory cards loaded with pictures of trains. Trains and steam. Steam and trains. Metal sculpture. Those locomotives really are fascinating to look at. For a awhile. After four days...

Did I mention we were there for four days? Good. Did I mention that Steamtown is next to a mall (or perhaps the mall is next to Steamtown). There is a footbridge connecting the food court of the mall to the Park. I managed to get some me-time at the mall during one of the those four days. That mall-time included a necessary pit-stop for a latte at Starbucks. And a few clothing purchases. We don't have any stores where I live.

I think there are more Starbucks shops than book shops in Scranton.

*discuss*

We don't have any bookstores where I live either.

But there IS a Cumberland Farms.

I will make a plug for the park. Steamtown National Park is a great place. The rangers, docents and volunteers make it a wonderful visit. This was our second trip and this time of year seems to be a good time to go. The weather is cool, the crowds are absent, and the steam locomotives are still running. The heat is turned on in the building and there's no line for the bathroom.

Works for me.

So here are a few snaps for your viewing enjoyment.

Unless you don't like trains.

If you don't like trains, you should not be looking at the photos.

PS. Sorry about the picture quality. Scranton is basically upstate NY where the skies are gray. Add to that the ever present coal smoke and other assorted soot and it's not exactly lovely. And I don't have the proper editing software, and I'm using a point-n-click camera dammit.

Where I Was

I've been away. Left the small town where I live where there is virtually nothing, and went to a mid-sized city. Where there is virtually nothing.

We took advantage of the long weekend and headed west to relive the industrial revolution, breathe a little coal smoke, and ride an iron horse or two.

It was peak foliage in those Pennsylvania hills. There was a Starbucks at the neighboring mall. And the weather was nice, albeit cool.

The hotel was full due to a marathon that was taking place on Sunday morning. It had a pool and a hot tub off the lobby, and we had a suite complete with video games.

The little boy was in 7th-Heaven.

More tomorrow. With pictures.

The Mudder and Me

My uncle once showed a poem to me. It was one of those silly poems that a kid would like because it's, well, silly. It's called "Me Mudder".

It's about somebody's mother.

My Mother is the youngest of six and the second girl. Unlike several of her older siblings, she did not have the advantage of going to college. But she did have the advantage of family. Being the youngest, with four older brothers and a bossy older sister made her a tough cookie.

Her brothers were well known to the local constabulary. They did crazy things like drive a car into a swamp, plant a victory garden in a neighbor's yard, throw lightbulbs out the windows at their sisters and any other unfortunate passers-by. Y'know, harmless kid stuff. It was the Depression. Kids had to make their own fun out of cardboard and bushel baskets. As a result of this, my Mom learned how to take care of herself and also protected her friends from annoying and bullying boys.

Her mother, who died when my mother was only 17, was the glue that held that family together. My grandmother kept a journal, very brief, of observations of her children when they were born. All of them had nicknames. My aunt, in fact, has a nickname that might cause you to think she is a "he". I was 13 before I knew that her given name was a girl's name. It surprised the hell out of me.

My Mother's nickname is a nonsensical nickname. Her family and high school friends call her by her nickname. I do too sometimes. But most of the time I call her "Mudder".  Suits her.

When I moved to this small town three years ago, I moved closer to my parents. When I was laid off from my job a year ago, I had the opportunity to get closer to my parents. In particular, my Mudder.

The mother-daughter relationship, as all mothers and daughters know, is fraught with land mines. My Mom and I came through my adolescence pretty well. Probably because she never really grew up. She's a little crazy and that keeps her young. Sometimes, when I'm discussing her with my son, I refer to her as "that crazy old lady." That suits her too.

Lately we've been going bike riding on the occassional cool, sunny morning. We ride somewhere, find a bench, sit for a long time and chat, and then ride back to her house.  There's nothing forced about these rides. We go where we want and then have a chance to visit, catch-up and just hang out with each other.

I can't express how glad I am to have this time with my Mudder. She never got to have it with hers.  She's as big a pain in the ass as anybody's mother. But she's always there when I need her.

We're going to start scrapbooking together. The weather won't stay fine forever (this IS New England), so we'll have something to do together over tea.

I'm looking forward to it.

Tattoos

I took my son to a birthday party on Saturday. One of the activities was temporary tattoos.

My eight year old does not limit himself to life in the mainstream. He is definitely one of those kids who marches to a different drummer. And that's okay. So when the tattoos came out, he opted out, repeatedly declaring he did not want one. I, however, wanted one. I probably would not have if all of the tattoos were hearts and butterflies. But there were some really cool, black, rocker-type kinds of tats. And I wanted one. Okay, two.

I wonder if it's a middle-age thing. I have a milestone birthday closing in on me. Not too close yet, but enough to start thinking about marking it some way. Perhaps with a tattoo. I guess that would be permanently marking it.

I've always toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo. The primary reason I haven't ever gotten one is the pain factor. And the irreversible decision on placement. But in discussing the pain with a friend, we determined that with enough tequila I probably wouldn't care.

And then I'd have a really cool tattoo.

And a hangover.

I suppose if I'm going to mark the occassion with something so permanent, I should also mark it with something memorable. Aside from the post-mortem hangover. Something like a trip. A trip someplace that requires air travel and a passport. My friend and I can go. Her birthday is only a week before mine and we share the same astrological sun sign. We travel well together. When we can make up our minds.

