Oh Uncle Bob!

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

You must have been a Boy Scout!

Be prepared!

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The Little White Halloween Dog

Posted on October 31, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

If I rummaged around my spare room long enough, I would find some pictures of my brother and I in our Halloween costumes, getting ready to walk around our neighborhood “Trick or Treating.”  We had a route we always traveled; up Woodland Avenue to Uncle Richie’s, over First Street to Nana and O’Pa’s, backtracking through the gully to Uncle Rhinie’s, and then to Aunt Anna’s.

One Halloween, Uncle Rhinie must have been hiding in the garage with a bull horn because when we got to his house, we could hear what sounded like howling wild dogs.  Being little, we were frightened until we realized it was our uncle; then we laughed.  I’m so glad I can still hear his voice in my mind’s ear.

In spite of these wonderful memories, I am not a Halloweenie kind of person.  I’ve never been to many Halloween parties and I don’t have a closet packed with costumes; I won’t be dressing up as anything besides myself today.

The best Halloween I remember was in 2005 and it was good because it was the same day my Junior League Show House co-chair and I met with the owners of the house we hoped would become our 2006 Show House.

One would think finding a suitable show house property would be easy; pick any big empty house, fill it with furniture, print up some tickets, and voila!  Best fundraiser ever.

Not so fast.

The house my co-chair and I spied out was 4 Berkeley Street, a property belonging to the Episcopal Divinity School.  Located on a very private residential street in the middle of the Old Cambridge Historic District, just a few streets over from Harvard Square, the house had good show house bones.  If we could get the property owners to agree to the idea of a show house in theory, we could then pursue the idea in reality.  Even just a smile and a handshake from the owners would be like opening the first Russian nesting doll, encouraging us to take the next steps in the process.

Brother Michael agreed to meet with us in his cheery office at the Episcopal Divinity School on Halloween afternoon, 2005.  Finding a parking spot on Brattle Street seemed like a wonderful beginning and I shuffled happily through the leaves and late autumn sunshine in front of the Longfellow House.  I met my co-chair, we smiled confident smiles and then marched into Reed Hall.  Brother Michael was gracious and hospitable; he served us twig tea.  Another member of the school’s administration came in; we outlined the mission of the Junior League, our particular talent as show house creators, our respect for the history and provenance of old houses, and the possible benefits of partnering with us on such a project.

Questions were asked and although no one said anything in the affirmative, Brother Michael seemed to agree with the idea in theory, so we shook hands all around and agreed to meet again in a week.  My co-chair and I left the building and shuffled slowly through the leaves and slanting-away sunshine of Brattle Street towards my car.

A man walking a small white dog came towards us, the dog wearing devil’s horns and a little cape.  The dog showed its teeth and barked a few times at us and then walked past.  My co-chair was thinking out loud about all the details and next steps; I’m not sure she even noticed the devil dog.  We had both forgotten it was Halloween.

We said our good-byes and I got in my car and drove home, worrying about the meaning of that little white dog.  It had disturbed me; adding a dark note to a bright and seemingly shining day.  Of course, it all worked out in the end and we signed our agreements with the Episcopal Divinity School and every other party who needed to give us permission.

Maybe the devil dog meant nothing; our show house turned out to be a financial success.  I learned a lot about organizing events and people and my co-chair became a wonderful friend I hope to have in my life forever.

The only thing I can say for sure about little dogs dressed up in costume and decorator show houses is “the devil is in the details.”

The Junior League of Boston’s current Show House is closed for Halloween.  It will reopen tomorrow, November 1, 2012, full of stunning and sparkling details.  No dogs, please.

**********

The Junior League of Boston’s 2012 Show House is at the Potter Estate, on the grounds of the Jackson-Walnut Schools, 71 Walnut Park, Newton, Massachusetts.  The house is open from October 16, 2012 through November 18, 22012.   The house hours are Tuesdays and Wednesdays from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Thursdays and Fridays from 10:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., and Saturdays and Sundays from 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.   The house is closed on Mondays.

Tickets are $30 from a Junior League member or $35 at the door.  For more information about the Show House or the Junior League of Boston, visit http://www.jlboston.org.

