Summer of Doom

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We’ve been New Englanders for one year now and while I am sometimes guilty of being  dramatic, (It’s a surprise, I know) I’m not being dramatic when I say that New England wants me dead. At first I thought it was just trying to toughen me up, you know, like when they jump you into a girl gang. I’d take some scratches and a few bruises then I’d be one of them. In the past year, I took many a scratch and bruise from New England, from snake invasions and stanky wells to falling pine trees and winter sunsets at four o’freakin’clock but I made it a whole year. I assumed I was jumped in and one of the gang. Now I could spend the summer enjoying the evenings  on my deck and lazy days cooling my toes in the ocean like a New Englander. However, New England had other plans and if the sharks or deadly mosquitoes don’t kill me this summer, my anxiety will.

Our little house in the woods is less than 20 minutes off Cape Cod.(12 if I’m behind the wheel) It’s a quick jaunt to some of the Cape’s most stunning beaches. Last summer we were noobs. We arrived in the height of tourist season and were just trying to survive but this year, it was going to be epic. But then Jaws and his whole damn extended family decided to ambush my plan.

Sure, there were sharks last year. There were even two major attacks but those weren’t on the beaches we go to and those guys were way out in the water, not near the shore. Nothing to worry about until one Sunday in late June after we’d been strolling on a nearby beach and found out it was later closed due to a shark sighting within twenty feet of shore. Waaaaay too close. As beach season heated up (I’m accustomed to beach season in Jersey which begins on Memorial Day but here it’s too damn cold until about mid July.) the number of sightings grew and they kept getting closer and closer until there was one sighted in less than 2’ of water. As a solid nutjob, I never go in deeper than 2’ because you never know what lurks but now we know- sharks- that’s what lurks. Every night on the news there was a round-up of beach closings and sightings and every night my anxiety climbed until I decided this would be the summer of no beaches. Jaws and his kin had won and I was fine with that until,

“Mom, when are we going to start going to the beach?” Number 1 son asked.

“When the sharks leave.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he countered.

“Fine. Then my answer is never. We are never going to the beach. I worked too damn hard to get you and your brother this far for either of you to become  shark hors d’oeuvres.”

Number 1 walked away muttering, “You seriously need therapy Mom.” But my adoring youngest nodded in agreement.

Sure the native New Englanders laugh at me but I will remind them of my wisdom as they adjust to life with a pegleg.

As I was adjusting to life with no beach, and coping with that the ticks covering our universe that were harboring Lyme Disease, I was hit by another death threat – EEE or Eastern Equine Encephalitis – a potentially fatal disease spread by mosquitoes. A few weeks ago we got the warning that in addition to West Nile, mosquitoes in our section of the state had been found carrying EEE. For the love of god Mother Nature, will your rage never calm?!?! We quickly escalated from the yellow shading on the map indicating high threat to the orange meaning situation critical.

“You know if we go outside we can die.” I announced to my husband the Turk over dinner.

“Of course. Everyday there is something. You get hit by bus. You get bite by snake. Tree fall on you and boom. You can die.”

I’d forgotten that his people are of the doom and gloom variety. “No, I mean there are deadly mosquitoes here now. You’re supposed to stay inside in the evening. The county is coming to spray our house tonight and they’re doing mass fly-over sprays all week.”

“Good.” I know he hasn’t listened to a word I said when he reacts to something drastic with “Good.” I thought about letting him become mosquito bait but he’s such a wussy when sick, I’m sure if his brain was swollen from encephalitis he’d be a nightmare.

Stupidly I began Googling EEE. This is probably why when Nugget turned up with a mosquito bite I had to take an extra anxiety pill washed down with a glass of merlot for survival. Immediately, I bought every brand of bug repellent on the market, spray, mist, bracelets, clip-on, you name it I got it. I’ve even begun judging sprays based on their olfactory-pleasantry.

What’s that scent you’re wearing? It’s captivating.  Eau de Deet. It scents and protects.

Each time we head out the door I douse my kids head to toe, blocking out the whines of agony. “Suck it up boys. It’s a spray to play world now.”

“But it stinks.”

“Would you rather smell like Deep Woods Off or die of a swollen brain?”

The Turk has an approach more like this, “Do not go outside. There flies there and you can die.” (For 13 years I’ve tried to teach him there is a difference between mosquito and fly in English but to him they’re all the same.) 

It’s been tough. As I sit here on my deck, covered in Cutter, gazing upon flaming citronella, I relent. Just when I think I’m getting you New England, you hit me with a new hell. You win. Between your man-eating fish and your brain-sucking insects, you remain victorious.

But don’t count me out. I’ve dodged your snakes and sharks, I can handle your jump-in.

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Enter The Tree Huggin’ Badass

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A few weeks ago I arrived home from work stunned to find the horror half-way up my wooded driveway. There, amid my normally tree-lined trek was a shocking sight that bore resemblance to that time I was learning to cut my son’s hair with clippers. Bam! A giant bald patch had been cut along the side of our property all the way to the cranberry bogs. My fortress of solitude was compromised! 

Had there been a plane crash and the plane was nose-down in cranberries? Did our friendly backyard Sasquatch go on a rampage? Had the neighbors I’d barely met decided to scalp the woods to get a better look at us after nearly a year? While all of them were probable, the most likely case was an alien landing. Obviously they landed searching for intelligent life but I was at work so they took off again. (As a Doctor Who fan I know these things are probable.)

As I walked down the drive to meet the school bus, my sorrow growing about the lost foliage, I ran into my newly exposed neighbor. He shared my dismay but reassured that the electric company occasionally does this to clear access to power lines. The utilities feel it’s better to pillage a 1/4 mile of trees rather than violate a cranberry bog from the other direction. (As the Turk said, “It might be time switch solar.”)

Fortunately, the shaving of our shared hill did give my neighbor and I a nice chance to  get acquainted. He shared tales of the previous owners of our home including the one who parked his bulldozer in the drive and terrorized the neighbors with threats of dozing them off the planet if they reported him to the zoning board. Having heard these tales from various neighbors, who now look upon our little family with relief, it makes perfect sense everyone was a bit standoffish initially.

My husband, the Turk, arrived home from work that evening and we inspected the damage together. “They are done?” He asked.

“I don’t think so. There is a giant truck parked down by the bogs. I assume they’re coming back. If not, I’ll commute to work in a tree truck.”

“This is mess.” He retorted kicking downed limbs.

“Agreed.” I began quoting Joni Mitchell about paving paradise and putting up a parking lot but my American folk reference was totally lost on my foreign husband.

“What the hell you are talking about?”

