Minutemen

Last weekend, the family went on one of our illustrious “h-istor-ikes” in which we combine a walk through somewhere pretty with a walk through time. We did this often outside DC where there were plenty of Civil War battlefields to explore. Now that we’re in Boston, the h-istor-ikes have taken a Revolutionary War turn, and our sojourn to the Minuteman trail in Lexington did not disappoint.

Colin and my historical interests break down along embarrassingly predictable gender lines. I want to know about the daily life: how did it feel to toil away in the summer sun wearing a long cotton gingham dress? What did it take to put a plate of food on the table? What was on that plate of food? Colin wants to know where the battle lines were drawn, who won and how.

Our guided trip down the Minutemen trail, with battle stories and actors in period dress fulfilled both our interests. Colin learned about the Minute Man who sent his servant back to the tavern to fetch his salmon even with the British breathing down their necks, and I learned that everyone, including children, drank alcoholic cider instead of water which was polluted from livestock. Caleb enjoyed drawing in the dirt with sticks, saying “hi” to passing bikes and yelling at the odd dog.

We learned that each town at the time had a militia of all able-bodied males from ages 16-60, but that the Minutemen were an elite corps of the strongest men who trained weekly and were ready to fight in literally a minute. The cause for fighting, as told by our guides, was weighted with explanations of patriotism and lofty idealism. These settlers were fighting imperialist Great Britain for their rights and their land. Though, of course, if their efforts had failed, someone in British garb would be telling us about the unruly and ungrateful colonists beleaguerer the brave fighting Brits. But I’d still be interested in the buttons on their uniforms, Colin in their military strategy and Caleb would still be happy drawing with sticks in the dirt oblivious to the history but closest to what started it all: the land.

Playing hooky

With Caleb’s bedtime around 7:00 PM, it simply isn’t worth it to pay a babysitter the going rate of $12 - $15/hour to sit on our couch and watch TV so that Colin and I can wolf down a dinner and a fall asleep at the movie theater. We can do that at home. (A digression: I was paid $2/hour to babysit in the mid-90s, and my inflation calculator tells me that wage should have risen to about $3.25/hour in today’s dollars. So, I resent it on those grounds as well.)

So, we’ve hit on the idea of a day-te. (Similar to the frugality inspired stayte of prior posts.) We’re paying for daycare during the day anyway, so why not move our nighttime tryst several hours early and have a daytime date?

We waited for the weather to predict a warm, dry, sunny day and then I took a day off work. After dropping Caleb at daycare we were free!! We felt liberated, sneaky and a bit giddy all at the same time to be wearing flip flops and bathing suits amid the suits and cell phones and to have a full free day ahead of us without fretting over nap times, planning meals and packing diapers.

Our first stop was a leisurely breakfast at a local crepe place where we luxuriated in slowly drinking gourmet coffee and talking about life like a new couple.

Then we were off to legendary Walden Pond where we parked ourselves in a secluded woody spot at the edge of the pond, just steps from the original site of Thoreau’s cabin. Hard to imagine a more relaxing spot than the one that inspired the whole of transcendentalism.

Perhaps in effort to feel like we somehow deserved this scene, we both went for brisk trail runs, got nice and sweaty, and took intensely refreshing dips in the pond. We paddled out in the middle of the water and wrapped our arms around each other, taking in the blue sky and rolling tree-line backdrop – creating exactly the scene I was imagining when I first conceived this day-te.

Back to our little cove, we dried off in the sun while reading. I can’t overextoll the pleasure of reading a book you enjoy in an environment of your choosing for as long as you want with no threat of interruption. You only truly appreciate this gift when it becomes so improbable; and I drunk it in with a Nick Hornby book, How to Be Good, that is funny, engaging and unexpectedly thought-provoking – the very definition of a good beach… um pond read. We were periodically joined by other daytime pond revellers who all seemed to be retired and inordinately happy.