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We’re Cool

Posted on October 30, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

The last of the full moon is peaking through the clouds.  I can hear the sea roaring here at The Coop, which is 200 farm girl paces from the ocean.  I don’t always hear the sounds of the sea; in the summer it’s noisy with people, fireworks, and surfers shouting “Dude!”

We never lost our power, which is unusual.  I’m grateful and thankful; I feel badly for the people who are suffering.

My brother wrote a piece yesterday about the storm and about fear.

My friends from home and The Big Corporation have checked in on me to make sure I made it through the storm.  Thank you.  If I had a “heart” emoticon, I’d insert it right here.

Anger and fear…emotions which cause a lot of trouble for everyone.  Hurricane Sandy was about fear.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about anger.

As Uncle Bob would say, “We’ll see.”

Y’all be cool today and help your neighbors if they need you. 

Go forward in peace, not fear.

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The Cure for Fear

Posted on October 29, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

The weather puppets have been screeching for a few days now about Hurricane Sandy. There was a news truck parked at North Hampton Beach State Park last night; it’s probably a good backdrop for a news puppet, with the wind and waves swirling around in the background.  When I got back to The Coop from a very long and lovely weekend at home, I had a robo-call from The Big Corporation, providing me with instructions for Monday and Tuesday.

I don’t know what to make of it; I’m weary of “panic set-ups” because they happen so frequently.  Maybe Hurricane Sandy will be a storm of historic proportions or maybe the parking lot here at The Coop will be flooded; I don’t know.  I have toilet paper, water, and food.  I have flashlights, candles, blankets, and a mummy sleeping bag.

All this weather panic is messing with my memories of the weekend, including stomping around in the woods on Sunday afternoon.

My mission was to figure out some approximate dimensions of the big field.  My general “pace” is about 36 inches; contrary to the opinions of some, this is not an exhausting pace for me.  In fact, when I stomp around in the woods and fields of The Farm, I feel like I’m taller than my tall girl frame.

Uncle Bob’s truck was in its usual spot; he was stomping around in the woods somewhere too.  I don’t know what his “pace” is and I am sure if I asked him, he would look at me like I was foolish.

I stomped up one side of the field, counting and recording my paces on my phone.  Then I stomped across the wood line, about halfway across the field.  Stomp, stride, and stomp back down the field.  I was a stomping foot soldier.  I stopped to make a notation about a soggy spot where the field slopes downward.  Then I stomped up the far end of the field; when I was halfway to the end, I saw Uncle Bob, wearing his orange “don’t shoot me” cap.  I had mine on too.

He asked me what I was doing and I said I was just “stomping around.”  I asked him if he knew the general dimensions and acreage of the field and he did.  I recorded this on my phone.  He told me not to get lost in the woods and he stomped off for home, likely to watch a little bit of football.

I cut into the woods and shortened my pace a bit for safety’s sake.

As Robert Frost said “the woods are lovely, dark and deep” and there is a primitive sense of time in the leaf litter.  The wind stirs in the tops of the trees and makes a melody unheard in suburban and urban areas.  I stood on a tree stump and wondered who had cut this tree and when; was it by O’Pa, Bob, or my father?

I hiked over fallen trees, under low-hanging branches, and through a leafy stream.  A beautiful birch tree appeared and I hugged it.  I wrapped my arms around the tree and rested my cheek against the bark lovingly, thinking about my grandfather; the tears rolled down my cheeks and I whispered “thank you, O’Pa.”

Composing myself, I stomped off to a clearing and found a tree stand belonging to one of Uncle Bob’s friends.  Since there’s no hunting in Maine on Sundays, I climbed up into the deserted thirty foot stand and sat on the cushioned seat.  A chickadee twittered around about four feet from my head.

I had never sat in a tree stand before and it was wonderful.

I stomped around a little bit more and then climbed to the top of Mosquito Hill.  I looked at my watch and sighed; the cares of Monday started creeping in and I knew I needed to go.

I’m overtired from all the excitement of the past few days and maybe that’s why the smell of the woods in my lumberjack jacket is making me a little weepy.  My mother might suggest I need a nap.

I did accomplish my goal of pacing out the field and learning its dimensions.  I didn’t get lost in the woods, either.  I know it will all still be there after Hurricane Sandy finishes her business.  Until I can go stomping around again, I’m going to tuck it all into my memory bank where it will be safely stored from the fog of fear being blown into New England right about now.