Since he was already confused I sang more. “They took all the trees and put ‘em in a tree museum…charged everybody a dollar and a half to see ‘em.” (Now you have that song stuck in your head too.)

The next day after school I was met at the edge of our woods by 2 tree-men, both dragging on cigarettes as if they were their last and sharing approximately 6 teeth between them. They explained that they’d been tasked with cutting a 20’ swath on either side of the power lines and that would mean taking out even more of our trees and by trees, I mean 40 foot pines, not some tiny sapling. I know I’ve not been a fan of those giants during previous windstorms but I wasn’t ready to murder them.

“Now you do get some say, ma’am,” Explained toothless man #1. “You can deny any cutting beyond the easement, long as you sign the paper.”

Toothless man #2 chimed in, “That’s what I would do. I mean, it’s good the power company is pickin’ up the tab an’ all but that’s a lotta trees to lose.” He took a long drag off his cigarette and dropped the butt into the dry pine needles below. This act obliterated any trust I might have had in the knowledge of these tree men.

“We can jus’ trim ‘em up for ya too. Maybe you wanna ask your husband and let us know tomorra.”  Toothless man #1 must have seen the flames in my eyes as he uttered that statement because he took a few steps back as I cocked my head, flared my nostrils and said, “Excuse me?”

“Oh no ma’am, I didn’t mean you need his permission or nuttin’ I’m just sayin’…”

“You’re just assuming that my husband is the decision maker and your assumption is wrong. If I want to give the go ahead, I can cut down every damn tree in this forest without asking my husband so let’s not make any more ridiculous assumptions, shall we?”

The two toothless tree men cowered as they tried to dig themselves out of the jam they’d created but I had no time for that. No way was I going to allow any more trees to be cut. If I had to tie myself to the bottom of one, Joni Mitchell and I were not going to let them pave paradise today.

“Bring me the paper to sign. There will be no encroaching beyond the easement. You’ve got 15’ and not an inch more and if you so much as bend a twig past 15′, it is going to get ugly.” I then turned and stomped out of the woods in a very dramatic fashion until I twisted my ankle on a stump because one should never wear the clogs she wears to work into the woods if she plans to make a dramatic exit. I limped gracefully back to my house muttering profanity the whole way.

The Turk was in full agreement about saving the trees. I was relieved my city-boy husband was as invested in nature as I was. After all these years of marriage, I’m rubbing off on my high-rise dweller.

While the toothless treemen have continued on their electric-company issued rampage against the trees of southern Massachusetts, we have been forced to look on. Each day we walk down the path with a little bit of sadness for the felled trees, feeling a need to bear witness to their demise and, as expected, I can’t keep Joni Mitchell out of my head.

Last weekend while Number 1 Son and I were shopping for plants at the home improvement store, we found inspiration. We bought a ridiculous number of small trees and bushes. When we arrived home and shared our plan, the Turk was in such strong agreement that he sent us back for another Jeep-load of tiny trees. We planted nearly 20 small trees and 6 bushes on our property to repopulate a fraction of what was lost. As I dug and planted each one, I felt like a short, squishy Paul Bunyan, saving the earth, one shrub at a time.

Sure, they cut down 40 foot trees and I planted 2 foot trees but in time, my little guys will grow. The last two times we planted trees, we were relocated months later and never got the chance to see them mature. Hopefully this time we’ll be around long enough to at least see them get to the 6’ mark but even if we don’t, this family of  tree hugging’ badasses will keep doing their part, one tree at a time.

And since I have now got Joni Mitchell stuck in your head, here’s a link to a performance of Big Yellow Taxi on Youtube….you’re welcome.

 

 

What Is a Righ Strika?

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“Where’z ma righ strika?!?! Com’ on!”

I scanned the field hoping I would suddenly understand what a righ strika was but before I’d made a deduction, she was at it again.

“Numba 1! That’s you! You aah the righ strika! Get in thair!!!” (Ironically, my Number 1 Son actually wears number 1 on the team but he seemed to forget.) “Up thair Numba 1!” His coach’s sideline prompting was so loud that it was likely heard somewhere in Rhode Island, but after a season of Massachusetts pee wee football we were used to it. In all honesty, it was a nice change from the passive-aggressive coaching we’d experienced during our years of sports in Indiana. Rather than scream at your kid, the Hoosier coaches would quietly bench him and replace him with their own kid because they felt more comfortable screaming at their own.

“I need D in tha mid-field! Where’z ma defendas?” The coach was screaming so loud I worried about her blood pressure and I was not alone. My husband, The Turk, whispered, “You think she will be ok? I hope she doesn’t have heart attack. It would add a lot of time to the play clock.” While the Turk was worried about the play clock, I was more concerned with our first female coach facing an untimely demise. In all our years of sports, this was the first time we’d had the good fortune to get somebody’s mom on the sidelines. We’ve powered through a series of cranky and/or clueless dads, some there to further their own son’s peewee careers and others there to relive their own glory days. It’s been a rough haul. Now we had a coaching pair comprised of one kid’s mom and another kid’s dad. It was a perfect blend.

This was our first soccer match of the season. Number 1 had played soccer back when he was 5 but he wasn’t a fan. He quickly dropped that sport in search of something more aggressive – American football. He began with flag but quickly escalated to tackle. However, Number 1 doesn’t have a typical football player disposition. He’s sensitive, soft spoken and seems to lack that testosterone-fueled aggression gene, but somehow, American football won him over.

Football vs. Futbol has long been a divisive topic in our home. As an ‘Mercian born in the middle of corn country, football was mine. Contrarily, the Turk was born and raised playing futbol (soccer to we ‘Mericans)in any open space back home in Turkey from the moment he could walk. Add to that the fact that his father was a professional soccer player in Turkey and he’s got serious futbol cred.

In an attempt to keep our boys completely bicultural, they have grown up with a solid dose of both versions of football from birth. We watch the NFL as much as we watch the Turkish Futbol League. They’ve had as many Galatasaray soccer jerseys as they’ve had Philadelphia Eagles football jerseys. Over time, the Turk and I have both learned to enjoy each other’s versions of football. (Although he’s known to be a traitor to my beloved Eagles and has yet to gain full fan status.) While we have our preferences, we decided to let our boys choose for themselves.

Initially, I was elated that Number 1 gravitated to my version of football but when we got to tackle my little momma heart was put to the test. It was hard to sit there and let my baby get battered around by fatties in opposing jerseys. Then I started to read about head injuries and all the crap that is out there to worry wussy mothers like me and my panic grew. But still, I let him play hoping that he might change his mind eventually because any mother of a son, particularly a son half-full of Turkish genes, knows that anything forbidden only makes it more desirable. My plan worked because suddenly this spring, he changed sides.