I think I'd like that. Whaddaya say Lu? You up for it? Tattoos and travel? And tequila?

Who could say no to that?

A Cake for the Harvest Festival

Harvest Festival is, perhaps, a misnomer. There's no actual harvest. It's a PTO fundraiser for the elementary school.

This year, in spite of heavy rains and tornado warnings not far from here last night, the "festival" will be outside. The sun came out today. Last year it was rained out twice, which means they moved the festivities inside. Including the inflatables. Imagine four or five large inflatables taking up most of the floor space in the gym. No ventilation. Many, many children. And smells the like of which you don't want to encounter when walking into an enclosed, unventilated space.

Eeeeewwww.

One of the big draws at the Harvest Fest is something called the Cakewalk.

It's a very popular event. An artistic take on musical chairs. A big circle is made with carpet squares, each with a number. The participants each stand on a square. When the music starts they dance around the circle. When it stops they get on a square. Then someone picks a number out of a hat, and the person standing on that number wins a cake.

Because there are so many cakes to win, the judging often turns subjective. As in, at least one winner will be some five year old crying because he/she hasn't yet won a cake. Or the winner is the judge's neighbor. Or something equally disturbing, like the judges will decide that the winner is the best disco dancer. Let's put aside for a moment, that the parents of these children, nevermind the children, were probably much too young to go clubbing when disco was in vogue. So who wins? Some cute little kid about to melt down because they haven't won a cake.

Do you see a pattern here?

Cakes are provided by the parents. Some are unbelievably creative. Some are pretty basic. Some are store bought. And some... are bundt cakes. The bundt cakes are always the last to go. Usually, the ones that are most creative or have the most candy are the first to go.

A lot of cakes show up for this thing. They never run out before the end of the day.

Our cake offering this year is homemade. Chocolate cake, chocolate buttercream frosting, decorated with randomly thrown M&Ms.

My son, the decorator, calls it an "M&M lovers chocolate cake".

I think that's a pretty accurate description.

And it's probably the cake he will try to win. Because he likes to make cakes that he likes to eat. Or he will go for something improbable... like a store bought cake with a few crushed Oreos on top.

Personally, I say "blech". I'll hold out for the year they have an Ice Cream Walk.

Quilting 101

I sew a little. I'm not bad at it. Age has contributed to more patience at the hard parts or the parts I just don't understand. And I've made some halfway decent "garments".

You may wonder at the quotations. The Thomas the Tank Engine fleece bathrobe I made for my son took so long that he'd outgrown Thomas by the time I'd gotten it done. I had a needle problem. But it looks really good. Hanging on the hook by his bedroom door.

The knight costume I made for Halloween a few years ago came out really good too. I was a lot of work, but I got it done in a weekend. It looked cool, but it only got worn to a party and not for Trick or Treat. It ended up stuffed into a cubby along with the Clifford the Big Red Dog costume he wore when he was four.

I suppose if I sewed more than just a little I'd be better at it. Trouble is, I have no designated workspace. So when I want to sew it means hauling out the sewing machine, hauling out the tool box, and hauling out the iron and ironing board which never see the light of day except when I'm sewing. They don't get out much and are therefore not always very cooperative.

I am currently unemployed. Not by choice, but by the recession. I've been using some of this downtime to explore creative outlets. In the past I haven't had much time for creative outlets.

However, one morning this week, I creatively explored the art of quilting.

My aunt is a longtime quilter. She is also now a local celebrity having used her quilting skills to help people, and to raise money for the local senior center.  She made this quilt for me for my 18th birthday just three or four years ago:

I called her last week and told her I wanted to explore quilting. I was specific. "I'm not sure I want to quilt, I just want to know how. What do you suggest?"

"Come on over," she said. So I went. We spent a couple of hours in her workroom. A sewer's paradise. Iron and ironing board set up in one corner, cutting/work surface against a wall, sewing machine in front of the window. More shelves over another, cluttered work surface. The shelves overflowing with fabrics.

After looking through her book and having to decide on what to make, and which pattern to make it in (not as easy as you might think) I finally settled on making a "star" square into a pillow. I have a pillow form, and I figured a pillow was a small enough project that I might actually finish it. I then had another decision to make. Fabric. I chose colors to match the quilt she made for us as a wedding gift and we were off.

She guided me through measuring and cutting, sewing and pressing, and before I knew it, I had made this:

Not bad,eh? For a first timer. C'mon, give me a break. (The middle part came out looking blue, but is actually a deep purple.)

I still have to do the "quilting" part which will give it some texture and depth. And then it's just a matter of sewing the back to the front, and stuffing in the pillow form.

I can do that.

I CAN.

And I will prove it. Soon.

But I do have to say I feel a certain sense of empowerment. Even from so simple at thing as my star pillow. It's pretty cool to look at it and say "I did this." I could not have done this without the experience of my locally famous aunt. For which I thank her. I also could not recreate it on my own. At this point in time.

I expect that I'll be heading back to her workroom soon. To start another project. Assuming I'll be able to pick a quilting pattern, decide on what exactly I'll make and then choose the fabrics.

I THINK I can do that.