Don’t be afraid today.

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Hunter Moon Hurricane

Posted on October 28, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

October is almost over.  Was there a full moon last night?  If there was, it’s known as a “Hunter’s Moon” or a “Harvest Moon.”

For some strange reason, I woke up this morning thinking of one of my farmer friends.  Earlier this year, he lived through a devastating barn fire that changed the course of his well-intentioned farm plan.  I remember first learning about the fire and then reading his own thoughts about it; it struck me that he ended his blog post with a quote from one of my own favorite authors, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.  It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

The Great Gatsby is part of the “learner’s permit” of American Literature.  Everyone reads it once before they can drive the bigger works of literature.  It’s a stunningly sad story and the language is exquisite.  The movie versions of this novel are mostly pure to Fitzgerald’s intentions.

It’s Sunday and the remaining October brew in my tea cup is cold and bitter; I won’t drink it.  I’m feeling a little bit like old F. Scott today, worn out yet pointing my boat back against the current.  It’s raining leaves outside and the weather puppets say it may also rain airborne precipitation, like a hurricane.  My father tells me there will be plenty of leaves to rake and my mother says The Motel will open for such festivities.  As they say in the common parlance, “it’s all good.”

I’m going to rest today and think about “beating on,” into November.

You rest too.

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When You’re Tall

Posted on October 26, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Saturday night is my 30th high school reunion.

For no particular reason or maybe because I’m the tallest person on the reunion committee, I will be giving a few prepared remarks after the buffet and before we start dancing to all the songs we grew up with during the late 1970’s and the early 1980’s.

First, I’m going to thank the people who were on the committee.  They did such a great job and they made everything so easy.  I wasn’t close friends with any of them in high school, but as I look back over past reunions, their names were always on the list of committee members.  I got to know each one of them a little bit better during this reunion; they all have great stories to tell.

The amazing part about the people on the committee was that they were still so “connected” with everyone in our class in a way that I was not.  For instance, when there was a little misunderstanding about something, someone would say “oh, I’ll just call her up and find out what the heck is going on.”  This was a good lesson to me about “living in community.”

The only way you can get to know people is to get to know people.  I didn’t make that up, but it’s a lesson I have learned.  Even when I sell The Coop and move back home, I won’t be a “townie” overnight again and even though I think of everyone at home as “family” it’s very possible they might be a little skeptical about me.

Uncle Bob might even have some suspicions.

After I thank everyone, I’m going to explain to my classmates why we did not put together an elaborate reunion program.  We have done so in the past and it was lovely, but this year seemed different.  Many people are on Facebook and keep enough virtual information out there to satisfy the average drive-by thrill-seeker.

We’re getting older; some classmates have had losses and significant life changes since 2007.  Death, unemployment, disability, divorce, and upheaval have been common themes for many people.  Sometimes, when we’re asked to provide a “life resume” there is a tendency to focus on only our accomplishments.

I don’t want to downplay all the amazing things my classmates do; I am proud of the fact that six of the sixteen sponsors of the 2012 Moxie Car Show were 1982 Lisbon Greyhounds.  One ‘hound flies the friendly international skies, while another one is an air traffic controller.  We have some nurses, accountants, bankers, teachers, and sales representatives; mothers, fathers, grandmothers, and grandfathers are among us.  Goat farmers, too.

Because all my classmates are more than just their “best days” or their “shining moments” we won’t be having an elaborate program this year.

I think everyone will understand.

We’re not sure when we’re going to do the raffle and the class picture, but those tasks are in good hands.

Then, I’m going to remember all the people who weren’t able to make it, either because they’re not in this world anymore or because we’ve lost touch with them through time and distance.   We miss them all.

I think that’s all I’m going to say.  I’m really lucky to be part of such a distinctive group of people.

Oh…and one more thing.

Even though we don’t have an elaborate program, I did have some simple 4 x 6 cards made up with a quote at the bottom which sums up my thoughts and feelings better than the 587 words of this blog post.

“It is not from ourselves that we learn to be better than we are.” –Wendell Berry

Go Greyhounds…Yay!

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Morning Glories at Night

Posted on October 25, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

On a night walk, I found these morning glories.