One of these fellow pond-goers tipped us off to a nearby farm that sells fresh produce, homemade pies and sandwiches. So, we ended our date with a picnic overlooking fields of flowers and vegetables and munching on a baked creation called a “magic bar.” A fitting ending to a pretty magical day.

Primal Scream

One of Caleb’s favorite activities is to puff out his chest with a big intake of air and then let it all out with a powerfully joyful scream. He does this on the changing table, in the bath, while kicking a ball around the living room. Sometimes I join in the fun in a kind of call-and-response yelling match (Caleb: “ahhh!” Me: “Oh yea? Ahhh!” Caleb: AHHH!!!”), before I remind myself that we have both up and downstairs neighbors who might not appreciate our escalating scream contest.

Why do hair cuts always fall on good hair days?

Women definitely know what I’m talking about. After weeks of bad hair days, your hair looks unexpectedly fetching on the day of your hair cut appointment. Bouncy and shiny and falling in all the right and flattering places, as if to mock your decision to change things up with a hair cut.

What’s going on here? Is it just some cruel hand of fate taunting you, making you second guess what should have been a simple hair sacrifice? Or is it all about perspective – just when you risk changing something you appreciate it in its current state?

I’ve been thinking about this “hair cut on a good hair day” phenomenon, especially as we contemplate leaving our city. Bowing to the “cruel fate” hypothesis, I’m guessing that the amount of fun we have here is in direct proportion to the likelihood of our leaving. My cynical pessimistic side reasons that the more we enjoy our time in Boston, the greater our likelihood of leaving. If that’s the case, then we should really start packing our bags.

What have you done lately?

“What have you done lately?” was Mrs. Anderson’s favorite question. As my high school Western Civilization teacher, she’d pose that question to the class after expounding on the achievements of some child king or teenage military hero.

“What have you done lately” (drawn out emphasis on the ‘you’) she’d ask us with a toothy Cheshire grin, a playfully accusatory look peering over her bifocals. I suppose we were meant to feel already underaccomplished at age 16 or merely that much more impressed with the exploits of these historical figures. The way she said it made it a fun and highly imitate-able catchphrase, and we’d mock mimic her in the hallways between classes.

But that question, “what have you done lately?” with its implied response of “not as much as that guy” has continued, for better or worse, to ring in my ears since then; and as I get older, the list of people more accomplished than me “at my age” has exploded. Some day it will include presidents and Nobel laureates.

I should feel pretty self satisfied. I’m well liked and respected where I work; I have a loving family and good health. But there are just too many highly accomplished people around there messing this up, making me feel underachieving in comparison. Facebook is no help. Last week, I was reminded through this oh so helpful platform that two old friends had just published books and another was interviewed as an expert on NPR.

Why do their accomplishments accomplish making me feel so underaccomplished? Does everyone feel this way?

Probably not highly evolved and self actualized people. Probably not people who never expected much in the first place. I suppose my occasional self-disappointment malaise is the downside of growing up with loving and encouraging parents who told me I could (should?) achieve the world.

I’ve read that, despite the gloomy weather, Denmark has the happiest people of any country. Why? Not the generous social programs and high standard of living. The happy-ologists report that the Danes are happier because they don’t expect a whole lot and then are quite satisfied with outcome.

But I did not grow up in Denmark. I grew up in a corner of Horatio Alger’s Keeping-Up-with-the Joneses America filled with doctors and lawyers. And with a teacher who kept asking, “What have you done lately”?

Ahhh... Boston

This morning I learned that, according to a new report, Boston is among top most expensive cities in the US. Not really a newsflash, but definitely add that to the pile of things we won’t miss if we move.

Here’s a little something to throw on the pile of things we will miss if we move:

Last night, Colin picked up Caleb and I from daycare/work and instead of heading home we decided to take a little walk. Government Center, the neighborhood in which I work, is wasteland of Soviet-inspired architecture and concrete, so we started out our walk with low expectations.

But this is Boston, so after a few minutes we found ourselves approaching the State House, just in time to duck in from the rain. And what a place to “duck” into! Where else can you take a post workday walk and end up walking the exquisite gold and marble halls of a building as old as our nation?