“Mom, I think I want to try soccer this spring instead of playing flag.”

I was stunned. The spring flag football league is epic in our town and I’d fully expected to be parking my booty on the 50 yard line with my football moms all spring-long. “Are you sure?”

“Yea. I want to mix it up. Plus what if I got Dede’s genes and I‘m a great soccer player like he was? I need to find out. Maybe I’ll go back to Turkey as a futbol legend. What if I’m  the next Cristiano Ronaldo and I don’t even know it Mom.”

“Well Ronaldo is an asshat son, but I get the idea.” Like his mother, my son also tends to jump to grand illusions of stardom instantly. I agreed to sign him up before running off to tell The Turk.

“Well, it’s happened. He’s moving to your team.”

As usual, the Turk was confused but eventually excited, however all joy dissipated the moment I mentioned perhaps he could take on a coaching role, like every other damn father of athletic kids ever.

“No.” Was his immediate response.

“Why not? I’ve been the one on the sidelines for years but I know absolutely nothing about soccer. This is all you man.”

“I do not coach. I do not like children.”

Touche.

I’ve now spent a couple games or matches or whatever they’re called sitting on the soccer equivalent of the 50 yard line and I’m picking up a few things. Like the phrase, “Get in thairrrrr!!!!” which seems to be necessary when your child is near the ball but not within kicking distance.

As well as, “Tough bounce! Shake it off!” For when your kid takes a soccer ball to the face.

And then there is, “Noyce hit!” used when your kid actually makes contact with the ball.

I’m still not clear when to compliment him as a “strika” or a “defenda” because the kids just seem to run in circles but I’ll get it eventually.  I have learned that screaming the above phrases from the sidelines in a standard, accent- free, Midwestern dialect garners some harsh stares from the natives so from hence forth, I shall only yell at my little bicultural, half-breed utilizing a harsh, but endearing New England accent. So much learned but so much more acquire. Pele give me strength.

 

 

The Queen Gets A New Throne…And No One Died.

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As in any successful pairing, the Turk and I follow the yin and yang of one cheap-ass and one over-spender. In case you’re new here, I’m the cheap-ass. This method has gotten us through numerous times when we barely had two nickels (or Lyra) to rub together. But one thing has held steadfast, my Turk loves to spend. After the past year of relocating which required us to shell out money like sardines in a dolphin show, and a few months as a one-paycheck family, the Turk has been on spending lockdown and it’s taken a toll.

I’d catch him browsing weekly circulars with drool forming in the corners of his mouth. His Amazon shopping cart wish list looked like the cart of a mother of five in the food store and he’d begun to twitch. The Turk needed a shopping fix and it needed to be something big.

With my return to full-time employment, the Turk determined he could return to his preferred way of life and hit the circuit.

“Honey, I find a nice crouch.” He announced proudly. (Some words like crouch and couch are just never going to make it into his English repertoire. I accept that and love him for it.)

“First off, I assume you’re talking about furniture and not a squat. Secondly, we’re waiting on major purchases. Financial planning dear.”

“I know but I have coupon. One day only. Very good deal.”

The Turk loves a coupon. The problem is, if he has a coupon he buys things simply because he has a coupon. (Like the 7-11-style hotdog machine he bought his wife who doesn’t eat hotdogs this Christmas. –But he had coupon. – Readers, I only wish this were not true.) 

“Maybe we just go look?” He pleaded.

Unbeknownst to him, new furniture wasn’t really a hard sell. We purchased our current sofa and loveseat when we first moved back to America. We were broke-ass poor and in desperate need of furniture when we happened upon the classic, North Philadelphia parking lot sale. You know, those sales with the glowing signs claiming: “Emergency Liquidation!” and “Limited Time!” and, “1 Day ONLY!” Which are certainly signs of a legit, high quality retailer.

This was not my first North Philly parking lot sale and while the items are some version of new, they might have “fallen off a truck” hence the “Rock Bottom Prices!” But ask no questions and all goes well. After some negotiations we were the proud owners of a sofa and loveseat at the rock bottom price of $450 including delivery.

That was nearly 8 years ago and that furniture survived 4 inter-state moves and 6 houses. They endured 1 surly cat, 2 wild boys, countless sick days, a few naptime wet pants, Nugget’s kidney surgery, numerous football games, pizza nights and a little bit of spilled everything. It lived a full life and deserved retirement. But thanks to spending a large chunk of my childhood with a Depression Era grandma, I have a hard time parting with items that still serve their purpose and I’d hoped I could eek out another year or two. (Though according to the sag in the sofa, it stopped serving its purpose two moves ago.)

With coupon in hand we went to test-drive some furniture. As the boys bounced across what Nugget calls “love chairs” and sectionals, the Turk and I found something we agreed upon. After some calculations, even my cheap ass had to admit, it was a good deal and it hadn’t even fallen off a truck. When the salesman offered a delivery and haul-away option, I was sold.

“No delivery. I can do.” Informed the Turk.

“Honey, it’s cheap and they’ll move the old ones. Just do it.” I pleaded.

Even Don the sales guy tried to get in on the persuading – “You know, the amount you save with the coupon will more than cover the cost of the delivery…” But even Don the sofa salesman couldn’t convince the Turk.

“No. I can do. I rent truck, then I come here, pick up and drop at home.”

Don the salesman agreed this was a solid plan but the Turk didn’t take into account that his help on the other end consisted of a cranky 40-something wife, an abnormally short 10-year-old, and a hyperactive 5-year-old. While we are a dream team, maybe not so much regarding heavy lifting.

The next day I arrived home from Nugget’s basketball, (PS – if you’ve never watched a league of kindergarteners play basketball, do it. Every game tests the strength of my post-children bladder due to laugher.) to find a large sofa and love chair in the middle of the driveway causing Nugget to exclaim, “Mom, doethn’t Baba know dothse are thupposed to go inthide? Geez Baba.”

This is where it got ugly. Those large items had to move from the driveway into the living room, the old ones needed new homes and the Turk couldn’t do it alone. Bilingual profanity was thrown. I may or may not have left my husband stranded in a stairwell holding a sofa when his complaining pushed me over the edge. Children and the feline scattered and the traditional, husband-wife-furniture-moving-harsh-words were spoken. “If you think you know how to do this better, then do it by yourself!”

Ultimately the furniture got moved and as we sat down on our new thrones and cracked open well-deserved beers, even my stubborn husband admitted he’d made the wrong choice and that a delivery fee was a small price to pay to save a marriage.