Everyone’s holding onto October as long as possible.

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Hurry Up, there’s No Huddle

Posted on October 24, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I don’t remember exactly when I started following NFL football.  I went to football games in high school and college, mostly because I liked being outside in the fall, cheering and walking around.  I didn’t understand football, though; it just seemed like physical theater, full of action, drama, noise and commotion.  I liked it in the abstract.

Then I read a biography called When Pride Still Mattered: A Life of Vince Lombardi by David Maraniss.  I was fascinated by the man and the myth who was Lombardi; according to the biography, Lombardi’s father was a meat cutter who had the letters for “WORK” and “PLAY” tattooed on the fingers of his hands.  Although I still saw football as theater, I was introduced to words like “I-formation” and “the Wishbone.”

My father, who has no tattoos, loves football and on weekends when I would visit The Motel to rake leaves or put in the wood, there would always be a little Sunday afternoon football to watch.  By 2008, we had begun our family tradition of watching the Super Bowl together.  Throw in a little daily sports radio and I was a football fan.  One of my friends even bought me a pink Patriots’ hat.

As much as I tried to understand the plays, the rules, and the schemes, I had no practical frame of reference.  I had never played football.  I bought The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Football by Joe Theismann and tried to understand the nuances of the game.  I asked my father a lot of questions. I watched the pre-game shows and took careful notes of everything Boomer Esiason and Shannon Sharpe said.  Things remained unclear to me.

This year, the New England Patriots are struggling.  Something is not right in Foxborough and the talkers are talking.  There is a lot of talk about the “no-huddle offense” or the “hurry-up offense.”  What exactly is “the hurry-up?”

Simply put, the “no-huddle offense” is when play action is executed without a “huddle.”  This reduces the amount of time the defense has to adjust and anticipate the offensive moves and the quarterback’s execution of plays.  One explanation I’ve read describes it as “basketball on grass.”  “Hurry-up” allows the offense to control the tempo of the game and instead of the stop and start nature of the huddle, concentration is focused on play action.  Thus, Tom Brady’s “laser-like” focus.

When I first starting pondering the “hurry-up,” I thought it might be a bad metaphor for the amped-up nature of modern life.  Maybe the Patriots were playing poorly BECAUSE they were rushing.  Haste makes waste and all that.  Was it possible?  Bill Belichick is purported to be a genius.

I said to myself “there is no way a team can execute a no-huddle offense unless they know their plays by heart, have practiced the heck out of them, and can run them blind-folded in their sleep.”

This is how Gus Malzahn’s offensive philosophy, now commonly known as the “no huddle,” works.  The offensive scheme affects practice by allowing the team to run more plays in their sessions and everyone knows “practice makes perfect.”  More focus is on the plays and concentration during practice improves.  There’s less stop and start; less broken concentration.  Increased practice concentration leads to heightened game concentration.

“Hurry-up” almost seems like a misnomer; the words imply haste.  It’s really about slowing down the defense and messing up their timing; it’s about focus.

I enjoyed reading this comic look at a day in the life of Gus Malzahn.

Football will always be a game I watch and enjoy in the abstract as a metaphor for the struggle of life.  I like watching the game with my Dad and it forces us to “hurry-up” and get our leaves raked before game time.

I don’t know a lot about football; maybe I’m oversimplifying everything, but maybe “hurry-up” isn’t the same thing as rushing around recklessly.

Huddle that thought today.

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Tea is Served

Posted on October 23, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

A large fly was buzzing around The Coop yesterday.  It was one of those flies that come out on beautiful October days, stupid and heavy with fatigue from the changing temperatures.  It swerved slowly around and I swatted it; it fell to the ground.  Not yet dead, it took off and went into the living room, never to be seen or heard from again.

The fly was annoying and not worthy of further discussion, but it reminded me of why the last few weeks of October are the best times to travel north to Maine and explore the places one must avoid in “peak summer.”  During the season, every magical Maine place is swarming with a different type of fly, affectionately called the tourist or rusticator.  These flies swerve around from Memorial Day until Columbus Day, cramping roads, beaches, and scenic wonders.  Then, with a frost and a few falling leaves, they close up their camps and summer homes and head back to their own countries, not to be seen or heard from again until the following May.

