Humor

One Hot Mama

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img-Busy-day-at-Hampton-Beach

Just another day in paradise.

Summer in New Hampshire — beautiful land of trees, mountains, lakes, and — the beach. In fact, there is so much nature here, the human population almost seems an afterthought. Small wonder that creature comforts often fall into that same category. Our modest cape home doesn’t have air conditioning, but I, heat intolerant as I am, inexplicably like it that way. There is a certain virtue in throwing the windows open late at night, fighting with errant insects, and flipping the switch on the noisy sucking contraption that is our attic fan. The house is much stingier about releasing amassed degrees than it is about hoarding them, but I celebrate the loss of each thermal unit. It also helps that we are near a beautiful, and cool, lake under the canopy of tall trees. In fact, I love everything about New Hampshire summers except the handful of triple-digit days, and…the beach.

I know for some this is heresy, but for a state that is second only to Maine for tree cover, the wide expanse of unprotected ocean front seems oddly out of place.  Just last weekend we ventured to the shore for a birthday celebration, the lure of loved ones trumping sand. Our traffic app showed lines of red snaking to the shore; we resisted, hugging the back treed roads as long as we could. Parking was like an advanced game of Tetris. We kissed one car’s rear bumper, leaving enough room for someone to block us from behind, considering ourselves lucky as cars crept by in search of precious parking real estate. We had pulled up next to Dave, father to a one-year-old, and watched as he pulled a storage locker’s worth of paraphernalia out of his truck to maximize fun in the sun. The birthday girl greeted us. “Did you bring chairs?” Why, no; the only things we thought to bring were sunblock and a small cooler – no chairs, no towels, no umbrella, no snacks, no bug spray, no sunglasses, no hats, no thick-soled shoes. We were woefully unprepared.

Undaunted, we set off across the sand. I slipped off my flip flops, only to be rewarded by Venusian surface temperatures, the sand surrounding my feet in flesh-searing heat. I limped as fast as I could to the bone-chilling water. I could no longer feel my feet. The sun was unrelenting, complemented by the salty, sticky residue of ocean which gave my erupting sunburn a nice “bite.” As I chased shifting umbrella shade to preserve my pristine porcelain hue, others happily lounged in full sun, the better to build their burnished bronze surfaces.  Nearly 120 minutes later, we retreated to cool air-conditioned shelter for lunch.  All too soon, the sun worshippers were again lured by the siren call of steaming sand and frigid surf. I longed for cover. We went in the opposite direction, navigating the beach crowds to again seek the relative solitude of our tree canopy.  I threw open the windows to the cooling air. It was good to be home.

No one in sight.

No one in sight.

 

 

 

 

Faux Fur

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This is New Hampshire country, far from the ordered world of suburban subdivision living I know. Secure in the (somewhat) familiar and predictable existence contained within the walls of our home, I never know what awaits me outside. One thing is for sure — nature comes to you. Last week it was a large snapping turtle, lured by our vernal pool and sandy backyard soil. After several test excavations, she found the perfect spot for her eggs and left us to watch her underground incubator for the next 12 weeks or so.

Some of our tenants are less welcome. A large groundhog moved in under our attached shed and proceeded to dig cavernous holes in our yard. We decided to relocate it and set a large crate trap with the lure of enticing melon. The melon disappeared, but the groundhog was large enough to defeat the trap door, no doubt amused at our feeble and transparent efforts.

Yesterday, though, I saw the door had been tripped again. This time, a soft set of eyes quietly regarded me from behind the metal bars. This creature was not a groundhog, but somehow looked familiar — the small size, the gamine face with a touch of white; the spiked and rounded appearance of its coat. Could it be?  Of course —  it must be a hedgehog! A woman of action, I sprang into motion, emailing my husband and calling a friend to share the surprising news. Oh, and I looked up “hedgehog” online. Undaunted by the inconvenient datum that hedgehogs aren’t native to North America, I also found a NH hedgehog breeder and rescue organization. Convinced I had an escaped pet, I called them and left a message. Always thorough,  I also called our local university’s extension service. My mind was racing. What did it eat? When would I have the time to drive it to the hedgehog breeder?