A few hours after the sofas were in place; he was off again. He’d found “great deals” on a floor lamp and coffee table. Before he could leave, I had no choice but to seize his wallet. He’d had his fix and this bender needed to end. He’ll be on lock-down until the summer thaw as I rule our home from the clean lines of my mid-century inspired, scotch-guarded throne. (It doesn’t even have butt-dents yet!)

New Year…Wider Butt

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Well 2019 is off and running and it’s already looking better than that miserable 2018.  For starters, Mama’s back to work full-time. (Which is good because, though it was fun for a few months, I’m not a good stay-at-home mom and we’re not near a tax bracket that allows me to take on ‘lady of leisure’ as a career choice.) I’ve kicked the sugar monkey off my back for a couple weeks so far, reintroduced kale into our diet (much to the dismay of my family) took the stationary bike out of storage and I’ve managed to exercise twice. (I do not have to disclose how long each of those sessions lasted.) I’m not usually a diet resolution kind of gal as I’m not a fan of failure but after a year from hell filled with a cross-country move, a shift in old lady hormones and a banged up foot that left me gimpy and in a boot for months, my ass spread needed immediate attention. (I also have a 5 year old whose height hovers around butt-level and reminds me daily in his little lisp that “Mom, I wuv your big, fat butt.” Gee, thanks kid.)

So as the clock struck midnight on December 31, I decided to made some changes. No more watching My 600 Pound Life to feel better about myself. No more excuses using the bum foot (It’s not going away until I have surgery over the summer so suck it up woman.) No more eating like an adolescent boy and basically getting back to the way I lived life before all hell broke loose last year. While I have been busily shifting gears to return to my ongoing quest for a Tyra Banks bod, (I won’t let any 10” height difference dissuade me damn it.), I also realized it important to take a minute to pat myself on the back for having survived last year.

I dreaded the start of 2018. I knew that as soon as Ryan Seacress dropped the ball and the champagne was spilled, it was game on. (Full disclosure: I seldom see midnight on New Years’ Eve but you get the gist.) The start of 2018 meant boxes needed packed, houses needed bought and sold, jobs needed left and really crappy decisions needed to be made. The new year meant that the process of relocating once again was upon us and that totally sucked.

In case you missed it (or ICYM as the kids say. I just figured that out recently because after years in the bible belt I automatically assumed the CYM part stood for Christian Youth Ministry. This heathen’s scars linger.) let me recap our 2018:

January –

  • Made the official decision to accept my husband, the Turk’s, relocation from Indianapolis to Boston – making it relocation #8 for our 10 year old. (Yes, he has a therapy fund.)

February –

  • Began the horrific task of prepping a fixer-upper that wasn’t quite fixed-up, to sell. (ie-undoing, redoing and finishing The Turk’s “projects”)

March –

  • Fought off a relocation-mandated spousal job counselor who called daily to remind me to begin my job hunt in Massachusetts. (Yo girl, how ‘bout we find a home first?)
  • Broke the news to my students I was abandoning them.
  • Celebrated 2 family birthdays.
  • Began the horrors of packing up a family of 4.

April –

  • Headed to Boston to house hunt with the world’s worst realtor.
  • Considered buying a house until we noticed a prison in its backyard.
  • Upon returning home, fired the world’s worst realtor.
  • Got new a realtor.
  • Sent the Turk back out to “Just buy a damn house. I don’t care where, I don’t care what – just buy us a damn house!”
  • Bought a house in Massachusetts and sold a house in Indiana on the same day. (Booyah.)

May –

  • Did the 700 pages of papers necessary to sell a house.
  • Did the 800 pages of papers necessary to buy a house.
  • Taught the final month of school, including exams and wrote 60-plus grade reports.
  • Bought homeowners insurance on a house I’d never seen. (Thanks Zillow)
  • Began a half-assed job search after excessive pressure from the pushy relocation-mandated spousal job counselor.
  • Organized packers, movers, moving vans, car carriers, closing dates on both homes, travel accommodations and all those ridiculous things you have to do to buy and sell homes, pack up a life and schlep halfway across the country.
  • Said good-byes.
  • Quit my job.
  • Questioned my sanity. Repeatedly

June –

  • Closed on two different houses 3 days apart.
  • Drove from Indiana to Massachusetts with two kids, a Turk and a surly cat.
  • Waited on a moving van.
  • Spent hours on the phone trying to locate said moving van.
  • Finally unpacked new house.
  • Dealt with ridiculous power issues at new house and forged a wonderful bond with the linemen from the power company. (This will come in handy during the storm this weekend.)

July –

  • Finally sat down. On the beach. Which is 15 minutes from my house.

August –

  • Ate copious amounts of seafood in honor of my new homeland.
  • Took my little half-breeds to frolick on the beach on the reg.
  • Threw myself into the new culture through PeeWee football.

September –

  • Sent my children to school and shared the weirdest moment of silence ever.
  • Spent every other moment taking kids to football.

October-

  • Netflixed and chilled.
  • More football.
  • Tried to decide what to be when I grow up.
  • Became painfully aware that while I was distracted with relocation, my ass had grown substantially.
  • Decided to start running again in an attempt to rein in my ample backside.

November –

  • Jacked up my foot trying to reduce my substantial ass and was sentenced to a boot for the next two months.
  • Decided it was time to actually find a job.
  • Mourned because I couldn’t find a job.
  • Celebrated the end of the longest PeeWee football season known to mother-kind.
  • Lamented my grande gluteus maximus from my gimpy position.

December –

  • Bit the bullet and took up substitute teaching.
  • Realized I already knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’m a teacher. That’s what I do.
  • Got a job teaching.

As you can see, it was a hell of a year. I needed a nap and a cocktail after just recalling it all. If gaining 15-20 pounds was what I needed to survive that crap show, then that’s a reasonable trade-off. I’ll give this whole new lifestyle a change for a few more weeks and if we don’t agree then no harm no foul. I’m just as feisty with a fat butt and I might need those extra pounds to get me through my first New England winter. One thing is for certain – I have no intention to relive a year like that ever again. (Hear that Turk? I’m not relocating again…unless…they show the big bucks…)

Burning Trains and Bedwetting- The Things That Keep You Laughing…

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The stress of a relocation lasts far beyond the initial move. Having done this a few times, I know it can easily take a year to get everyone adjusted and at least a solid nine months for stress to begin to dissipate. Unfortunately we’re not there yet. Relocation is not for the weak. Between falling trees, stanky wells and a job search moving at the pace of a molasses flow in Siberia, the last few weeks have been stressful here at casa de Turkish Delights. I try my best to remain Little Margie Sunshine but sometimes circumstances dull my shine. But as is usually the case, just when things get crappy, life hands out some of its best laughs.

