Sassafras Luck

Yesterday morning I opened my e-mail to a message from the state of New Jersey that it was my turn to schedule a vaccine.  After a few seconds of disbelief and then some hit and miss moments, I got an appointment more than an hour away.  I took it and headed south to one of our state’s vaccine mega-sites.  A few hours later, I had a Pfizer vaccine in my arm and an appointment for my second dose on March 2.  I spent the rest of the day in a haze of disbelief and gratitude, a feeling that remains front and center today.  

New Jersey, with a population of just under 9 million people, is approaching 10% of the population having received a first vaccine.  I am glad that my lucky number came up so quickly and crossing my fingers for everyone else.

July 4

I love my country with a depth that has fostered a career spent teaching about its history and politics.  I am a patriot who named her only child after the man whose words we celebrate on this 4th of July day.  

But I am no “Love my country right or wrong” patriot.  I am an “I love my country enough to right the wrongs” patriot.  This year, a year determined to teach us some very important lessons, it seems appropriate to pause and think again abut the patriot I am.

I’ve taught it so much that I know the preamble to the Declaration of Independence by heart.  I read it several times a year; I think about it often.  I teach the Declaration in terms of that preamble and I never fail to be stirred by the claim that all men are created equal and endowed with the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  I think of the power of such a claim when it was made in 1776 and as we try to live by it now.  I teach my students that every right Americans subsequently demanded to have recognized, be it the right to be free from slavery, to vote, to marry whomever we please, was recognized in those words and was there all along.  

That’s not all that I teach because I know how often we fell short of that stirring claim; I know how often we still fall short of it.  I teach my students about both of those truths.  I teach Frederick Douglass’s words about the 4th of July.  I teach them about the racism baked into our founding and built into our firmament.

Then I remind them that we must be patriots who seek a better nation for all of us.  I remind them that all we need do is return to the words of the Declaration and let that truth guide our way.  

Real Live Conversations with Mom: New Jersey edition

The backstory:  It’s Christmas Eve and the town fire department sirens are growing closer.  My mom and I set out on the front porch to spy Santa as he comes by (this is a Jersey tradition).  While we are waiting, one of my neighbors pulls out of her driveway, and honks and waves as she drives by our house. My mom hears the honk, but doesn’t see the wave.

Mom:  What’s her problem?

Me:  She was honking and waving hello.  Damn, Mom, you’ve been in New Jersey too long.

I think that about sums it up, folks.

Tortured By Tunes, Extra Credit New Jersey edition

Last weekend, T and I went to Sunset Diner, as one does when one lives in New Jersey.  My previous calls for public soundtracks to be cleansed of the most horrifying of songs have been ignored  and Sunday’s playlist started on an unsettling note with a song guaranteed to linger in your head long after the last note has sounded.

“Wild Thing,” by the Troggs.

A dining experience that starts there makes one understandably anxious.  We waited as the songs veered into an especially strange playlist.  We heard Michael Jackson recommend that we “Beat It” and Kenny Loggins told us we were “Footloose.”  With lightening speed we’d moved from the ‘60s to the ‘80s and then Smashmouth reported,“Hey Now, You’re a Rockstar,” which seemed patently unlikely under the circumstances.  Also, late ‘90s?  Back to the ‘80s as Billy Joel whined about his “Uptown Girl.”  Then we abruptly headed to 1960 with a Chubby Checker diversion…he wanted us to do “The Twist.”  At this point, T decided soundtrack predictions were in order.  She predicted we’d soon be treated to something by Elvis.  I predicted Cindy Lauper.  We waited.  The sound track delivered an inexplicable “Just a Gigolo” by David Lee Roth.

And now we were in terrifying territory.  Naturally, “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond followed.  T was preparing to tear out her eardrums when the Stones announced they could get no “Satisfaction.”  No kidding.  We were in a holding pattern.

No Elvis; no Cindy Lauper.  We made new predictions: T went with a solid: Elton John.  I optioned for Frankie Valli, always a sound choice when you live in New Jersey.  The soundtrack responded with Madonna, who remains “Like a Virgin” at the ripe old age of 60.  Then we achieved a new level of horror: Dylan’s “How Does it Feel” in …wait for it… instrumental-only format.  Who does that?  Why now?  Lunch was nearly over and then my most triumphant victory of all time settled over us when Frankie Valli delivered the goods with “December, 1963…Oh What a Night.”  

We laughed maniacally but as maniacal laughter is regular fare among the customers at the Sunset Diner, no one took note.  As we left, Boston was wailing about “More Than a Feeling.”  

Fair enough as we had a lot of feelings.  Angry feelings about the day’s confusing soundtrack.