I received a prompt email from the hedgehog people, who gently told me the odds this was an errant hedgehog were unlikely, but possible. If so, they were standing at the ready to assist. I decided to take a picture of my little charge and took the time to take a good look. On closer inspection, the features I had been so sure pointed to a quintessential Wind in the Willows character now looked markedly different. The nose wasn’t so pointed, the fur not so spiked. Still cute and endearing, I now realized this was no hedgehog but a groundhog of the child variety. More than a little embarrassed, I emailed the hedgehog people apologizing for my hasty taxonomic classification. Afterwards, picturing a distressed groundhog mother nearby,  I relented and let the little one go so he could reunite with his doting parent. He scampered off, no doubt eager to set up permanent digs chez nous.

The next day, I received a return message from the extension service. Jay couldn’t suppress the chuckles as he replied to my message but duly gave me information for the right people to call in the case of errant (as in the wrong continent) wildlife. I called him back, and we shared a good laugh. I may live in the country, but it is clear to everyone I am no country girl.

Hedgehog2

(Not a) Hedgehog

All that Glitters…

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Last week, an old (and precious) friend treated me to an incredible trip to Las Vegas to celebrate a milestone birthday. Why Las Vegas? I’m not really sure — it was more impulse than anything added to a curious fascination with slot machines that dates back to 1988 when our young family was in the Vegas airport for half an hour between planes.  Lulled by those shiny spinning sirens, I abandoned my husband with an infant in a dirty diaper so I could make an offering of my spare change. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.

Even the airport has changed dramatically since that time — its sprawling concourses lined with an incredible array of enticements to lose your money, the new strip so full of opulence and attractions, it was hard to know where to look first. Where else can you see the Statue of Liberty silhouetted against the Eiffel Tower ringed by a roller coaster? Laura and I set out to explore these monuments to entertainment and excess, and I couldn’t help but try to capture the cacaphonic sights  with my camera. Laura, in contrast, insisted on taking  pictures of us telling me how she focuses on people when she travels rather than the scenery.

It wasn’t until I was traveling home that it hit me. Laura was right. I had focused on the glitter and missed what had really stood out to me — the people. We made connections almost everywhere starting that first morning with the transplanted artist and part-time tour guide from Portland, Maine who had been lulled by Las Vegas’ 24-hour wake cycle. He offered us a quick and helpful orientation, and I could hear his affection for his adopted city as he spoke to us. Looking for inexpensive jewelry in a store that was being ousted for something more upscale, I found the owner was from Jordan, and we talked about the turmoil in that area and the heartache that comes with having to leave a homeland you love. In Tiffany’s we met Peter, a passionate young man from Puerto Rico, and we learned more about the lack of opportunity and financial woes of this beleaguered U.S. territory.  We gained fascinating insight on art and the creative process with Susan in the Chihuly Store at the Bellagio. She had known Dale Chihuly for over twenty years, and her excitement in showing us the remarkable translation of his initial sketches to stunning three-dimensional  artworks was truly inspiring. We connected with Miyuki on our spa day at the Mandarin Oriental and she shared the sweet story of how she met her American husband in Japan while working at a theme park (he was a Viking). Then there was the amazing Vearn (his real name), a tour guide atop Paris’ Eiffel Tower. A celebrity in his own right, autistic,  and graced with an amazing photographic memory, he knew everything about the city (including the fact that we were in Paradise and not Las Vegas), down to detailed statistics and the notorious history of each and every hotel. His personal story, both heartbreaking and uplifting, compelled me to have our picture taken together.

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Laura, me, and Vearn

On the way home, I sat next to Isolde, a remarkably beautiful educator who was contemplating her next chapter. Her heart for encouraging youth to embrace self-worth and find their own path was inspiring and compelling.

Next time I go somewhere, I will look for the human stories beneath the landscape. These are the memories I want to capture.  There will be more photos of faces, and less of glitter.

Oh, by the way, I did scratch my itch to play the slots. Although I was up by twenty cents, I got greedy and lost it. That’s Vegas;-)

Hello? Is anyone there?

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The Onion, Feb 4, 2016, Plows Working Around Clock...

From The Onion, 2/4/2016, “Plows Working Around Clock to Keep NH Roads Clear of Campaign Signs”

The news spread quickly through our small town Facebook page – a large black SUV with New York plates and tinted windows was making its way slowly down Rollercoaster Road. Any other time, such an occurrence would be suspicious, but I live in New Hampshire. The apparent mystery was quickly dispelled – Bernie Sanders volunteers were canvassing elusive Strafford voters house by house, which in our enclave takes some searching as most homes are nearly invisible behind a dense veil of snow-laced trees.

