Woke up yesterday morning to the sight of snow falling steadly outside our windows. Except here, the plow comes regularly .. back in Quincy it requires a Biblical snowstorm to get a plow on a side street the same day. If at all.
The folks came down from the Berkshires and up from New Jersey and we had a nice meal, with everyone's attention on how much my daughter has learned and grown in the past year or so. Because we're here and not near Boston, we're closer to those family members and already we've seen them more than we did in five years there.
It was a lovely meal, but it was also a lovely day, even with the snow and LemonTruck deciding it was time for the gear box to die.
I thought a lot about this holiday on two fronts.
First, its historical meaning and significance.
The source of the T-Day myth comes from two paragraphs -- one in a pamphlet published in 1622 titled "Mourt's Relation," another from "Of Plymouth Plantation," the diary/memoir written by Mass. Bay Colony Gov. William Bradford. That's it: two paragraphs relating to a feast of some sort to which Massasoit and about 90 native americans were invited.
For one group, it was the end of the beginning. They had endured horrible hardship, seen half of their number perish, and yet made it through. They were going to survive.
For one group, it was the beginning of the end. These white settlers who had arrived on their shore a year ago were going to stay, and more like them would arrive. They had guns, they had germs for which there was no resistance, they had plans fueled by religious fervor and the machinery of the mercantile system and their own dreams.
Within a generation or two, the two sides that came together for a feast in 1621 were fighting King Phillip's War, a guerilla conflict in which scorched earth policies and collateral damage were the rule, not the exception. Its scars persist.
On a day when Americans are thankful, the price that was paid by all involved -- espescially those from whom much was taken -- is worth remembering.
Second point: About year ago, a PBS series called "Colonial House" aired. In it, Americans from the 21st Century were sent to live in a 17th Century colonial village. They didn't fare so well, but that was besides the point: In their struggle, I saw my own struggle to find a place where my family could afford to live happily and safely, where I could make a good living, where my daughter could play and grow and thrive. It resonated. And it upset me to some degree because like the would-be settlers, I was having a hard time succeeding at my goal.
So a year later, to be here and realize that which seemed so far away has come true .. well, I have much to be thankful for. And so celebrating over a hearty meal with family and friends... it felt good.
We are indeed blessed.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Crash on the Levee
"Now it's king for king, queen for queen,
It's gonna be the meanest flood anybody's seen."
- "Down in the Flood," Bob
It was 3:45 a.m. and I had just gotten home from work. I opened the door to the basement, turned on the light, and walked down the stairs.
Oh, no.
soggy basement
About a foot of water. Everywhere. The entire length and breadth of the basement, covered. An indoor lake. A groundwater swimming pool.
Anything that was on the floor was soaked, possibly ruined.
I had worried about flooding since it had rained more than a week steady here in CT. (Later, we would learn it was the second-rainiest month on record, second only to August 1955, when the remnants of two hurricanes flooded this state, killing 87 people.) I don't know if the sump pump failed or if it had been overwhelmed. But there it was.
"911, what's your emergency?"
Funny. Driving home I had been behind a truck from Tunxis Hose Company No. 1, the volunteer department that serves our part of town. "They must have been busy tonight, I thought.
Before I knew it Rescue 15 was outside my door, setting up shop for the umpteenth basement pump-out of the evening.
firefighter in basement
Let me tell you something: These guys had been going all night ... they could have been surly and tired and I would have understood. But they were professional and treated our call like it was the first of the night, not the last. They rocked.
They were done by about 5, leaving Michelle and I to sort through what got wet and see what we could salvage.
Some stuff got ruined. But other items ... including my journal of Michelle's pregnancy and the first card she ever gave me, were saved. It was hit and miss.
Dad drove down from Massachusetts that morning with a wet-dry vac, some fans and a dehumidifier. We got most of it cleaned out and on the road to dryness, and if there was a bright side, it was this: the basement is a lot cleaner and more organized.
Things to do: Get a new sump pump.