I’d been dealing with some unrelenting stress for a little too long so I decided to reward myself with a day off last week. (Or at least a – post -mom duties, pre- bus stop “day” off.) I’d start with a pot of coffee, then break out the cookies I’d squirreled away into an undisclosed location and catch up on my beloved trashy spy drama, The Americans. I started watching this show 5 years ago but there are too many boobies and bullets in these tales of 80’s espionage so I’ve been limited to consuming my spy-tales on the rare occasion of no offspring present which is why I’m not even at the halfway point of the series.

Before I could even get the kids on the bus, my phone began blowing up with texts, photos and finally a call.

“Honey, can you come get me?” The Turk asked.

My husband left for work more than an hour prior so I had no idea what he was talking about. “What? Where are you?” I yelled into the phone over the roar of the school bus.

“My train is on fire. Look at pictures. I send pictures.”

I quickly scrolled over the photos I’d ignored, (not that I always ignore things he sends me but…) and I’ll be damned. There it was, my Turk standing in front of a flaming train. I didn’t know whether to be concerned or to crack up. He seemed unharmed so I went with my go-to and busted out laughing. “Where are you? You’re ok, right? How did this happen?” Though I was laughing, I could feel my day off slipping away. I reached out to pull the Russians back but…but…no.

“Everybody had to get off train and now we all stuck. There are no Ubers. There is another train behind that is stuck but it is not on fire. Only my train on fire. Can you pick me?”

I felt sorry for my Mediterranean husband, standing in the middle of nowhere, perhaps even in a cranberry bog, with nothing more than a winter coat and travel mug of coffee to keep him warm, but I also had to laugh at the situation. I mean, it’s not every day you are commuting and your train bursts into flames next to a Dunkin Donuts. “I’m on my way.”

I made it in just under twenty minutes and was soon a participant in a parade of spouses filing through a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, stopping just long enough to load a hostile commuter and their briefcases before departing. I took solace in the knowledge that all of these other spouses were also losing their beautifully planned days as well.

When the Turk got in the car he gave me the play by play and we proceeded to laugh all the way home because when life sets your train on fire, there’s not much you can do but laugh.

My restructured day involved five million errands, six million loads of laundry, the news that I needed a root canal and not a single Russian spy. By day’s end I was ready for a restful sleep but my children felt differently. Not long into the night, Nugget appeared by my bedside.

“Mom. Mom. Mom.”

“What?”

“I had a bad dream.” He finished his statement while hurdling himself across my body, “I need to sleep in here.”

Too tired to fight, I snuggled up with my 5 year-old and went back to sleep.

An hour later, I received another notification.

“Mom. Mom. Mom.”

This time it was Number 1 Son at my bedside. “What?”

“Something’s wrong. I think I peed in my bed.” He was traumatized. He hadn’t wet the bed in years.

“It’s ok. Sometimes when you’re really, really tired accidents happen.” I tried to reassure him.

“Not me. I don’t pee the bed.” Number 1 and I stripped the mattress and began the process of remaking his bed in the wee hours of the morning and after more reassurance, he finally gave up the fight and returned to bed.

The next morning Number 1 was still lamenting the previous night’s happenings. “I just don’t get it Mom. I never pee the bed. I’m old.” (Child, if 10 is old go get yourself a damn job.)

Before we could rehash everything in daylight, Nugget strutted down the stairs, curiously wearing different pajamas than I’d put him in the night before.

I knew that that meant. The kid has a history of shady behaviors in the night. “Did you just pee in my bed Nugget?”

Rubbing his eyes and stretching his arms over his bedhead, he casually replied, “Nah.”

“Well, why are you wearing different pajamas?” I asked.

“Because I peed in Teo’s bed last night. I couldn’t sleep in a wet bed so I changed my jammies and came to your bed.” Nugget was very nonchalant about his evil doings, as is usually the case. This is why we opted to turn his college fund into a bail fund a few years ago. It’s important to understand your investing.

It only took a second for Number 1 to make the connection. “Wait. So I didn’t pee my bed? You peed in my bed?  Oh my God, I slept in your pee! Disgusting! You suck!”

While the stress is still high, the universe continues to send me comedic interludes to keep me somewhat sane and out of the Betty Ford Clinic for a little longer. Laugh it up because sometimes, it’s the only think keeping you balanced!

 

Homesteaders Are Usually Dead By My Age

female lumberjack

After we returned to the US, years ago, the Turk accompanied me on a work trip to visit a group of homesteaders. These people lived without electricity, running water and indoor plumbing. It wasn’t for religious reasons or out of necessity. It was just a bunch of crazy hippies who’d decided homesteading would be cool. After a lunch of kale and canned meat eaten while bundled in winter coats, they proudly showed off composting toilets and guest huts made from mud and straw. Being a writer, I’m always enthralled with strange life choices but the Turk was visibly twisted at every turn. Eventually, the free-range rooster chased him to the car where he waited out my adventure. On the road back to civilization we were a little shell-shocked.

“What the hell that?!” He exclaimed.

“It’s odd right?”

“Odd? No. It crazy. Why people choose live like that? In my country people live like that in village because they have no money. Only in America would people choose to live like villagers.”

In the past week those crazy hippies kept crossing my mind as the Turk and I have battled our own turn to villager life at our little house in the woods. As weather moved from fall into winter this week, our wooded home began to take on the characteristics of a death trap. When encased by 40-foot pines, the chance of a tree or substantial segment of said tree, plummeting to earth like a pre-historic spear is real. This was exactly what I saw happening as the prediction for the first snow was revealed. Though the prediction was for a dusting, I have a solid skepticism of all weather personnel. Instead of a dusting, my mind saw a heavy snow pushing a 40-foot Christmas tree through my roof and into my cranium as I slumbered.

As the snow began to fall, the “dusting” mark was quickly surpassed. Reports on the local Facebook page warned of a wave of power outages creeping down our street. Block by block, transformers were blowing and, of course, our generator was in the garage, safely wrapped in it’s original packaging. (Because the Turk has yet to admit his fear of it and has thus far avoided installation.) Amid the sparkling flakes falling gently to the ground, one could hear the creaks and cracks of breaking limbs plummeting around us. The Turk and I contemplated pulling out his stock of company hard hats for protection but chose instead to turn up the television loud enough to mask the noise until the power failed.

