A Honey of a Lesson

“Honey fest or Ravens football game? Okay, son, which is more important, your children or the football game?”

Garrett (my son) fell back into the van with a look of such defeat that you’d think the Ravens had already lost the game.

Two Sundays ago, my husband Greg and I took our 3-year-old twin grandchildren (Amari and Ashad), Garrett, and our daughter Cassandra to the annual weekend Honey Harvest Festival at the Oregon Ridge Nature Center in Cockeysville, Maryland. We had planned the outing months ago. We could have gone either Saturday or Sunday and we chose Sunday. But once Garrett learned that the Ravens were playing the Patriots the same day, he had tried every angle to convince me that Saturday would be the better day to go.

“Mom, isn’t it supposed to rain on Sunday?” “What about church? Won’t you be missing church?”

Without hesitation, I replied, “No, it’s supposed to be warm and sunny and we’ll go to the early service.”

So there we were sitting in the van in the driveway again. Garrett was sulking in the backseat, while fiddling with his Blackberry to locate the game, and the rest of us sat quietly, like a volcano ready to erupt. We hadn’t gotten more than a block from the house and had returned for that one item the “other person” was supposed to have remembered to pack, but had forgotten. Apparently as wife and mind-reader extraordinaire, I was supposed to know that the camera needed batteries.

Finally, Greg returned with batteries in hand and we’re off. After taking a scenic route of hilly back roads, we arrived 50 minutes later at the Nature Center set at the end of a makeshift narrow road. We parked on a grassy mound between the trees. As we exited the van, the twins, seeing other children with their families walking up the trail, grew excited.

They started to run ahead. We called to them, “Come here, Amari and Ashad. You have to hold our hands.” As they ran back, their excitement spread among us. Even Garrett was distracted from his Blackberry and the game.

Our first stop along the trail was the bookstore. I bought two sticker books for the twins, and they “oohed” and “aahed” over the duck stickers the bookstore lady placed on their shirts. Next, we were off to the “petting” zoo. Thankfully, all the animals were caged.

Cassandra was in charge of taking the pictures.

Our first visit was with “Mr. and Mrs. Turkey.” Amari and Ashad were fascinated by Mr. Turkey’s prowess in displaying his feathers. We explained that this was his way of trying to get Mrs. Turkey’s attention. None of us had ever seen such a show. We were all impressed; however, Mrs. Turkey was not—she was quite stoic.


Next were the sheep. Amari was not the least bit afraid. She was practically climbing the fence to touch them. Ashad, on the other hand, was not so brave. He stayed a few feet behind just in case he needed to run the other way.
Oh my, Amari, look at the owl!

“He won’t hurt you,” the man explained. “This owl is called a ‘Barred’ owl, and he is one of the largest owls native to Maryland.” Ashad thought he’d play it safe, and stay behind NaNa (that’s me). No coaxing would convince him to come any closer.

Inside the Nature Center Museum, we found many displays of animals and birds native to Maryland: fox, bears, squirrels, ground hogs, hawks, etc. Other displays included several creepy crawly creatures such as frogs, snakes, toads, and insects. The bees were too busy making pollen to have their photo taken, but the cockroaches didn’t mind. Greg and Garrett asked the “bug” lady for a closer look. Talk about creepy crawly—they still give me shivers!

Hot dogs with lots of ketchup and hand tattoos of bees—what two better things to finish off the visit to the Honey Harvest fest?

As we walked toward the exit to the van, Greg and I watched our son and our son’s kids racing down the trail while Cassandra took pictures. I reflected on the day’s events and decided that my son may have learned the most valuable lesson that a father can learn:

“Honey fest or Ravens football game? Okay, son, which is more important, your children or the football game?”

The children will win every time.

What You're Writing

The newest Urbanite is out and "What You're Writing" this month is "Hard Lesson." Other upcoming deadlines:

Broke Oct 13, 2009 Dec 2009
Fresh Start Nov 9, 2009 Jan 2010

Flipping Through the Garbage

I've about had it with reality TV shows and the losers that have inundated the media as of late. I mean, are these producers scraping the bottom of the barrel with their auditions? Finding the biggest hot mess in the crowd and calling it a day? I don't get it!