It's gonna be the meanest flood anybody's seen."
- "Down in the Flood," Bob
It was 3:45 a.m. and I had just gotten home from work. I opened the door to the basement, turned on the light, and walked down the stairs.
Oh, no.
soggy basement
About a foot of water. Everywhere. The entire length and breadth of the basement, covered. An indoor lake. A groundwater swimming pool.
Anything that was on the floor was soaked, possibly ruined.
I had worried about flooding since it had rained more than a week steady here in CT. (Later, we would learn it was the second-rainiest month on record, second only to August 1955, when the remnants of two hurricanes flooded this state, killing 87 people.) I don't know if the sump pump failed or if it had been overwhelmed. But there it was.
"911, what's your emergency?"
Funny. Driving home I had been behind a truck from Tunxis Hose Company No. 1, the volunteer department that serves our part of town. "They must have been busy tonight, I thought.
Before I knew it Rescue 15 was outside my door, setting up shop for the umpteenth basement pump-out of the evening.
firefighter in basement
Let me tell you something: These guys had been going all night ... they could have been surly and tired and I would have understood. But they were professional and treated our call like it was the first of the night, not the last. They rocked.
They were done by about 5, leaving Michelle and I to sort through what got wet and see what we could salvage.
Some stuff got ruined. But other items ... including my journal of Michelle's pregnancy and the first card she ever gave me, were saved. It was hit and miss.
Dad drove down from Massachusetts that morning with a wet-dry vac, some fans and a dehumidifier. We got most of it cleaned out and on the road to dryness, and if there was a bright side, it was this: the basement is a lot cleaner and more organized.
Things to do: Get a new sump pump.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Paging Oscar T. Grouch...
It's garbage day here in Farmington. But not any garbage day -- bulk collection day, when they let you throw out anything that's not radioactive or full of heavy metals.
The odd thing about this is what people throw away -- and what other people do with things people throw away.
First, the curbsides: All kinds of usable stuff, stuff that really could or should be donated or resold. Children's toys in working order, decent furniture, storage units, charcoal and gas grills, housing materials (windows, molding, lumber), the list goes on. It's an interesting illustration of our throwaway society, and I don't seek to indict or single out my new home town because lots of other folks throw away perfectly good stuff, too, all over this country.
But here's the interesting part.
After said stuff was placed on said curbs yesterday, I noticed lots of pickup trucks and vans trolling the neighborhood.
Federal agents?
Would-be thieves?
No, garbage pickers! It was trick-or-treat consignment shop weekend, and the dealers were out "shopping" for the best stuff. We drove around town yesterday and saw this elsewhere, too.
I've seen folks rummaging through the trash for bottle deposits -- in Pittsfield and in Boston -- but this was the first time I ever saw Dumpster-diving antique dealers.
I wonder how much the old desk we put out will fetch -- despite the fact it's broken?
The odd thing about this is what people throw away -- and what other people do with things people throw away.
First, the curbsides: All kinds of usable stuff, stuff that really could or should be donated or resold. Children's toys in working order, decent furniture, storage units, charcoal and gas grills, housing materials (windows, molding, lumber), the list goes on. It's an interesting illustration of our throwaway society, and I don't seek to indict or single out my new home town because lots of other folks throw away perfectly good stuff, too, all over this country.
But here's the interesting part.
After said stuff was placed on said curbs yesterday, I noticed lots of pickup trucks and vans trolling the neighborhood.
Federal agents?
Would-be thieves?
No, garbage pickers! It was trick-or-treat consignment shop weekend, and the dealers were out "shopping" for the best stuff. We drove around town yesterday and saw this elsewhere, too.
I've seen folks rummaging through the trash for bottle deposits -- in Pittsfield and in Boston -- but this was the first time I ever saw Dumpster-diving antique dealers.
I wonder how much the old desk we put out will fetch -- despite the fact it's broken?
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
He who is transplanted still sustains
These days I come home at night and notice what’s missing.
Home, Sweet Home.
