Dumb and dumber

For at least three years I've been searching all over for the family wedding rings:  my mother's, her mother's, and the two great grandmas.  To the best of my recollections, I had seen them since we moved into this house, but I couldn't find them.  Searched everywhere.  I do mean EVERYWHERE.  Especially the cedar chest where I had a vague memory of seeing them.

Finally, I gave them up for lost in the move, and beat myself up for being a bad daughter, a bad granddaughter and a very bad great granddaughter.  How could I have lost these heirlooms?  I had already lost my mother's beautiful Christmas pin, for which I can never forgive myself.  Now I lost ALL the wedding rings.

I kept searching the same places, but they were never found.  Hung head in shame.  A few weeks ago we had reason to visit the safety deposit box and there, along with assorted envelopes was a little jewelry box.  Inside it were all of the rings.  Safe and secure. I wanted to weep with relief.

I returned home and checked the inventory sheet of the deposit box, and they weren't on it, which must mean that I found them and put them in the box having no memory of doing so.  I remember once my mother took off her wedding rings and they disappeared to be found much later in a tea cup in the cupboard.  Does it run in the family? 

Of course, I have no idea of the eventual fate of all of these rings.  They'll probably be melted down in some gold frenzy, although I have resisted doing that to really good or sentimental stuff.  I recall a popular song, maybe from the  Fifties about "a little band of gold."  How do I remember the stupid song but not taking the rings to the lock box for safe-keeping?   Arrrggghhh.

Feng Shui to the Max?

Our old house in a suburb west of Boston was a "raised ranch," a split level of no particular distinction.  It had big rooms and lots of space and a sunny front yard with woods bordering the back yard, which sloped down the hill.  We moved in when it had been newly decorated and lived there twenty years, only putting a great huge deck off the kitchen. 

When we prepared to sell, the realtor said, OMG, you can't have this old-fashioned 80's wallpaper!  Nine months of sweat equity later, the walls were newly painted (mostly), the old rugs rolled up and hauled off to the dump.  The bushes and shrubs were freshly pruned and the hole the woodpecker pecked in the home office wall (exterior) was patched.  

Then comes some sad history of a young couple buying the house, fixing it up with new kitchen, baths, and a California feeling.  Now this is New England and people like their center colonials and their Capes.  Small windows with 24 panes, no problem, small dark rooms, hey it's cozy!  Old timey decor, now you're talking.  New Englanders were the original "Early Americans."  So when the nice young couple split, the nicely fixed up "California" house
did not sell.  And did not sell.  And still did not sell.  Finally, it sold to a California couple for barely more than we had sold it for. 

The California couple believed in Feng Shui, and ALL the landscaping except for one (1) rhododendron  was pulled up.  The nice front yard red maple tree that shaded the house in summers was chopped down.  The bare concrete foundation is still exposed.  No replacement trees planted.  It looks kind of stark. 

We drive through the old neighborhood every so often and gasp at the number of tear downs that have occurred, and  gape at the ugly-as-sin McMansions that have replaced the modest homes.  Yesterday we took a drive-by again.  Ye Gods!  Our former house is canary yellow, a bright canary yellow.  S.O. immediately dubbed it The Yellow Peril.  Words cannot describe how ugly it is, with it's naked concrete foundation and it's hideous loud color.  It almost shames one to have lived in such a monstrosity.

What were they thinking?  The house across the street is for sale.  Do you think the neighbors couldn't stand to look at the Yellow Peril one more day? 

Do you think maybe the current owner looked at a teensy-tiny paint chip and didn't realize how LOUD an entire house would look? 

Do you think Feng Shui ran amok and created major ugliness in our little neighborhood?

There's a lot of bad karma there, and I'm glad I live here, now.

What were they thinking?  

Great Camp Sagamore

Main Lodge at Great Camp Sagamore

I had a great week with a young relative at Great Camp Sagamore near Raquette Lake in New York's Adirondack Mountains.  We canoed, hiked, studied nature, did craft projects, ate, swam, played, danced, sang, petted owls, and had a wonderful time.  This was the Great Camp of the famed Vanderbilt family, on a beautiful lakeside setting with spectacular old crafty wooden buildings. Food mighty tasty, too. Simple but toothsome. Plentiful.    

