Day Two. On Route to Wakarusa

Closing in on Arkansas one state at a time.  We left a little rubber on roads in Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and Missouri before settling in St. Louis for the night.

An early morning wake-up call because we wanted to get to Restaurant Depot and stock up up on food and equipment.  Well what do you know it looks as if the folks at Restaurant Depot get Memorial Day off.  Well that throws a bit of a kink in things but we quickly adapt.

Here's the initial gang of young thangs ready to hit the road first thing.  Just waiting for the Donald to finish his bagel.

Monica on the left. Isn't she pretty?  Sasha in the middle. Isn't she pretty?  Shawn on the right. Yes Shawn you're pretty too.

After a good solid hour in the car the young thangs were very tired.

Sasha and Monica still pretty.  Shawn? Not a good look.

Traveling through the midwest is strange.  They have billboards all along the highway.  The advertisers are very concerned about where I am spending my days after death.  Thus  we passed things like "Hell is an awful place to spend eternity because you made some poor choices."  And "do you know how you are spending the afterlife?  Jesus does".  And what I think is a little shot at the Jews, "Jesus IsReal".    

At the other end of the wackometer spectrum are billboards advertising adult stores and fireworks.  There must be more adult stores and fireworks shops per person in Indiana than any other state in the union.  I suppose this cvombination makes sense.  If the adult toys don't do it for her you set off a couple of Roman candles.  Oh baby baby.  You big cowboy stud.  I think I felt the earth move.  Let the church say, "Amen".

The Donald is great.  We get to Restaurant Depot.  It's Memorial Day.  We know they are closed.  There is not a car in the parking lot.  No answer when we call.  And yet he walks around peering in windows.  As if there is an entire crew inside waiting to open if someone happens to show up.  So we decide to head to St Louis and hit stores tomorrow.  We get to meet up with the crew that is on route from a festival in Illinois headed for Wakarusa.  Hugs all around.

The Gang of Young Thangs gets bigger.

Dinner tonight at a Mexican restaurant and then to bed.  Early try tomorrow at the St. Louis division of Restaurant Depot.

I'd like to introduce clockwise starting on the left: Scott, Sarah, Maddy, Sasha (you've already met), Orion and Dave.

We should be arriving on sight tomorrow afternoon.  No more Mexican restaurants.  No more hotel rooms with hot showers and toilets with doors on them.  No more internet.  Plenty of great food, music and fun people to watch.  Amen.

Love you all.  Peace.  Peter

Summer '12 Adventure Begins

I left Middlebury yesterday with my friend and landlord Donald, owner of a ragtag enterprise called Crescent Foods.  He travels to music festivals during the summer making burritos, quesadillas and other vegetarian fare for mostly very stoned young hippie wannabees.  The thing that's great from a food entrepeneur's point of view is that very stoned translates into a lot of hunger and a complete loss of what a $20 bill is worth. "$12 for a small flour tortilla, a piece of cheddar and 4 leaves of spinach?  No problem.  And you'll melt the cheese?  Oh wow man, cool."

Right now we're in Ashland, Ohio.  Traveling with Donald and three young thangs named Sasha, Sean and Monica.  The young thangs sit in the back seat of the pick-up and chatter constantly.  Mostly all at the same time.  Donald doesn't want to listen so he turns up the all Bruce Springsteen, all the time radio station.  The young thangs can't hear each other so they start talking louder...so Donald turns up the radio..."What did you say?"   I said, I WAS BORN IN THE USA!"

It's about 5:00 AM in Ashland.  By the way, Ashland was named by its early German settlers from the word ashelaxelschaftekberg which roughly translates as "because the wagon wheel broke and we don't feel like going any further".  Donald wants to be on the road by 5:30 at the latest so I won't dilly dally.  Hope to see you in Arkansas at Wakarusa.  Wakarusa. It will be interesting to discover where that name came from.