I can’t hear the Southeast Expressway, the Red Line or descending 727s over the peepers and crickets. The drunk kids from the bar up the street no longer stagger home past my door, arguing at the top of their lungs or heaving empties out the windows of their late-model Chevrolets.
The trees and grass and the Farmington River, somewhere down the hill in the distance, are the only perfume in the air. They have replaced the acrid diesel and soot from the MBTA buses and gasoline trucks and the cowboy killers the upstairs neighbors inhaled one after another.
I get out of my car, fresh from an evening of publishing sports news on the Internet at ESPN.com and take it all in.
Overhead, there are stars. So many stars. A dizzying amount of stars.
In the distance, a few streetlights; then, nothing. Where are the Home Depot, the Quincy Adams MBTA Station and the apartment buildings across the street where the 20-somethings drink beer on the balcony and listen to Korn? Where the yellow-orange glow of the highway, the shopping mall and the office park with the huge hotel?
Gone. I last saw it somewhere over my right shoulder, in the rear view mirror as I motored down Route 128 with my daughter snoozing, precious and perfect, in the back seat on a Thursday night in August.
It was at that moment that five years became history.
It’s funny: In May of 2000, Boston was the answer to our wishes and the beginning of our future together. Michelle and I would move in to a nice apartment walking distance from the train and make the most of what it had to offer. We would have great jobs working with great people, earning more money than we’d ever seen. We’d start a shared life in one of America’s coolest cities. We would soak in the energy buzzing from one of the world’s intellectual capitals and experience different cultures through art and music and food.
We would be in the middle of it all, near close friends and family, near the ocean.
And for a while, it was everything we dreamed it could be.
Indeed, I still fondly remember the day in June of 2000 I saw Michelle at the top of the escalator at the Quincy Center train station – the day she’d moved out to stay -- and I knew we would never be apart again from that moment. I will always recall the Thanksgiving dinners at our house and Rick and Michelle’s, the happy moments when we found out they were going to be parents and vice versa, the IDG and AP parties, the evenings with the BSO and the Bruins and the trips to Rhode Island and New Hampshire.
When did it turn so sour?
In retrospect, that’s not important anymore. But it did. And over time we learned something that we knew all along –- that at heart, we are country mice, not city mice. We were reminded every time we went back to the Berkshires to visit our families and found ourselves surrounded by mountains and meadows and embraced by the quiet power of the country. The view of Mount Greylock coming down Route 116 into downtown Adams, or the view of Yokun Ridge from the top of Eleanor Road -- these landmarks were our reminders that this was still home, after all.
September 11th brought the point home. Sofia joining our lives only reinforced it.
So no matter what, we were bound to move back west, back to the woods. It was inevitable. Because even if we were perfectly happy, we still couldn’t afford Boston. The intellectual capital that was going to be the launching pad for our future got to be too expensive for just about everyone, including us.
I sent out resumes and waited. And waited. Even considered going back to Pittsfield.
Then ESPN called back.
We landed pretty close to our destination. It might be a subdivision planned out in 1959 full of vaguely identical-looking capes, but it’s still the woods, all right. There are oaks and maples everywhere, and aside from the children and dogs, it’s very quiet.
The place jumped out at us from the start. It was in move-in condition, in the right colors, a nice little cape on half an acre with a yard and a fireplace and a bedroom for Sofia decorated just the way Michelle had always pictured it in her mind.
And we could afford it.
It’s still taking some time, after nearly a month, for it to sink in: This is our house.
Farmington – and its neighbors to the north and east, Avon and West Hartford – are a study in contrasts. They are quiet, woodsy places full of cul-de-sacs, where the supermarkets, the liquor stores and the pizza places close at 8 or 9. There’s no drive thru at the nearest Dunkies or McDonalds – you’re going to have to get out of your car to make that investment in your own obesity, buddy.
Yet, these are the burbs. And well-heeled, at that.