 

 

There are a plethora of untalented reality stars out there, but the one that takes the cake—Jon Gosselin. He grosses me out, and that's putting it nicely. I don't think that there is anybody less deserving of fame and fortune than loserface Jon. He should be at home raising the eight kids that need him instead of whoring himself around NYC, Las Vegas, and my beautiful home state of PA.

 

 

While I, myself, am guilty of watching many reality shows out there, I can't help but think that this growing trend is taking away from the talented people that deserve to be recognized. Where is the next Julia Roberts or Johnny Depp? Are potentially talented starlets being jeopardized because market demand now calls for reality instead of sitcom? Sure there are those crazy Hollywood types (Lohan, Hilton, etc.), but imagine a world where Tila Tequila and Jon Gosselin are making movies, starring in lead roles, and walking the red carpet? I guess we're not too far from that happening when people like Dipshit-Father-of-the-Year is already being asked to host Vegas parties, model ugly t-shirts, and be followed by the paparazzi. And people like Kate (his soon-to-be ex wife)? She is also now appearing on talk shows, and get this, my favorite—writing books! And why? Because she is now a celebrity, what a joke. How should that make a grad student who loves writing and is actually getting their Master’s in the subject supposed to feel? Like she doesn’t deserve it, that’s how. Should I go get knocked up with multiples now to make it big as a writer?

 

I was never really bothered by any of this until Jon Gosselin came along. Bottom line—I think “celebrity” has taken a turn for the worse. I am starting to miss shows like Friends more and more, and hope that this reality phase that everyone is fixated on fizzles out.

Purpose

I have been thinking a lot about purpose lately, specifically one's sense of purpose. Truthfully, my sense of purpose. I think it is obvious to most that work dominates life. This can be work in the sense of the old 9-5 or something a bit less structured. Either way, this "job" dominates not only time, but also thoughts, finances, conversation, and general sense of self. I, unfortunately, need to work in order to make a living. So, with this in mind as a college student, I threw myself into preparation and pursuit, graduated top of my class, studied abroad, engaged in multiple internships, and had a position lined up before graduation. After 3+ years, I recently left that job because on the way to work one day I couldn't stop crying. Which brings me to life today.

I was lucky enough to have been shown interest by a multi-million dollar corporation and not for one of those "work your way up it's okay I know I have to pay my dues" type jobs. I am part of the executive staff and my management and financial potential is endless. I truthfully enjoy what I do and I'm good at it, yet I stare at the clock all day keeping a tally of the hours until I can go home. On Sundays, the knot in my stomach grows because I know I have a 5-day workweek ahead of me.

I don't think it's the jobs themselves, I think it is the way they take over. Maybe I just need to be free. Or maybe I just need to be doing what I am passionate about and the sense of "job" will melt away. I thrive on the overwhelming sense of accomplishment that comes from completing a task, but I need to find a task that matters to me instead one that delivers only a paycheck. Yet, in the real world, does that ever really work out?

A Decade Older

Lately, several people I know are turning either the big “30” or “40” or even more significantly the bigger “50” and “60.” To each of these persons, turning a particular decade older is a major “life” marker. Each decade affects us differently. When we were children, you might think age was not significant. No so. That’s your adult mind thinking. Put on your memory cap. As children, we viewed age quite seriously. Don’t you remember when you couldn’t wait to turn five? For me, it meant I was now old enough to go to school. Another was turning ten. When I was eight, my hospital roommate was ten. She seemed so much older than I and so much more knowing. I couldn’t wait to turn ten, to be so sophisticated, although then I’m sure I didn’t even know the meaning of the word. To read about another’s perspective, go to Lizza’s blog at http://my-noypi-mind.blogspot.com/2009/05/first-decade.html/, where she shares her memory of turning ten and compares it with that of her own daughter who just turned ten.

The junior high, high school, and early college years were not much different. We were never satisfied with what made us what we were: our age, our place, our things, our family. It was our “me” time. We wished our lives away, not walking but running into the future, not even looking back. Some of us were running from the past, others were seeking greener pastures, while many were just riding the wave toward the unknown. We focused only ahead. Don’t get me wrong—no matter what decade you happen to be living now, everyone should be looking to the future. Otherwise, we’d be wandering in circles, only looking at what we did and not what we need to do. Our goals should be a culmination of our past, present, and future. In retrospect, I wish I could have enjoyed my younger years—savored them, so to speak. But I wasn’t allowed. I was pushed into the future and am glad of it actually.