New Jerseyans at Costco

On Monday afternoon, I headed to Costco at 3 pm.  I was pleased that I had avoided the weekend crowds and I naively assumed that the day’s Costco run would be easy-peasy.

Ha.

It would seem that at my local Costco, Monday is senior citizen day.  It was a feisty and argumentative crowd the filled the store on Monday.  I am a youthful 51 and, I note, well-behaved in public places.   But that was not the theme of the day.  I noted the following:

1.  The Costco parking lot often achieves maximum cart crimes, with people abandoning their empty cart in the lot rather than walking it over to the cart rack.  But Monday brought something new.  I watched an older couple park their car, get out, and promptly move nearby abandoned carts into the empty space next to their car, so that no one could park next to them.  

2.  Once inside, there was the usual array of snacks available and I watched a woman attempt to sneak herself a pair of plastic gloves from one of the food displays.  When the Costco employee objected, the lady aggressively explained that she wanted a napkin.  Costco employee was having none of that and voices were raised.  I wheeled away.

3.  I made my way toward the back of the warehouse for a visit to the cheese aisle, only to be struck by a number of folks milling around the roasted chicken section.  New chickens were coming off the roaster and in typical Jersey style, folks were jostling with their carts to get toward the front of the line.  Then they were taking two chickens; one woman even sought three.  Those who found themselves at the back of the roasted chicken line commenced loud complaining, demanding a two-chicken limit.  With no plans to secure a roasted chicken and concerned about the tenor of the chicken patrons, I headed to the refrigerator to bulk-buy ultra-pasteurized half and half for my coffee.

4.  The checkout lines were busy because….Costco.  But I chose one, only to discover there was a hold up.  While the clerk waited for the manager, the people ahead of me in line began to defect.  But instead of going to the end of another line, I watched a woman with a full cart shove her way into the next line over.  The folks in line and I watched, incredulous, as she cut the line from the side.  When the clerk asked who was next, she claimed her stolen spot while the rest of us silently observed.  Only when she began to actually unpack her cart did the judgement and complaining ensue.  But the line-cutter was stoic, raising her chin defiantly and refusing to yield.  The people now behind her in line muttered under the breath and cast her character into doubt for the whole of her transaction.  She didn't give a damn.

When I finished, I left the store, emptied my cart into my car, returned it to the cart rack (!), and carefully eased my way out of the parking lot and into the traffic for my drive home.  It was not our finest community display, that’s for damned sure.

Unwelcome Deja Vu

One of the most notable features of life lived on the Nebraska plains is the wind.  It blows often on the prairie and in the Winter the blowing wind could make a cold day downright miserable.  I though of this yesterday, which was cold and windy, with temperatures that never got above freezing and a blowing wind that made it feel much colder.

The source of my reflections was a self-induced problem.  I’ve been growing my hair out and it’s longer now than it has been since I lived in Nebraska.  Coming out of the pool after my swim, I scraped my wet hair into a ponytail.  As I walked to the car, that wet ponytail slapped against my face, a sensation I haven’t experienced since I cut my hair short nearly 20 years ago.

It reminded me of Nebraska, though not in a good way.  Note to self: on a windy day, keep that wet hair in a messy bun.  

Real Life Conversations with T: Local Cuisine edition

The backstory: Last weekend, T and I were at Holmdel Park waiting for JT to run a cross country race.  This was a big race event and the food trucks were out.  T had a look at the options.

T:  We’re in New Jersey so yes, I think pulled pork is the right choice.

Me (laughing):  I think that Kansas City ruined you.

Pro-tip: Try the pizza; enjoy the Italian food.  But if BBQ is what you want, Jersey is not the place.

Real Life Conversations with JT: Jersey Pride edition

The backstory:  Like every place, New Jersey has its own particular culture.  It is a running joke in my family that you can’t go to a public place in New Jersey without hearing the music of either Bruce Springsteen or Bon Jovi on the radio.  In the great Springsteen vs. Bon Jovi debate, we’re Bon Jovi people.  The other day, JT and I were at a diner (another New Jersey tradition) when the matter of Jersey tunes came up.

JT:  Really?  We’re leaving the diner and now Bon Jovi comes on?  

Me:  Our timing is poor, son.

This wouldn’t have happened if we were natives; the kind of people who ate pork roll or Taylor ham at the diner.

Jersey Strong

One of the things that T and I have in common is the fact that we aren't New Jersey natives.  In addition to that, we've both lived in the South and the Midwest and so when we see or experience things that are uniquely New Jersey (and that is a long list of nonsense), we can laugh about it together.

Today, T marks the start of her 13th year as a Jersey resident.  To celebrate, we are planning some uniquely New Jersey activities.....

