Seaweed Chronicles

Peter Pan Vermont Tales, Chapter 1

/This post brought to you by the New Typepad which comes complete with a Daily Question that I assume is designed to get your muse going. Today's was "What was your favorite road trip?"/

I don't really know that this would be my favorite road trip ever, but it is a story I've been meaning to document for some time.  It actually has three or four good chapters and I'm only going to be able to spit out one at a time because, well, I don't have much available writing time these days and you don't have that much time for reading, I'm sure.  

Once upon a time, about four months after my ex and I split up, I ran into a former flame.  Really former, as we had "dated" in eighth grade.  Alas, it didn't last, and we lost touch, and I didn't see him for over twenty years.   And after we ran into each other, we just kind of picked up where eighth grade left off.   I recognized immediately that it wouldn't last this time either, that I had chosen to go out with him because he was so utterly, entirely, 110% different from my ex who was a very responsible and mature type of person.  New guy was, to put it mildly, Peter Pan come to life in a six-foot lanky body with hair longer than mine.  Peter Pan the Second (or PPII) was a musician, artist, roamer, dreamer, thinker, eternal optimist.   And totally clueless about how the real world operates, at least in developed countries.  Had no job, no bank account, no credit cards, no reliable vehicle, very few possessions, lived at home with the 'rents. I was absolutely awed by his creativity and unconcerned by the rest of it because, as I said,  I recognized it as a temporary diversion.  That it ended up lasting over six years surprised me as much as anyone.  Anyway, our first road trip together is the subject of "Peter Pan Vermont Tales," Chapter 1.

/And lest you think I'm being tacky talking about him like this, we are still friendly after eight years apart, and he'd be the first to tell this story exactly as I'm doing./

So one day, not long into the rekindled relationship, PPII mentioned that his brother had "a place in Vermont" and asked if I wanted to go up for a few days.  I was delighted at the idea.  My family had been going to the Green Mountain State for decades of summer vacations, and I love the state.  He told me about where in the state it was, up near the Northeast Kingdom, which I realized was more rural than the southwestern part of the state I was familiar with but that would be great.  PPII told me then that the house was "not finished yet."  He mentioned his brother still had some windows and flooring to put in and there wasn't really any furniture but we could bring a bunch of sleeping bags and use the loft which had a great big skylight and it was awesome to view the starts through that while falling asleep. 

Sounded oh-so-romantic, right?  I thought so too.  In retrospect, it might have been a good idea to ask for more detail on what "not finished" meant.  Exactly. But in  my head, it was a rustic cabin, equivalent to the place my family usually vacationed in.  Holes in between the logs in the wall, lots of spiders, no heat. Heck, the first few years we didn't even have hot water. It was "not finished" and I couldn't wait to experience that again. 

So the day of the trip arrives and I'm raring to go, accustomed to my family's approach to vacations which had always been to get up early and get going and arrive as early as possible to start relaxing and enjoying the place.  PPII, though, didn't have the same brain circuitry at all, and we didn't actually get around to leaving until around 2:00 in the afternoon and faced an 8-hour ride.  I didn't like the idea of arriving so late but you know how you brush such things off that early in a relationship?  Brush, brush, brush. 

It was harder to brush off the fact that he wanted to stop in another town for a few hours first because some musicians he knew were playing in a cafe there that night.  The town?  Woodstock.  Wood-freakin-stock NY state.  NOT on the way to our destination.  I suggested maybe we change plans and spend that night in Woodstock instead but PPII didn't want to do that so . . . .brush, brush, brush, brush some more!!!

To start getting somewhere with this story, we ended up heading to Vermont around 9 or 10:00PM, and it was so dark I missed much of the scenery.  I could, though, ascertain that the last hour or we passed no real towns, no traffic lights, barely any traffic, and pretty much no houses.  The last several miles were on a dirt road.  We parked the car facing a large metal farm-type gate which needed to be unlocked (this is common up there to keep trespassers off).  Finally, we crossed a plank bridge over a stream, stopped and re-locked the gate behind us, then drove the last 3/4 mile up the dirt road to the camp and parked the car again.  It was totally, completely, 100% black inky night, and PPII set about finding two flashlights among the bags of stuff we'd packed with us.  We collected our sleeping bags and some of the food and wine and, guided by the flashlights, found the path that took us the last 100 yards or so to the "house."  You see "house" is now in quotes?  For good reason.