Then suddenly we wake up and it’s our 25th birthday, yet another life marker that smacks many of us in the face. We no longer wish to be older. This is the defining moment that we reverse our way of thinking and start wishing we were younger. What is it about this age that sets us off? I believe it’s suddenly realizing, “Oh my God, I’m a quarter of a century old!” At least, that’s what did it for me. My daughter, on the other hand, is an exception to the rule. She is about to turn 25 but can pass for 15. She fortunately inherited her father’s genes, not mine.

Moving from the 20th decade into the 30th can be a rude wake-up call for many. At least at the age of 29, they could still say they’re still in their twenties, but at 30—this is the age 18-year olds consider “old.” Nevertheless, it’s a time to stop hitting that snooze button, get serious, and leave the party dream nights behind. There are even books out there written especially for this decade of so-called age defiers, for example, Turning 30: How to Get the Life You Really Want by Sheila Panchal. What do you have to lose? Only, possibly more than you can imagine.

Between 30 and 40 years of age, most people get their act together, improving their lives in aspects such as work, family, finances, religion, etc. During this time, my husband finished one career and started another. I finished college, began a new career, and excelled. We moved into our 40s with ease. As a woman, I even secretly looked forward to turning 40. I wanted to find out if women really do reach their sexual peak in their 40s. All I’m willing to admit is that it depends on the woman and I’ll leave it at that. So back to the big 40—I conclude that this decade is the easiest for both men and women to accept. They are concentrating more on living then on age and ageing.

I’ve heard that turning 50 is the new 40. There is even a Web site dedicated to this claim: http://www.fiftyisthenewforty.net/. I’m not sure if I agree, although I suppose I would have had to be 50 years old 20 or 40 years ago to accurately dispute this finding. One reason I find this claim flawed is that the majority of women experience menopause during these years and we know what menopause brings: hot flashes, hair loss, hair growth, more fat, less muscle—need I go on? It’s not a pretty sight. Don’t let me forget the men. They suddenly become delirious and believe that they’re 25 again, buying motorcycles, sports cars, and other gadgets. They too face much of what women face, except in some instances even more so (hair loss). Most men are purely in denial.

What about those 60 and over? They are our baby boomers and they are the first to turn 60 (http://ezinearticles.com/?Can-You-Believe-It?---Baby-Boomers-Are-Turning-60&id=2836792). With today’s economy in such a ramshackle state, 60 brings us much concern. The number of baby boomers over the age of 50 is increasing. According to AARP http://www.bbhq.com/whatsabm.htm, “by 2015, those aged 50 and older will represent 45% of the U.S. population.” The boomers who once planned to retire between the ages of 60 and 65 are now being forced to work longer. Social Security monies, which were meant to supplement many of these workers’ retirement, are running out. Healthcare is another concern. People are now living longer, particularly women. The bigger 60 life marker is the most important marker of our lives. Turning 60 is not a matter of vanity as in the earlier decades but of quality of life. So what will the future hold for the baby boomers turning 70 in the next decade? I cannot say, but wherever we are in time, however each decade has affected us, let’s just savor our moments.

The Roof

I am 23 years old, and I still live under my parents’ roof, though sometimes I feel as if I live on top of it. You see, the roof is where I go to soak in the sun, to seek out inspiration, to surround myself with nature, and of course, to see the people who saunter below.

Now this may sound odd or quite dangerous rather, being on the roof, but I can assure you, it’s relaxing and fairly safe. At its highest point, the point on which I perch, which is not so much a point at all, is slightly slanted, though very much a flat surface. I’d say it’s about 15 by 20 feet, and no one has fallen off of it yet.

It’s only 4:30, but the sun, which is hiding behind a light film of clouds, has started to fall behind an oak tree. The roof, which appears to have been recently pelted by acorns, has a large shadow creeping across it towards me. Today is the first official day of autumn, and with the exception of the pumpkin on the stoop across the street, it seems like any late summer afternoon in humid Maryland.