The women who stroll and strut in and out of the Starbucks and the Epicure Market look like stunt doubles from “Desperate Housewives.” The shopping mall the next town over has leather seats with built-in massagers. The shopping centers in Avon and Canton are nearly as opulent – even the Wal-Mart and the Big Y Supermarket are upscale. Yes, if a Wal-Mart can be described as “upscale,” this is the one.
We are decidedly middle-class here. And that’s fine, because we're hardly alone in that regard. For the most part it's a pretty low-key place to live.
Michelle is working out of what would have been the third bedroom in our new house. About midday we fetch the girl from daycare. She tends to fall asleep shortly after daycare and naps contentedly until it’s time to play. I get some work done if I can wake up – a problem when you work until 3 a.m. – and then color or play house or whatever Sofia wants to do.
She likes to play outside on her swing, and be rolled around our yard in her little car. She loves that thing; the first time we took her out she cried and said “my car!” She also likes to paint and draw and read books and play with her house.
playing in the hall
I head off to Bristol and ESPN’s 27 satellite dishes late in the afternoon, just as the afternoon rush hour Hartford traffic descends upon the burbs. It rivals Boston that way. But at least the police actually do traffic enforcement. Having driven in Boston for five years and been in an accident (not serious) caused by speed, recklessness and stupidity, I'm glad to see them.
It’s a busy 9 hours I put in there, but so far so good.
So we're getting to know the Nutmeg State -- figure out where everything is and all the fun things to do. Our friends Candy and Dave and Beth and Don -- Nutmeggers long before we thought of coming here -- are happy that we've made the move and have been super helpful.
We've been to Lyman Orchards, which makes the best cider doughnuts that weren't made at Bartlett's Orchards in Richmond, Mass. And every town in this state seems to have its own fair or downtown days during the late summer -- it's a lot of fun and a good way to see what the rest of the state is like.
We have not been to Hartford yet. One of these days.
So are we happy?
Yes, it's difficult leaving all the friends we made in Boston, but it's only two hours away. And now we have a place where they can come stay. A home to call our own.
Home, Sweet Home.
I can’t hear the Southeast Expressway, the Red Line or descending 727s over the peepers and crickets. The drunk kids from the bar up the street no longer stagger home past my door, arguing at the top of their lungs or heaving empties out the windows of their late-model Chevrolets.
The trees and grass and the Farmington River, somewhere down the hill in the distance, are the only perfume in the air. They have replaced the acrid diesel and soot from the MBTA buses and gasoline trucks and the cowboy killers the upstairs neighbors inhaled one after another.
I get out of my car, fresh from an evening of publishing sports news on the Internet at ESPN.com and take it all in.
Overhead, there are stars. So many stars. A dizzying amount of stars.
In the distance, a few streetlights; then, nothing. Where are the Home Depot, the Quincy Adams MBTA Station and the apartment buildings across the street where the 20-somethings drink beer on the balcony and listen to Korn? Where the yellow-orange glow of the highway, the shopping mall and the office park with the huge hotel?
Gone. I last saw it somewhere over my right shoulder, in the rear view mirror as I motored down Route 128 with my daughter snoozing, precious and perfect, in the back seat on a Thursday night in August.
It was at that moment that five years became history.
It’s funny: In May of 2000, Boston was the answer to our wishes and the beginning of our future together. Michelle and I would move in to a nice apartment walking distance from the train and make the most of what it had to offer. We would have great jobs working with great people, earning more money than we’d ever seen. We’d start a shared life in one of America’s coolest cities. We would soak in the energy buzzing from one of the world’s intellectual capitals and experience different cultures through art and music and food.
We would be in the middle of it all, near close friends and family, near the ocean.
And for a while, it was everything we dreamed it could be.
Indeed, I still fondly remember the day in June of 2000 I saw Michelle at the top of the escalator at the Quincy Center train station – the day she’d moved out to stay -- and I knew we would never be apart again from that moment. I will always recall the Thanksgiving dinners at our house and Rick and Michelle’s, the happy moments when we found out they were going to be parents and vice versa, the IDG and AP parties, the evenings with the BSO and the Bruins and the trips to Rhode Island and New Hampshire.