Once inside, Caleb made an enthusiastic beeline for the marble steps and, chasing him, we found ourselves smack in the middle of a session of state Congress. The dense fog of power hit us before we could even see the politicians roaming the halls, looking important, schmoozing and shaking hands. The hall is open to the public, but was full mostly of tall, tanned and graying pols oozing self-importance. Given that we were accompanied by a quite adorable baby, we were the target of some of this well honed schmoozing and were greeted with gratuitous smiles and chummy comments about Caleb like, “the reps are getting taller each year. Har har har!” I guess kissing babies is kind of part of the job description.

With the rain clearing and having had our fill of vicarious political excitation, we exited to the closest park, the Boston Commons, a 50 acre rolling expanse home to ponds, swan-shaped boats, ornate gardens and live performances, which also happens to be the oldest park in the country. There’s an old timey carousel for goodness sake, which gave Caleb a good old fashioned thrill.

Our stomachs grumbling, we walked, passed the balcony upon which the Declaration of Independence was first read and the and storied Faneuil Hall, and landed in…. Italy.

You can’t throw a rock in the Italian North End of Boston, without hitting a quaint Italian ristorante covered in vines and candles and filled with the din of Italian chatter and the aroma of fresh made sauce. Walking only a block, we passed probably a dozen enticing places, landed on a tiny trattoria with outdoor seating and proceeded to enjoy some of the freshest, most flavorful pasta this side of Naples. Dinner never lasts long with a toddler, so we soon found ourselves roaming the streets inevitably landing in one of the many Gelateria to get a cold treat for the rest of our warm walk to the train station to catch the 7:30 train back to Medford.

Keith, the ticket taker who jokes with Caleb and gives him old tickets to play with during our normal commute home, was working the later train and looked surprised to see us. “You’re coming home late today.” “Impromptu date night.” we replied as we descended to stairs to our short walk home.

File all of that under “what I’ll miss about Boston if we move.”

Talkin bout a resolution

At our house we call it “pulling a Trader Joes.” This is the phenomenon of getting inordinately excited and committed to a new, seemingly life changing idea and then watching it die as life’s commitments get in the way. It’s why we simultaneously have a growing mutli-billion dollar weight loss industry in a country with a more fat people than you can shake a Nutrishake at. There’s no threat that the weight loss gurus will succeed their way out of business. Not with all of us quitters out there.

We call this a “Trader Joes” because Colin and I vowed to do our shopping there after a particularly enrapturing experience with inexpensive prepared food and bizarrely friendly check out staff. Sure, it was much less convenient than our normal grocery store, but what a better experience! “We should always come here!”

Despite our initial enthusiasm, we repeated the experience exactly zero times. Stop and Shop was walkable and cheap, and we’re lazy.

For this blog, I vowed publicly, even if no one was listening, to write a little bit each day. Lately, I’ve averaged one post a month. Pathetic.

I know the root of this problem. Instead of confidently posting a quick description or rant and hitting “publish,” I expound on an issue at length and from all angles I can think of. I fear (but fail at) posting something that might offend or fail a grammar test and rework it. I won’t post something unless I like it, and I’m paralytically critical of myself. All this stymies progress and deters me from even starting most days.

So, the point is in order to reach a goal, you need to bite off reasonable chunks. I go to the gym pretty regularly – but only because it is downstairs from my office. If I’m not entirely in the mood, I still go and just do a short workout. There are no “transportation costs” allowing me easy excuses. On busy days, I do excuse myself, but overall it’s part of my routine because it’s manageable.

So, I’m going to make this blogging thing more manageable by doing more regular short posts. Every once in a while I’ll probably expound on something at length. (I’m restraining myself right now from delving into all the other factors that make goals attainable: having someone hold you accountable, early and observable success, interim reachable goals, making the tasks something you enjoy…). Maybe the invisible reader will hold me to this new task…