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.