When did it turn so sour?
In retrospect, that’s not important anymore. But it did. And over time we learned something that we knew all along –- that at heart, we are country mice, not city mice. We were reminded every time we went back to the Berkshires to visit our families and found ourselves surrounded by mountains and meadows and embraced by the quiet power of the country. The view of Mount Greylock coming down Route 116 into downtown Adams, or the view of Yokun Ridge from the top of Eleanor Road -- these landmarks were our reminders that this was still home, after all.
September 11th brought the point home. Sofia joining our lives only reinforced it.
So no matter what, we were bound to move back west, back to the woods. It was inevitable. Because even if we were perfectly happy, we still couldn’t afford Boston. The intellectual capital that was going to be the launching pad for our future got to be too expensive for just about everyone, including us.
I sent out resumes and waited. And waited. Even considered going back to Pittsfield.
Then ESPN called back.
We landed pretty close to our destination. It might be a subdivision planned out in 1959 full of vaguely identical-looking capes, but it’s still the woods, all right. There are oaks and maples everywhere, and aside from the children and dogs, it’s very quiet.
The place jumped out at us from the start. It was in move-in condition, in the right colors, a nice little cape on half an acre with a yard and a fireplace and a bedroom for Sofia decorated just the way Michelle had always pictured it in her mind.
And we could afford it.
It’s still taking some time, after nearly a month, for it to sink in: This is our house.
Farmington – and its neighbors to the north and east, Avon and West Hartford – are a study in contrasts. They are quiet, woodsy places full of cul-de-sacs, where the supermarkets, the liquor stores and the pizza places close at 8 or 9. There’s no drive thru at the nearest Dunkies or McDonalds – you’re going to have to get out of your car to make that investment in your own obesity, buddy.
Yet, these are the burbs. And well-heeled, at that.
The women who stroll and strut in and out of the Starbucks and the Epicure Market look like stunt doubles from “Desperate Housewives.” The shopping mall the next town over has leather seats with built-in massagers. The shopping centers in Avon and Canton are nearly as opulent – even the Wal-Mart and the Big Y Supermarket are upscale. Yes, if a Wal-Mart can be described as “upscale,” this is the one.
We are decidedly middle-class here. And that’s fine, because we're hardly alone in that regard. For the most part it's a pretty low-key place to live.
Michelle is working out of what would have been the third bedroom in our new house. About midday we fetch the girl from daycare. She tends to fall asleep shortly after daycare and naps contentedly until it’s time to play. I get some work done if I can wake up – a problem when you work until 3 a.m. – and then color or play house or whatever Sofia wants to do.
She likes to play outside on her swing, and be rolled around our yard in her little car. She loves that thing; the first time we took her out she cried and said “my car!” She also likes to paint and draw and read books and play with her house.
playing in the hall
I head off to Bristol and ESPN’s 27 satellite dishes late in the afternoon, just as the afternoon rush hour Hartford traffic descends upon the burbs. It rivals Boston that way. But at least the police actually do traffic enforcement. Having driven in Boston for five years and been in an accident (not serious) caused by speed, recklessness and stupidity, I'm glad to see them.
It’s a busy 9 hours I put in there, but so far so good.
So we're getting to know the Nutmeg State -- figure out where everything is and all the fun things to do. Our friends Candy and Dave and Beth and Don -- Nutmeggers long before we thought of coming here -- are happy that we've made the move and have been super helpful.
We've been to Lyman Orchards, which makes the best cider doughnuts that weren't made at Bartlett's Orchards in Richmond, Mass. And every town in this state seems to have its own fair or downtown days during the late summer -- it's a lot of fun and a good way to see what the rest of the state is like.
We have not been to Hartford yet. One of these days.
So are we happy?
Yes, it's difficult leaving all the friends we made in Boston, but it's only two hours away. And now we have a place where they can come stay. A home to call our own.
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