By a twist of fate, we kept our power but as the sun came up the next morning there were two surprises, three to four inches of snow (Dusting my ass – hence my skepticism is justified) and a massive 20 foot branch sprawled across our front lawn mere feet from the front door. We thought we’d dodged a bullet but later realized we were not so lucky as three trees had crashed through our back fence.

“I have to fix fence. This not safe. Anything can come in here.” He lamented.

“Just what do you think is going to sneak into our backyard besides Sasquatch? There is nothing around here but woods and cranberry bogs.”

“What if coyote jump over fence?”

“If he does I’m sure he won’t stay long. We’ve got nothing to offer.”

“I will fix this weekend.” He claimed.

“You’re going to physically bend the chain-link fence back into place with your bare hands?”

“Why not? I am Turk.”

We spent the following weekend hacking and chopping the down trees into fire wood while simultaneously laying scars in my brain for the next tree-fall, I mean snowfall. After a brief attempt by SuperTurk to bend the steel pipes of the fence back into shape, he decided to table that project for a few weeks. The weekend of fence work and hauling wood made me feel rather Laura Ingles and though I loved Little House on the Prairie, I’m not really down with it in 2018.

Another added dimension to having a house in the woods of New England is that it comes with a well. The Turk and I have never had a well before but he assured me that as a water engineer he was more than capable of caring for the system and saving his family from death by toxic water. It was going well until Thanksgiving week when our water turned brown and took on an unbearable iron stench. Our shower smelled like a crime scene and every tub, sink and toilet in the house turned dark orange.

For days the Turk was in denial about the water but after pouring himself a nice glass of brown water, he stated “Maybe something wrong with the well.” He then disappeared into the well closet downstairs not to be seen for hours. Every few hours he would trudge upstairs, pour another cup of brown water, mutter Turkish profanity and return to the well closet.

Meanwhile, like Laura Ingles, I went out to fetch water, (So maybe it was Poland Spring in a jug rather than water from a babbling brook but it was totally the same.) This is not the first time I’ve had to go out and fetch water. Back in Turkey, tap water wasn’t safe to drink. In the city it was easy, you made a call and a sweaty Turk delivered bottled water but when we lived at the Turkish water treatment plant (yet another relocation for the Turk’s job) I had to trudge across the grounds with a toddler tied to my back and bring back drinking water from the purification building. Foolishly I thought we’d gotten past that stage of life.

By day two, the kids were refusing to shower and my hands had turned black from washing dishes, so the Turk decided to seek assistance. Hours later he returned with some new tricks from the local well company and by the next morning his attempts were starting to pay off as the toilets turn from brown to light orange. (We’re going to stick with drinking the Poland Spring for a bit longer though.)

Between hauling water, dodging falling pines, chopping downed trees into firewood, and shoring fences, the Turk and I are basically homesteading and we’re both too damn old for it. While I love our secluded little corner of New England, there is something to be said for suburbs with city water and free of 40-foot pine death traps. But as I tell the boys, “This builds character.” And if this week is any indication, by the end of winter I should have more character than Sally Fields in Sybil. Wish me luck; it’s going to be a long winter.

Hello Darkness, My Nemesis…

Yeti&woman

Last year we sat in Indianapolis trying to decide if we would take my husband, The Turk’s, relocation and start over in New England, The Turk pro-New England and me not so sure. Our evening conversations looked something like this:

Me: “It snows there for like 8 months!”

The Turk: “You born in Iowa. That is like tundra. You will be fine.”

Me: “They have hurricanes.”

The Turk: “Here there are tornados.”

Me: “It’s so far north it’s like Canada. We’re going to freeze.”

The Turk: Slyly eyeing my extra 20-post-baby-five-years-ago pounds, “I think you be fine.”

Eventually I agreed to take the plunge into the frigid North Atlantic, but my climate worries were never truly eased. Since our arrival in June we’ve had winds that made me doubt the Turk’s choice to buy a house surrounded by 40-foot pine trees and rains that made me glad to be far above bog level. But these are small potatoes compared to what  awaits us.

Winter is coming. (Insert Game of Thrones music and other nerd references of your choosing here.)

But before the seasonal horrors I must face such as traversing an insanely steep, ice covered, driveway or dodging snow covered pines as they fall upon my roof, I must contend with last weekend’s horror, (aka the stupidest idea since literally, the dawn of time) the end of Daylight Savings Time. Instead of waking in the dark and enjoying sun well into cocktail hour, we swap the clocks, ultimately screwing up the body clocks of every human and animal in that time zone and beyond. For what? No one really knows. Daylight Savings Time is bad, but the end of Daylight Savings Time in New England is a horror unspeakable.

Last week the weathercasters began bantering about the time change. “It’s almost time to change those clocks New Englanders and you know what that means.” The helmet haired man teased.

To which I would scream, “No! What dose that mean Helmet Head? How ‘bout a recap for the newbies?”

The next day he was at it again. “Day Light Savings Time is almost over and New Englanders, we all know what happens.”

“No we don’t Helmet Head.” I’d scream at the television causing my children to question my sanity. “Some of us have no clue! Don’t be such a Masshole.”

Finally, the morning news explained everything, “It’s about time to turn back those clocks and get ready for 4:30 sunsets.” The beautiful Asian anchor lamented while sharing a forced chuckle with her co-anchor. I’m sure they shared other important tidbits of information but my brain was stuck. The sun would set at 4:30? How could this be?

As most do in a panic, I turned to Google for confirmation. Though she seemed like a credible new source, the beautiful Asian anchor was wrong. The sun didn’t set at 4:30 in my new homeland. No, depending on the day, it set some days as early as 4:12. God help me.

Indiana was the westernmost edge of the Eastern Time Zone. It didn’t belong in the Eastern Time Zone at all but had wiggled its way in against the wishes of many a few years before we moved there. This meant that sunset in Indiana was more than an hour later than most places on the East Coast. In the summer it sucked trying to get kids to bed when it was still light at 9:30 but in the winter, the sun would still be shining to usher you home from work and well into dinner prep, usually setting around 5:30.

Were we spoiled by sun time in Indiana? Most certainly but a 4:15 sunset seems excessive New England. It’s not that I’m a sun bunny or anything. (Especially when said sun is hot and makes my butt sweat.) But I really hate darkness. I hate driving in the dark because I’m old and blind and sometimes see things that aren’t there like a loose moose or a crazed yeti. I hate being outside in the dark because I’m pretty sure there is a murderous madman lurking behind every building, bush or tree. To top things off, I now have a house in the woods and you know what happens in the woods at dark? Sasquatch. Sasquatch goes frolicking through the woods in the dark and now that hairy bastard will be frolicking through my backyard from 4:30 on every damn night leaving his big-ass footprints where I’m trying to re-grow grass. Not cool Sassy.