PPII unlocked the door and we went in and I immediately took in what "not finished" really meant:  The entire dwelling was still bare plywood.  Downstairs was one huge room with no other walls but the exterior ones.  There was one window on a far wall.  There were piles of tools around, and rope, and a long sort of shelf created by placing a plank up on a cinder block at each end.  On the shelf were about 4 cans of soup and a bunch of kitchen things - plates, a tray of utensils, etc.  And, ominously, rolls of toilet paper.  I'm pretty sure I brushed that fact off, but my subconscious caught it and said "uh oh." 

At the far end of the room there was a bare plywood (surprise!) staircase, and we headed up it.  I saw then that the second story was no more furnished than the first, only it did have a skylight and a great big picture window.  But again, no interior walls, closets, etc. 

Most notably about this house tour? There had been no plumbing downstairs and here upstairs, the last place it could possibly be, there wasn't any either.  None.  No sink, faucets, tub or shower. No toilet. 

There would be no brushing off of this latest observation but I proceeded gently, with a joke about it instead:  "You maybe should have warned me how rustic this is.  Where's the outhouse?"  I was slightly annoyed, but hey, I've camped before and outhouses are not ideal but they're acceptable for durations of a week or less. 

PPII matter-of-factly said "Anywhere you want, and  you can make a different one every time. The shovel is by the front door and there's toilet paper on the bench.  Just be sure you stay at least 100 feet from the stream, watch out for poison ivy, and try to make the hole at least a foot deep so animals don't dig anything up." 

WTF?  This was so hard to fathom on so many levels, not the least of which was wondering why animals would want to be digging up anything we were talking about here.

Fast forward.   I held off as long as possible but eventually, I had to go digging.  The woods were lovely, dark, and deep, and I had bio needs to meet, or something like that. But after two or three days it was a lot less shocking of a ritual, and by the end of the trip I was actually proud of my new survival skills.  Boy Scouts got nuthin' on me.  Nuh-uh.

Next:  The Chapter in which I tell you about Day Two of this trip consisting of describing the camp portion of the property, the piano mice, chicken soup, and Bob and the Burger Boys. 

We've been adopted. Oh Joy.

The cat on the rug is Max.  Our healthy twenty-pound shelter adoptee with us for about three years now.  He's a really great guy, very handsome, playful personality.   The one on the outside looking in has apparently noticed all this and fallen head over tail in love with him.  Seriously, she's been camped out on our back deck for the better part of two weeks staring at him with googly love-eyes.  And he's been camped right there on this side of the door acting all macho and everything. Aren't they a cute couple?  It's beginning to look as if we're going to have to get her vetted and vaccinated and spayed and made into a proper indoor cat so the two of them can be together.* 

Someone who shall remain nameless (but is over there in the Tide Pool and wears plaid) suggested a dropkick instead, which was absolutely just a joke, but it served as a great segue to her next suggestion of "Murphy."  Which it shall be. 

 

*Actually, she needs a home because she appears to have been a cared-for kitten until recently, and was probably a summer visitor's pet who got dumped at the end of the season when it was no longer convenient to own her.  Fairly common in these parts, unfortunately.  Until I can get her to the vet this weekend to make sure she's not carrying any contagious diseases, she remains outdoors but we have provided her with food and water daily and a lovely cardboard box with a pink towel. 

Resurrection

I had the most surreal, unexpected experience this week.  While lots of other things are going wrong lately, this one thing was so incredible, I can't even think about it without getting choked up.  I'm in shock, in awe, and overjoyed.  Why?  Get comfortable and I'll tell you. 

There was this friend of mine, someone I have known for thirty years. We worked together for ten years during my first real job.  He later went into business on his own, and after a number of years making his way, he mentored me through the training I needed to join him in that business.  I eventually changed my mind because it was far from a nine-to-five job and I recognized I'm pretty much a nine-to-five personality.  Anyway, he was someone who was around in my life through all through those early adult years when you're getting married, having kids, getting divorced, changing jobs, etc.  If I had to characterize the relationship, I'd say we were pretty good friends. Not close friends, like the kind you should only have 2 or 3 of, but good friends, like the kind you have maybe 8 or 10 of if you're lucky.  You talk to them fairly frequently, see them four or five times a year, exchange birthday and Christmas cards and know each others' middle names. 