Love you all.  Peace.  Peter

Four Days at Tunbridge Worlds Fair

We recently spent 4 days at the Tunbridge Worlds Fair working for Crescent Foods selling very un-fair fare.  Nothing fried.  No animal parts shaped into giant tubes and cooked in great big gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts.  No sugar spun into tufts of pink clouds on a stick.  All vegetarian burritos, quesadillas and tortilla wraps.  My god we were out of place. 

Deciding what to eat at the fair and when is an art form that can only be perfected with practice.  Fair food should be attacked in the same systematic way a good lover approaches sex.  I look at popcorn kind of like getting to first base.  You can still move around, checking out all your options without having to make a serious commitment to any one (type of food).  Which makes fried dough the oral sex of the fair.  Things are definitely heading in the right direction but it’s not too late to head to the parking lot satisfied.  Taken to a logical conclusion this of course makes Italian sausage and peppers the big O.  Which I suppose makes maple cotton candy akin to a good post-coitus smoke.

There are quite a few overweight people in Vermont and I think most of them spent a day or more at Tunbridge.  Nothing like a September chill in the air to get people thinking about an extra layer of warmth.  I was lucky enough at one point to look up from my tortilla wrapping position and be greeted by the backside of a fairly large woman with a serious case of plumber’s butt wearing a bright red thong that stretched from one end of the Gobi desert, up and through Mongolia and ended somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas.  Not a pretty sight but not unlike witnessing a good trainwreck I found myself constantly checking to see if she and her family had moved on.

We did get to see quite a few people walking around wearing camouflage.  Which doesn’t say a whole lot for the people who design camouflage.

And if I might offer the following bit of advice.  Only buy stuff you won’t take home with you.  Like rides, fair food and fortunes from Zelda the gypsy.

No giant inflatable hammers.

No goldfish in baggies.

No oversized foam cowboy hats.

No balloons that have been twisted to look like poodles with challenged colons.

No belt buckles the size of a Prius.

I’ve got to go.  Somewhere out there is a clown riding a unicycle while twisting long skinny balloons into poodles that you can wear on your head.  I think I might see what will happen if I jam a stick in his spokes.

Love you all.  Peace.  Peter

After Lanakila

The best time of the day is 6:00 AM.  Coffee is made and there is time to sit on Main House porch and listen to Brook running after a full night of heavy rain.  The boys of Lanakila still sleep.  Brook runs down past Health House, Woodcraft and Exploring.  Running with the spirit.  The spirit that provides the faith that Lanakila will be here in another 90 years.

There will be at least one counselor (a direct descendent of Doug Pilcher) who will have two bowls of cereal and two pitchers of milk served to him in bed.

There will be a bugler.  It may not be Hans or Fraser but someone will blow reveille.  Probably really badly.  Mostly likely not recognizable as reveille, but boys and young men will still get up.  Some will brush their teeth, some will not.  All will coming charging to breakfast.

During the first week of camp at least one Brooksider will miss his Dad but will be quickly and firmly and lovingly made to feel part of a community by someone with a heart as big as Angus Davidson's.

Dogs belonging to no one and everyone, will wander into and be shooed out of the dining room.  The dining room with the piano played by someone who knows the power of music to lift hearts towards the heavens.  Probably someone whose Grandfather was prepped for chapel by Robbie Pennoyer.

There will be a chef who will not prepare enough grilled cheese sandwiches.  And a group of Bridgers who are terrible dishwashers but incredible rat-tailers.

Jenn Grossman's mist will hover over Lake Morey's surface and I will sit on Main House porch with a cup of coffee and listen.

Boys and young men will return next year and Brook will still run down past Health House, Woodcraft and Exploring.