Yours truly went into "The Zone" where what one wore, how one looked hair and makeup wise had less and less importance.  Pretty soon I was using bug repellant as hair spray, and wearing an odd assortment of old funky t-shirts and shorts.  Before I left for this adventure, an  ungodly attack of sciatica laid me low, and the Dr. prescribed some steriods and a muscle relaxant.  For a couple days, I became totally whacko and inadvertently substituted melatonin for the steriods.  Kept waking up REALLY EARLY in the morning.   Seemed to leave no permanent damage.  So far, the only thing which keeps the pain in check is Tylenol.  

The women had wine in the evening with dinner.  Wonderful conversation.  Totally civilized.  Two planes overhead all week, and other than that, no noise of cars, trucks, aircraft, sirens--just the laughter and squealing of children.  Can  you imagine such a thing?  I think we all went on Burning Man Time.   The black flies and deer flies and mosquitoes were hungry and everyone got lots of bites,  taken in stride.  I forgot about sunscreen.  Bug spray (which didn't help much) became my moisturizer and my foundation.   I ate whatever I damn pleased, not piggy, not not conscientious either.  How nice it was.  Lots of walking maybe prevented  a large weight gain.  Whatever, my jeans still fit.   Had a blast doing the crafts.  They all looked like an aging hippie had done them.  What does that say?  Dunno.

I even wrote a little ghost story for "talent night."  Not very scary.  Only one incident of violence.  

So, it's good to be back.  We were in the Big Apple last night and ate at a darling French place on Madison and 92nd?   First time in years I've had soft-shelled crabs and were they ever good.  To die for.  Quite a change from the simple tasty fare of the Great Camp.  In the old days when the Vanderbilts came for the season, there were six workers for each guest, which of course included laundry, cooking, cleaning, managing the farm and the livestock.     There was even a bowling alley and a root cellar.  And LOTS of animal heads on the wall hung as trophies.  Somewhat disconcerting to some of the little kids.  I think it was the thoughtful expressions in the taxidermed eyes.

Whatever.  Whatever.  God was it great to have no radio, no TV, and no newspapers.  No cell phone coverage, and wi-fi only in a couple places.  Nice to step out of the daily orbit for a while.  Nice to decompress.  

Today we took the ferry from Orient Point, NY  to New London,  CT  instead of the trek all the way on I-95.  Ate lunch in Saratoga Springs ysterday.  Wonderful   Chicken Caesar.  Burgers on the ferry this evening.  Bought carrots, beans, corn and tomatoes at the Farm Stand in Orient Point.  Not enough time to eat at Claudio's in Northport, alas.  I do like making the scene at Claudio's.

Time to stick another load of camp clothes in the dryer.  I did not see the loon, but we saw lots of deer.

From sun-burned, bugbit, fat and happy,

Grapeshot                                                                                                                                                                                                 

An Obscenity

Someone has come up with a "middle grade" version of The Great Gatsby.  You probably wouldn't want your kid to read it and you sure as hell don't want to read it.

This is Roger Ebert's take on this hideosity.  Roger's Ebert's Blog on Great Gatsby dumb down

I don't know what things are coming to, she said. 

Wilson's Barbeque

We've been taking a lot of car trips from Beantown to the Big Apple.  Via the Food Network and Guy's Big Bite, I discovered Wilson's Barbeque in Fairfield, CT.  The last trip was at a time not conducive to stopping for barbeque, but yesterday was, and so armed with instructions, we pulled off of 95 and travelled a short distance to Wilson's.

We got one pulled pork platter with sides, to share, but the St. Louis ribs looked so toothsome, I got a half side of them, too.  We were still full from breakfast, so we stuck the bag in the trunk and headed for home. with me salivating all the way.  As luck would have it, there were "rain delays" on the road and we got home late and hungry.  Heated up the pulled pork, the beans and the ribs.  Put everything on the dining room table and dug in.

Yowza!  This was good stuff.  The pulled pork was primo.  We had enough left for a modest lunch, because we are on a perpetual diet and didn't eat everything although I could have, easily.  The sauce was kickass, but one didn't really need it.  The mark of good barbeque is when you don't need sauce. 

The cashier and the guys behind the counter couldn't have been nicer.  Place was busy, and the reason was obvious once we tasted the product.  Oh my!  Died and gone to heaven. 

We will certainly put Wilson's on our travel map.  It was very close to the Interstate and was easy to find and even easier to get back onto 95 North and keep on truckin.'  An amazing find in Fairfield, Connecticut. 

I brake for barbeque!