The dying daylight stuns the feeble day trippers, too.  A sturdy and determined day traveler from south of the border could still successfully cover some sacred Ayuh ground; where there’s a will, there’s a way.  Just the other day, someone asked me what my three favorite Maine day trips were for a late October day.  While it’s hard to pick just three, my heart always brings me to the “Midcoast” area; here are three places I have successfully motored to for late autumn day trips.

The Olsen House, Cushing
This stark house, setting for the iconic Andrew Wyeth painting Christina’s World, is slightly off the beaten path of U.S. Route 1 in Thomaston.  Although the house is closed for the season, visitors may walk around the grounds or sit on the front step and wonder Wyeth-ly.  A late afternoon stop at Moody’s Diner for pie and coffee is just the right amount of fuel needed to make it back across the Piscataqua River Bridge.

Morse Mountain, Phippsburg
A comfortable two-mile hike leads to a quiet sandy beach, perfect for a picnic or a beach nap.  Better yet, try both.  Although short on amenities, Morse Mountain is long on tranquility and such privation as carrying out one’s garbage is a minor sacrifice.

Reid State Park, Georgetown
Reid State Park is on the next peninsula east from Morse Mountain.  Sentimental fool that I am, this place is chock full of childhood memories of sunshine, charcoal briquettes, and Coppertone.  My father’s summer vacation always promised at least one or two trips to Reid State Park and now as an adult, it seems even more beautiful, with its miles of roads and paths to explore.  The creosote-coated board walks have been replaced, but if I squint my eyes in the fading daylight, I can almost see my father’s Plymouth Gran Fury in the parking lot.

Ah, Maine, my beloved country.

Don’t listen to Tee Vee weather puppets who say the foliage is past its peak.  It’s stunningly beautiful right now and there are no flies left.  Shuffle through some falling leaves, pull up a chair, and let me pour you a steaming cup of The October before you head out on your journey.

It’s time.

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Bringing in the Wood

Posted on October 22, 2012 by Julie-Ann Baumer

For the last ten or so years, I’ve helped my father bring in his winter wood.  He and Uncle Bob cut and split it over on The Farm and then they bring it home in Uncle Bob’s old dump truck.  Uncle Bob always used to dump it at the end of the driveway.  On “bringing in the wood” day, I would load the wood into a wheelbarrow, then wheel it across the back yard and around the corner to the side cellar window.  My father would be waiting there and would unload the wheelbarrow and throw the wood into his wood room.  We used two wheelbarrows and developed a rhythm and a routine.  Very little time was wasted.

My last memory of my Uncle Richie was on “bringing in the wood day.”  He lived up the street and he came down and sat a spell.  He admonished us for working too hard at “our age.”  We kept on working and talking with him.

Of course, Uncle Bob could have just dumped the wood on the front lawn, which would have eliminated all the handling and wheeling, but my father and I have always enjoyed the annual ritual; we’re kind of competitive and we like to see how quickly we can get it done and how many loads it takes to fill the wood room.

It’s great exercise.

This year, something changed and my father decided Uncle Bob should dump the wood on the front lawn.  There would be no “bringing in the wood” day.  The Motel would be closed, too.  For a split second, I had that sinking feeling similar to the day I found out Uncle Bob had sold my tractor.  One of my Facebook friends posted about bringing in her wood.  Finally, my brother wrote a blog post about his wood stacking day.

I had to wipe a little tear from the corner of my eye because everyone was hauling wood except me.

It makes more sense the way it worked out.  Even Uncle Bob said so and he didn’t understand why we hadn’t done it that way to begin with.  He thought one of my parents was worried about his truck damaging the lawn.  My father just had his driveway re-paved so now the driveway is more important than the lawn.

That’s another story, though.

I looked at the index card my mother had given me a few weeks ago; on it, she had outlined the Motel’s availability.  The Motel will be open on November 10, 2012.  Helen’s note says “Leaves.”

Hauling leaves requires tools, containers, and intricate machinations; Herman has already figured out the most efficient way to do it.  It’s not the same as bringing in the wood, but I’ll take it.

I love working with my dad.

I wonder if my brother has a leave-raking blog post planned.  We’d better get our stories straight.

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