Me, Irene, Tula and the iRobot Roomba

I left camp as Hurricane Irene was making her way up the East Coast not really sure of direction or where landing would be.  Both me and Irene.  We both lit about the same time, me back in Middlebury for a short while and she, briefly but very efficiently as hurricanes go in Stockbridge, Rochester, Gaysville and numerous other communities.  Reeking of devastation and vandalizing our notion of final resting spot;  what will become for those of us close to her as “our hurricane”, left behind a lot of mud in the wrong places, dead cows and substations of power grossly downstream.  But there was the unintended heroic consequence that pointed out why places like Stockbridge, Rochester, Gaysville and others are called communities.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

I think Irene.

I think Irene who?

I think Irene the lottery, my home isn’t upside down.

So after a couple of days at my sister’s house in Cornwall and a hurricane extended trip to New York, New York (the city so confused they had to name it twice) to move daughter Grady from Brooklyn to her new life as a student at NYU I find myself with 4 or 5 days of not a whole lot to do other than drink beer, watch the Lake Dunmore shoreline slide back into position and keep an eye on Tula.  

Tula is Ashley’s dog and is the heir to the Miss Bindergarten fortune.  I have been tasked as a dogsitter which in this instance is not that taxing a task.  Food twice a day, a walk every morning which she could do in her sleep and throwing a tennis ball into the lake.  Throwing the ball is the hardest part of the job because throwing it too far results in a look of yeah right.  “Woof woof” (trans: “There’s a good strong wind blowing into shore, let’s let that take care of things shall we?”)

There is no internet access (something which has jumped ahead of access to healthcare on my list of great job benefits) and no TV.  But who cares.  I’ve got me an iRobot named Roomba.  More precisely Roomba the Model 400 vacuum cleaning robot.  This little bad boy “Cleans routinely...so I don’t have to.”  And is quite mesmerizing as he bumps his way around the room like a severely drunk dancer at a very white wedding.  (What is about the culture in which I matured that names bad things like hurricanes for women and assigns maleness to modern life-altering wonders?)  Better than any Jim Carey movie, I watch endlessly, trying in vain to figure out the algorithm that guides Roomba.  Yo stupid!  Lift your feet outta the way.  Tula at least is smart enough to leave the room when Roomba fires up.  Out of the room and up on a bed.  “Woof, woof, woof” (trans: “Call me when you learn how to climb bedspreads.”)

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Irobot.

Irobot who?

Irobot out to pick up the tennis ball because the wind changed direction.  

So it’s 4 or 5 days after Irene and Tula, Roomba and I await the arrival of another storm due to deposit up to 4 inches of rain.  The Cherokee have a saying that roughly translates as “don’t piss off Mother Nature”.  Actually I made that up.  What do I know of the Cherokee.  But it seems like something a culture with more sense than ours would say.    

So we wait.  Woof, woof, woof, woof. (trans: Roomba!  Get your ass out of that corner and bring Peter another beer.)

Love you all.  Peace.  Peter

Well Now What?

Well the summer of 2011 has rounded the bend.  Over in Middlebury they are post-Field Days to be followed quickly by back-to-school shopping.  The Tweed River Music Festival has come and gone (without me) and the last camper left yesterday around 1:00 PM (without me).

It has been a summer that turned out much differently than I had envisioned.  Plans of learning to play the guitar (2 new chords-that’s it), running every day (once around the lake) and making a gazillion grilled cheese sandwiches (accomplished that one) were squashed by work.

My romantic life was on hold.  Basically a summer of celibacy.  My laundry getting mixed up and delivered to one of the female counselors’ cabins by mistake was as close as I got to love.

Showering after work tonight and I’m down to one bar of Ivory the size of a dime.  Enough for one armpit which means I have to stand sideways when ever I converse with anyone so’s not to offend.  So I figure I can put a little adventure in my life, a little change, a little shake-me-up and take care of Mr. B.O. at the same time.  I’m going soap shopping!

I’m going soap shopping and after 30 plus years of loyalty I’m planning on coming home with something different than Ivory.  

First stop is aisle 9 at Kinney’s Drug Store.  Aisle 9.  Hosiery, Cosmetics, Implements (huh?), Facial Essentials, Shower and Bath and Skin Care.  This is not going to be as easy as I had hoped but I remain determined. Mantra: change is good, change is good.  No it’s not.  Change is scary, can’t I just get my Ivory and go home?