On the first day of the time change I lamented my newly found horror to a few other parents at the football game. These were all native New Englanders and they had a few tips.

  1. “Get some good fuzzy jammies and get used to putting them on early. We tend to jammie up as soon as we get home and stay that way until morning.”

This seemed reasonable. If I love anything it’s loungewear and staying home. What’s better than an excuse to extend my loungewear time and remain homebound?

  1. “We drink more in winter.”

I think this goes without saying, but hells yes, sign me up. Perhaps I can convert Nugget’s closet into a wine cellar. He’s little and his pants don’t take up much room. It is for survival after all.

  1. “The time change here means you need to do two things, hook up the generator and refill your antidepressants. No shame in happy pills. Everyone else here is on them.”

I liked this acknowledgement of using the pharmaceutical assistance invented for getting through metaphorical darkness to get through the physical darkness of New England. And fortunately, we bought our generator a few months ago.

I’ve tried to keep my panic at bay about the impending period of darkness but I’ve been unsuccessful. The looming sunset is always on my mind.

“Boys, you know it’s going to get dark soon. You better get ready.”

“Mom, it’s 11:30 in the morning.”

“Exactly. You have 6 hours left of this day. You better use it.” (Insert horrific tween eye rolling here.)

It’s 3:30 now so I’d better go. Looks like its time to put my jammies on and pour the wine. After all, if I’m going to make it though my first New England winter I’d better adhere to the advice of the natives. Maybe in time I’ll adjust to the darkness and learn to embrace it by treating it like a sort of hibernation. But for now, I’m going to keep whining as I turn on the security lights in the hopes of keeping a Sasquatch from doing a soft-shoe on my back deck.

Hair Today, Bald Tomorrow

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When I was a kid, my mom had a cousin that was always surprised. She wasn’t actually surprised; her eyebrows just made her look that way. She drew them on each morning with the cosmetic equivalent of a Dixon Ticonderoga pencil and while I’m sure she thought herself to be the poor man’s Dolly Parton (she had huge hooters she liked to display.) she looked more like a stunned Muppet.

In addition to her cosmetic prowess, Eyebrow Ellie (Not her real name because my mother is already going to kill me for this so the least I can do is change the name.) also made some bold follicular choices. She sported frosted tips a good ten years after frosted tips had fallen by the wayside with the rest of Iowa’s fashion elite. She also enjoyed a solid beehive twenty years post trend. Couple all of this with those eyebrows and the fact that her family’s lifestyle back then considered “unkempt” would now make a fantastic episode of Hoarders and it was no wonder Eyebrow Ellie and the clan weren’t invited to Thanksgiving Dinner.

I give you this tale of Eyebrow Ellie because due to this past week’s fashion mishaps, I fear those genes are not as far removed as I’d hoped. It all started with some eyeliner…

For three days I’d been using a new eyeliner completely unaware of the horrors I was unleashing on each person who looked me in the eye. I assumed I’d purchased black eyeliner. I assumed that when the label said “darkest midnight” that meant black much like “gravel” means gray in nail polish or “blush” means pink in lip gloss. I also assumed that if my husband, the Turk, saw his middle-aged wife walking around with turquoise blue lines across her eyelids, he might let her know. As I learned in 7th grade, the first three letters of assume spell ass.

As I returned from my run the other day, (Ok, it’s mostly a walk now because I’m old and fat with bad knees but in my heart I’m running so I will continue to call it a run.) I was about to do a quick touch-up before running off to do errands. As I looked in the mirror, I was struck – what in the hell are those turquoise blue lines and what is that blue crap running down my face? I dabbed and dabbed and it wouldn’t budge. Suddenly I was a suburban mom with a prison tattoo dripping from my eyes. I knew that 2 hours prior I had applied black lines before applying black mascara. What I didn’t know was that those black lines were only black until they dried and then they became as blue as a peacock’s ass.

I quickly whipped out the container and read the bottom. “Darkest Midnight” it read on the bottom, but then with the power of my bifocals I saw that third word…”blue” There on the bottom of the tube in letters bold enough for an old broad to read with her bifocals, it said Darkest Midnight Blue. I’ll be damned. For three days I’d been walking around in this lie and not one person thought to tell me.

I flashed back to 6th grade when I tried pink eyeshadow and it took me nearly a week before I realized my trendy new make-up make me look like I had pinkeye. Why didn’t someone tell me pink make-up was for lips and cheeks only? It’s understandable to commit make-up errors when you’re 12 and new to the process but make-up faux pas deep into one’s 40s was just embarrassing. The Eyebrow Ellie genes were obviously bubbling deep within.

Fast-forward three days. I finally replaced my trendy turquoise eyeliner and was feeling good. The only thing I needed was a little hair trim and I would be ready to take on Naomi Campbell for diva dujour. Being new in town, I had no choice but to take a shot in the dark.

“What will we be doing today?” the chirpy stylist who bore a striking resemblance to a 7th grader asked as she strangled me with the cape.

“I just need a couple inches off the bottom. Blunt cut. Nothing fancy.” I’m a low- maintenance gal who requires low maintenance hair. I believe I spent my life’s worth of hair styling hours back in the 80’s when I washed, dried, crimped, curled, teased then sprayed for hours each morning.

“How about some layers or feathering?” She asked, eager to try out her obviously newly acquired skills.

“Nah, I’m cool. Just the trim.”

The newbie hairdresser proceed to spray so much water onto my hair that I began to drip. She attached no less than 75 clips to section out my hair and combed with enough force to delouse me if needed. (PS-Totally not needed. My worst nightmare is a lice infestation.) This was where I should’ve left. This was where a sane or vain woman would’ve whipped off that cape and fled. But after those years in Turkey I am well versed in horrific salon experiences so I decided to roll the dice.

The rookie kuaffor began to cut…and cut…and cut until soon my shoulder length hair was up to my chin. I tried to be cool. I tried to be mature but somehow my mouth didn’t get the message. “I’m good. Just stop!” I blurted out.

“Oh.” She seemed surprised. “That’s good?”

“Let’s just say it’s done.” I confirmed. “But can you dry it? I look like I just got out of the shower.”

The noob missed my insult and began to dry my obscenely thick hair on cool with the strength of a 90 year-old. After a few minutes, she stopped the machine and confidently said, “There we go. All done.”

It seemed this new stylist and the rest of humanity have different concepts of the idea of dry but I needed out so I fled, leaving a trail of drippings across the parking lot.