Our little village has about 4,000 residents and not a single stop light. Statewide, NH’s approximately 800,000 voters are a mere one-half of one percent of the 150 million voters nationwide.  By the way, about 45% of NH voters are registered independents, the better to court by both parties. The nearest city boasts all of 30,000 residents, about the same as our previous town of O’Fallon, IL, a former farming community. Incidentally, Illinois has nearly ten times the number of registered voters as our current state. None of that matters when you consider that we have the first presidential primary.  With all the candidates running this year, it’s hard to avoid a campaign bus or yet another town hall. I believe if we lined all the candidates up equidistantly across the state, they would be able to see each other, mountains and valleys notwithstanding.

Just as our small lake community’s population swells in the summer, so does the population of NH in the months before the primary. With the influx of out-of-town campaign staff, volunteers, and every conceivable media outlet with all their people and equipment, it feels like our diminutive and quiet New England state has become downright corpulent, raucously swelling well beyond the propriety of its borders. Not only are campaign signs and workers everywhere, diners are doing a bustling political breakfast business, and competing campaign events are common. Some residents relish in the energy and attention; we are largely staying out of the fray and letting our endlessly ringing phone go straight to voicemail.

Finally, thankfully, the primary is this Tuesday; I will do my civic duty and vote, and, yes, I will be waiting and watching for the results. Beyond all the hype, I do care about the future of our country, but I won’t be sorry to see the busses, the breakfast events, and the candidates go elsewhere. We’re almost out of eggs.

You Say “Tomato”, I say “Tomato”

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We recently had professional painters in our home to finally transform our previously wallpapered music and dining rooms (a real treat as I look at the DIY free-form version of interior wall coating that is predominant in our home). They left the rooms pristine — perfectly painted, every trim gap and misalignment now invisible, not a stray brush mark in sight. After, I rushed to put the rooms back together, the better to enjoy the results. My husband called later. “What are you doing?” “Filling holes in the painted rooms,” I replied without thinking. There was silence on the other end. “I’m hanging pictures,” I helpfully added. He sighed. I get it –the way I hang pictures makes absolutely no sense, but I persist. I wondered what my methods might look like if I wrote my steps and equipment down as a “how to”. Check out “How to Hang Pictures” under “Miscellaneous Musings”.  Can you relate?

https://gracetolaugh.com/recent-musings/how-to-hang-pictures/

hammering with a shoe

 

Critters

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August. Comfortably cool mornings yield to languid heavy afternoons. It’s the month of running the basement dehumidifier non-stop, the month of rampant crabgrass, and the month that marks peak critter season. Unlike our subdivision property in Illinois that served as a backdrop for the occasional, adorable, brown bunny, New Hampshire is an ever-changing landscape of abundant wildlife. We’ve learned to live with our crew-cut hostas, thoughtfully cropped by invisible deer, not to mention the elusive creatures who are eating through the tender leaves of our birch tree and carefully dropping pruned branches for their little ones. We don’t mind the birds nests that appear everywhere, including the palatial avian abode erected on the inverted seat of our stored canoe. Chipmunks, raccoons, even the occasional skunk drop by or decide we are prime real estate for a permanent residence. (Nothing like opening your windows for fresh night air and waking up to Eau d’Horrible in the morning.) We’ve even heard of bear sightings in the area. Live and let live. Then there was the July day I looked up and saw those perfectly circular holes around our attic vent. What could those be? I wondered as I made a mental note to fix the structural damage, adding it to our always robust “to do” list, then forgot about it. No matter — the answer presented itself last Wednesday. With my husband in the hospital recuperating from orthopedic surgery, I was on my own with the morning routine. Coming back into the house with our two dogs, a flash of movement caught my eye in our parlor. It was a critter, and it flew- fast. It’s hard to describe the feeling of panic that overtakes you when self-propelled wildlife is actually within the protective walls of your house. I immediately called David — hospital or not, I needed him.  On his instructions, I opened the front door, held up a broom, and watched this dark creature with a wingspan of at least a foot faultlessly perform low level maneuvers around our first floor furniture before swooping outside. I thought it was a bird who had gotten in by some fluke. Then, the next day, there was another “bird” in the kitchen, then tonight, with my husband home, a third and fourth appeared. “That is a bat,” he said matter-of-factly, on seeing the first. Bats? What? Evidently our attic is housing a bat colony. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe they’ll keep the bears out.

August. The month of calling the local wildlife control company to evict unwanted tenants. In the meantime, I’ll keep the broom handy.flying black bat silhouetted in the twilight sky