Apparently there have been several changes in the soap world in the past 30 years.  Who knew cucumber, lemon verbena, shea butter, exfoliation and micro beads were an essential part of being clean.  There may be a panic attack in my future.  And nothing against the Irish but I’ve known a few and they haven’t got a lock on freshness.

Oh this is interesting.  Down on the bottom shelf all in a row.  Boraxo, Lava and Kirk’s Castile.  This is the section for people who don’t mind scrubbing off an arm in the name of cleanliness.  I think I might have gone too far and work my way back up.  

My final answer Regis?  Zest.  I’ve heard of it.  Serious questions about the Ocean Energy and the Scent Caps System that promises to release long lasting clean scents.  But it’s right next to the Ivory so I don’t feel as though I’ve strayed too far.   Take a deep breath and head quickly to the cash register.  And we’re done.    

That was actually liberating.  Almost exhilarating.  But exhausting.  I’ll say goodnight.  I’ve got to get to bed so I can wake up and take a shower.  

Love you all.  Peace.  Peter

So today I got out of the kitchen

and got to go for a hike with Don MacIntosh and a group of eight year olds.  The tripping department is wonderful about putting these hikes, canoe trips and overnights together and once and awhile you can tag along.  After about a 20 minute ride, oh wait a minute...Everett put on your seatbelt...we made it to the trailhead for the Wright Mountain Trail.  The hike includes a sidetrail to the Devil's Den caves where we won't get to go in but we can look in because four people have gone in and not come out and they never found their bodies.  Ooh, like I'm really scared.

We learned that before heading out on any hike it's important to get rid of any excess weight and check the trail map one last time.

Trip Leader

Hiking with 8 and 9 year old boys at first seems like a nightmare.  And it is.  But you can learn a lot by being patient and just lending an ear.  Did you know that the typical human swallows 12 spiders during their lifetime?  While they are sleeping.  And you probably know this too but if you hold a match to your  butt and fart it will explode.  Jason's brother did it.

We stopped for gorp, water and a quick rest after about 10 minutes.  No Wilem we are not almost there.  

The boys.

I'm sorry you spilled your water, I bet you'll be more careful next time.  

Cows fart with their eyes closed.

About half an hour later we stopped for lunch.  (This is not going to be a long hike.)  We had lunch at this great cabin with a wonderful view.

Wonderful view

Cabin and the boys

After lunch we had a wonderful time doing what is called rest period.  I don't know at what age we stop this ritual but I for one would vote in favor of a mandatory 1 hour nap after lunch.  It was actually a very nice time.  The boys settled down, the clouds over head floated peacefully by and the breeze gently worked its way through the beech tree canopy.  Until James farted.  Which he did not do on purpose.  Did so.  Did not.  Did so.  Ten minutes of suppressed giggling and we're on our way.

Anyway.  If Gandalf and Frodo and the smallest transformer fought against the spells of Voldemort it would be a tie.  Would not.  Would so.  I think I sprained my ankle can someone carry me?

Heading down the trail towards the caves things started getting real quiet even though everyone knew there is no such thing as the devil and he wouldn't be hanging out in a bunch of not really scary caves in Vermont and what was that noise and maybe I should wait here to guard the water bottles.  Did you know that if you fart in a cave it will echo for eternity?  True.

I didn't get any pictures of the caves.  None of them came out for some reason.  Ooooh.

We made it down and back to camp for dinner which was.  No.  Yes, Mexican night.  Well that will be good for my heart.

Next week I'm signed up to go to Eagle's Bluff with a group of 11-12 year olds.  I'm looking forward to being with a more mature group.  I heard these guys can make armpit farts and one of them saw the nurse's boobies when she bent over to tie her shoe.  Did not.  Did so.

Love you all.  Peace.  Peter