But I haven't talked to him since 2004.  That was the year he was in a severe car accident that, I heard through mutual friends, had left him comatose, on life support. There was a lot of talk of him during that time, people asking questions and sharing news, shaking heads, what-a-shame-ing.  

Months later, I learned that he had "improved" and was now in a semi-conscious but mostly vegetative state in a nursing home. I called his wife a few times and sent a note once, each time letting her know I was thinking of them both and hoping things were better.  Most recently, about a year ago, I had to call his office on a business matter and spoke with a young man there I wasn't acquainted with.  I gingerly put forth the question:  "How is Joe*doing?" and heard that he was "Pretty much the same, this is probably the way it's going to be for good."  I really never expected to see him or talk to him again, and wondered how his kids and wife had coped with this the last five years.

Then, this past Monday, I got an e-mail from him.  Perfectly written.  He even joked around a little, asking if I understood why he hadn't been in touch?  He also said he plans to be at an upcoming reunion of employees from our former workplace. 

It took me a few hours to compose myself in order to be able to write back.  It felt exactly as if I had been contacted by a ghost, someone I thought was gone from this realm, someone that I'd expected never to hear from again.  But I did write back that night and told him how amazed I am to hear from him, to see his name at the bottom of an e-mail, to know he isn't lost to me after all.  I also told him what my impression of his condition had been, and how sorry I was that I didn't know I could have talked to him sooner.  We exchanged a few more e-mails during the week, and I learned that much of the details about the accident and its aftermath were true.  He does have brainn damage and it has severely affected his speech and balance.  He talks with difficulty and uses a wheelchair.  But he is very much conscious, living at home with his wife and family, and getting on with his life. 

He called today and I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID but it was local so I picked up.  As soon as I heard his voice, I became very emotional.  I told him right away that I didn't want to lose another opportunity to tell him how great a guy I think he is, how he impacted my life in good ways, and how overjoyed I am to be able to communicate with him again. We talked about family events, jobs, friends in common, the upcoming reunion.  In all, about 45 minutes.  It was hard to understand him at times, much like listening to someone with stroke-affected speech, but the same sound of his voice was there, his humor was there, his memory of past events was there, HE was there. 

IS there. 

How absolutely awesome is that?  

* Name changed to protect privacy    

Can you measure FUN?

If you can measure fun, our band is off the charts.  However . . .

Ack. This is the third fourth attempt in two days at posting this.  It's been a horrible month in a couple of ways, and Mercury is SO retrograde I can't describe it (or when I DO describe it, my posts are lost).  Here are pictures from our weekend, if the link works (which it shouldn't, given the situation). 

First Annual Whisky Cruise

A small but brave contingent of SAOH members warriors went on a reconnaissance mission Thursday night.  We participated in a floating Whisky Tasting event hosted by The Whisky Guild:  a four-and-a-half hour cruise along the Hudson River with the opportunity responsibility of samplingas many different fine whiskies as possible. After all, someone must test-drive these events to make sure they are worthy of the rest of our bands' attendance in future years.  It was a serious assignment:  Let me tell you, it is no easy task balancing one's desire to try them all with the equally compelling desire to remain conscious and standing upright and also still be aware of just how fine these nectars were.  It  took a talented group of professionals, and we were up to the job.   Pictures over here at Flickr.  

Year Eight

We were on a boat on the Hudson River earlier this evening, technically yesterday, and they had THE lights on just a few hours before the eighth anniversary.  Our piper played Amazing Grace as we sailed by, and it was a very poignant moment.  Sparky captured the shot below along the way.  It seems like yesterday.  We have not forgotten.  Rest in Peace. 

Low low low low low low low laughs

Because life has beaten me up a little this week and I need a laugh, and maybe you do too, this is brazenly stolen from the former Purple Porch Lady, later known as Crazy Neighbor Lady, even later known as Mother Fury, still a formidable force on facebook. I bring you:  The dancing kid.   Turn up your volume and swallow now, or risk spewing on the monitor. 

Wine Not?

Quite on a whim, we attended Day Two of the Jazz it Up Wine and Food Festival today.  Almost 30 tents housing NJ winemakers' goods, plus food and craft vendors.  Suffice it to say that there really are NO good NJ wines, but some are OK, and after 3 or 4 or 15 tastes, they get great. Blueberry champagne, anyone?

 An awesome day all around.  Valenzano Winery wins for the combo of best taste and best crew. 

Pictures here.