The cat has come to visit. She is one of few visitors and has escaped from the house through the bathroom window, which I left open for her. I do not arrive here in that way. You certainly would not catch me squeezing through the bathroom windowsill, maneuvering around a balcony, and crawling on hands and hind legs up the side of the house on asphalt shingles about one and a half feet wide to get up here. That would be far too complicated. Instead, I arrive through the skylight via the green wooden ladder.

The leaves are still clinging to the trees, unchanged in color and filled with birds that sound like laughing hyenas, and the last of the pink Crate Myrtles remain in bloom, though they are nearly beyond their days. Luckily for me, I can relax here on cooler days as the roof maintains the heat of the sun, which seeps through my blanket and warms me.

For the most part, I am never really bothered up here, nor do I bother anyone below. Though there was one time a few years ago when workmen appeared on the roof next door and without hesitation, I quickly dove down the skylight or “hole” as I sometimes call it. It is rare that I am ever seen. And it wouldn’t matter if someone did spot me, but it’s almost a game for me to try to remain hidden.

The mailman has arrived – on the porch, not on the roof. He wandered up our path unknowingly seen, and is now filling our box with tuition bills. He has slammed the screen door in that obnoxious way and is cutting across our yard, taking the easy way out. Perhaps he would not care if he knew I saw him do so. Perhaps he’s seen me before up here…

No. I can’t even say the stink bugs that have flown into me, accidentally I assume, four times already today have seen me. If I knew any better, I’d say they were blind. Why else would they have thrown themselves so violently at me? And every time they did, I was as stunned as the time before.

Perhaps I will descend into the hole now.

Salvaging The Past

          On most main streets in any given historic town, you are guaranteed to stumble upon consignment, or second-hand shop. 

            If you’re an antique enthusiast or a museum curator, you have probably referred to the yellow pages or googled “antique” shops with the sole intention of traveling to one to seek out good deals for your house collection or exhibit.

            If you are more like myself, you wander, with no intentions, into a small nook and cranny of your local historic Main Street.  The woman who works in the store is eager to have you as a customer and asks, 'Have you ever been here before?'

            You reply an honest ‘no, never.’ 

            Then she takes the opportunity to inform you that you’ve walked into a shop in which every single item has been salvaged from a dilapidated building or wreckage site.  Suddenly what was once a room of old junk or trash from the ruins becomes a pharoah’s tomb of recovered artifacts.  The store exists because some one made the decision to rescue items from complete destruction.

            You are suddenly reminded of Wall-E’s little abode in the Disney Pixar film as you browse the smorgasborg of items from late 19^th century all the way to the 1980s or 1990s.  You will probably not find a late 1984 Macintosh computer here.  You will not find a mobile phone from 1992.  However, a detached payphone from the late 20^th century rests comfortably in the corner, with two or three spiral corded phones sitting on a nearby table.

            A pile of seemingly useless doorknobs sit on a small oak table.  Not far away sits an arrangement of Great Depression Era glassware, clear green teacups, similar in weight to a plastic tea cup in a child’s play set. An old cigar machine stands in the center perpendicular to a bench with a row of old Nancy Drew novels with old fringes that tell you, ‘I am tattered, therefore I am antique.”  On a polished pale brown mantelpiece sits a collection of some one’s old pill bottles with various labels (not the old Civil War era Ipecac bottles, mind you, just your average run of the mill bottles with the sheer orange tint).

            In the recession era, I would imagine that the majority of people would not rank antique buying high on their budget, but something of value still remains, something left to be discovered rests, on the main streets of historic Ellicott City, Chestnut Hill, Manayunk, and beyond.  The antique shop becomes a safe haven or shelter for some small tea cup that begs not to disappear beneath the ruins.  Even old 1995 payphones seem worthy of being saved, even though they’re not completely extinct. 

            How old does something have to be to be considered an antique?  Does the term antique refer to appearance or age?  Who had to own those orange pill bottles in order to increase their value?

            Whatever the purpose or value, antique stores, offer you the passerby or tourist the opportunity to become Indiana Jones for a brief fifteen minutes or a longer three hours depending on your attention span and find that salvaged item, that item some one chose to take from the ruins, to preserve.