Looking in the car mirror while trying to dry my locks via car heater, I muttered, “At least it’s not as bad as the time they gave me the Victoria Beckham cut in Turkey.” (Full-disclosure, that was the time period where they gave everyone the Victoria Beckham and it looked horrible on everyone…except Victoria Beckham.) But that’s when it happened. It wasn’t as bad. It was worse. Sliding my glasses on and smoothing my shorter-than-chin- length bob I realized how bad it was. I’d been forced into the Velma zone.

A surly, know-it-all, brunet with horn-rimmed glasses and a little beef on her thighs – much like yours truly- lives in a dangerous spot when wearing a bob. The slightest bit too short and you go from avant-garde to straight up Velma from Scooby Doo. Lest we forget, Velma wasn’t the hot one. Though she saved their asses repeatedly, nobody liked Velma and now, thanks to the new girl at the hair salon, I’d been Velmaed. The only positive I saw in this situation was that at least I wasn’t Velma with turquois eye-liner.

On the brighter side, if my boys need me to draw on prison tattoos for Halloween I’m all set. I have a few nasty eyeliners to use up. And as for me, I’m just one orange turtleneck away from a fantastic Halloween costume. Perhaps I can use Eyebrow Ellie’s genes for good.

Bloggin’ and Boggin’, It’s Cranberry Time!

OceanSpray time (1)

As a kid in Iowa, New England might as well have been a different country. My school wasn’t down with geography but as I’ve learned, that’s a trait shared by many land-locked education systems. (I think it’s jealousy.) Everything I knew about New England could be boiled down to four things:

  1. Pilgrims landed there.
  2. Paul Revere and the Boston Tea Party happened there.
  3. Everyone hated their football team.
  4. Cranberries came from there.

The latter was something I knew because even as a kid I loved cranberries. My mouth watered when Mom opened the can and jiggled out the gel every Thanksgiving. (Shut up, that was classy in the 70s!) When most of the family turned up their noses, I scarfed down the extra tart cranberry relish made by Grandma Pete every Christmas. And thanks to an unsubstantiated claim by a small-town doctor regarding my mild kidney issue, my mother poured bottles of cranberry juice down my gullet for the first ten years of life to my joy.

As a kid, I’d seen photos in magazines of people standing in the water, scooping up cranberries and found it fascinating. My dad and uncle harvested corn and soybeans every fall with huge combines, filling truck after truck but that wasn’t fascinating. It was boring old farming. Maybe if the corn was the perfect shade of red and Dad scooped the corn out of a pool my interest would’ve been piqued but otherwise – meh.

When my husband The Turk told me our new home in Massachusetts was in cranberry country, I was pretty psyched. I wasn’t sure what cranberry country would look like but I was ready for the adventure. As I’ve discussed earlier (here it is in case you missed it) the downside of cranberry country is the plethora of snakes (The little bastards love the bogs but sometimes take a wrong turn to my front steps.) and the sand – sand that is enough to drive a mother crazy. Otherwise cranberry country is beautiful, consisting of lots of low-lying bogs filled with little bushes about 8 inches high everywhere you turn.

From the moment we landed in cranberry country this summer, I’ve waited for harvest season. I wanted to see if the images on TV and in those magazines were legit and more importantly, I wanted to see cranberries harvested for real. I asked everyone I met if they knew a cranberry farmer but came up empty. I considered putting out a call on the local Facebook page but that seemed a bit psycho and as we’re new in this little town, I’m trying to keep my crazy on the down low.

September came and went and I didn’t see a single bog harvest. The bogs were turning that beautiful shade of red but not a single one was flooded and filled with people in waders. Every errand I’d run would turn into a bog-stalking mission and every trip came up empty, until yesterday.

I’d just dropped Number 1 Son off at school following a doctor’s appointment and was cruising home when I spied it, a flooded bog! I slowed just in time to see the tell-tale floating crimson circle. PAYDIRT! I couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by even if it was on a major thoroughfare. I whipped a quick U-ie and headed back with the lone intention of snapping a few photos. My scientific nerdom has long filled me with fascination about these berries and this coupled with my dangerous level of curiosity led to what happened next.

I couldn’t get a good photo and besides, was a photo really enough? I saw an open driveway and skidded in. I tried to look sane but when the woman standing there shoved her small son protectively behind her I realized I’d failed. The day-long drizzle had my hair frizzing like a cartoon crazy and thanks to the damp cold, I had on so many layers my ensemble was only missing a shopping cart.

From the men knee deep in water to the woman loading the truck, their expressions were universal – What the hell is this nut job doing and is she packin’ heat? Immediately I tried to prove my harmlessness.

“I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve never seen a cranberry harvest before. We just moved from Indiana.” (I think I was better before I offered up the Indiana reference but I kept going.) “Can I just take some photos to show my kids?” When you throw in a reference to motherhood you’re always legit.

The farmers were more than amenable to my request causing me to think back to my own dad and what he might have done if some crazy New Englander stopped off in his cornfield and asked to take photos because she’d never seen corn harvested before. I knew what Dad would’ve done and that’s what led me to my next action – “So, how does this whole thing work?”

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Public interest is something that a farmer cannot resist. Farming is a thankless job so even if some lunatic woman shows interest, a good farmer will take the PR opportunity. He and his partner (a bad-ass female in chest-high waders) explained the entire process.

They use a machine to knock the berries off the bush to the ground.

-They then flood the blog with knee-deep water and the berries float on top for harvest.

-Berries are corralled with a black rubber barrier about 6” wide and dragged to shore.

-A huge pump pulls the berries out and dumps them into a truck.

-The truck takes the berries to the Ocean Spray plant on the other side of town and then returns over and over until the bog is empty.

It’s not all that different than harvesting corn but when you add the colors and the whole flooding process and even the word “bog” it just seems cooler. As the farmers in the bog pointed out, you don’t realize how cool it is until some crazy woman recently relocated from Indiana whips her car off the road to take photos and ask a gazillion questions.

I told them about growing up on a corn farm and we soon found that though the crops and processes are vastly different, the rest is basically the same right down to the cranberry farmer’s wife and young son bringing him lunch like my mom and we kids once did.

The Turk didn’t share my excitement, nor did my boys but that’s ok. If my dad were still alive he would’ve loved it and that was enough. My nerd bucket is filled and the farmers even told me Ocean Spray was hiring this week if I was interested in getting in on the packaging end of things. I’m giving it some thought. I do look fabulous in a hairnet.

So this Thanksgiving buy an extra bag or a couple more cans of cranberry goodness. I gotta keep my new found people in business. We have to support our farmers be they in a field or a bog because without farmers we’re all screwed.

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