We'll start our day with a breakfast sandwich served on a roll instead of a bun and featuring egg, cheese, and pork roll (Taylor ham is also acceptable).

We'll identify the place we live by the exit it is off of the New Jersey Turnpike or Garden State Parkway.  

We'll drive on said Turnpike and Parkway and we'll use our EZ Pass to do it.

We will honk at the drivers ahead of us as soon as the traffic light turns green.

For that matter, we will pass on the right while driving and talking on our cell phone.

We'll flip off a fellow-driver for no apparent reason.

We'll not pump our own gas.

We'll turn left via a jug handle and then drive through a few traffic circles.

We'll stop at every Dunkin' Donuts we see.

We'll talk about "the shore" (known to the rest of the nation as the beach).

We will end all conversations by saying, "take care" or "yeah, right."

For supper, we'll go to a diner.  I'm having the happy waitress but T has to eat something with scrapple.

Bonus round: we'll try to figure out what the fuck "Jersey Strong" on all those bumper stickers refers to. 

It's a full day.

Real Life Observations of JT: We're Not in New Jersey Anymore edition

The backstory:  We were at DFW airport, taking the airport train from one terminal to another.  The ride took us around miles and miles of parking lots filled with cars glittering in the hot Texas sun.  JT watched for a while and then turned to me with an observation offered in a tone that was one part awe, two parts condemnation.

JT: Man, there are A LOT of pickup trucks in those parking lots, Mama.

Beware, middle America: the east coast judges you.

Irony

The Governor of my state, known to me as Governor Jersey Shore because of his ridiculous buffoon-like rhetoric and attitude, is forever bragging about the accomplishments of his government and the general inefficiency of the federal government.

So I appreciate the irony of the fact that the feds received and processed my tax return in less than 24 hours.  The state of New Jersey, who received my tax return on the very same date, has yet to respond.  It's been 5 days, Jersey, WTF?

Hey, Governor Jersey Shore: you own me some money, pal. And I want it NOW.

Meanwhile, Back at the Country Store

I've written before of the largesse of the country store in T's town.  The place is a veritable wonderland and though it seems small from the outside, when you enter the building some sort of seam in the universe opens up and all that you could ever desire is suddenly stacked up on the shelves.

Happily, much that you don't desire is also available, as T found out when she located these pet items on the back shelf.

 They are just the sort of thing to especially delight me…the former Governator of California in pet chew toy form.  You can have a suited Arnold, complete with inappropriate tie.

Or the Terminator Arnold.

Both come with a complete treatise of nonsense on the back of the package.

As it turns out, I merely wished for photos of them.  I'm sure that Schwarzenegger won't take it personally.

Magical

One of the things that T and I have in common is that we both lived in the midwest.  While I have just 8 years of heartland experience on my resume, she's a native, who's done some serious time in a small midwest town.  When we first met, we quickly discovered that we had in common a knowledge of the Village Inn, a respect for Dairy Queen, and general amusement at the inevitable small town business which combines shoe repair, gasoline, oil changes, and a liquor store.

And no small town would be complete without a grocery store.  In the tiny towns of the midwest, these stores often feature dusty shelves with expired cans of Dinty Moore stew alongside bags of off-brand potato chips.  In the small New Jersey town where T lives these days, there is a small market that would seem to resemble the midwest's local food emporiums.  But there the comparison ends.  T had mentioned before that in terms of space and range of choice available, this place is unbelievable.  When I finally visited this weekend, it did not disappoint.  Once you open the door it's like you've just stepped into the grocery store equivalent of Hermione Granger's magic purse.   

In narrow aisles, with shelves stocked to the (sagging) roof, is row after row of dream-come-true items.  My personal favorite is the row featuring cans of spray paint right next to an impressive assortment of potato chips.  Juices and spices are in the next aisle down.  The liquor section ranges along the back, along with kids' toys, plenty of toiletries, and god-only-knows what else. 

Suffice it to note that in the deli case there is a sign advertising the fact that you can order a whole pig (though it takes a week, so you'll have to cool your heels before that bacon is in your belly). 

Oh, the possibilities.

Oh, New Jersey

A few months ago, I noticed this sign, conveniently located near the train tracks that head south through my fair town.

New Jersey has a lot to answer for (what? have you ever driven a car in this state?) and it's not clear to me that the Garden State needed to add low-rent divorce to the list.  But I seem to be the only person around here worried about the state's karma.

Oh, New Jersey.

Deer Daycare

Last weekend, I spent some time with my friend T, who lives in the woods at the Delaware Water Gap.  This part of New Jersey is unbelievably beautiful, with deep, green forests, blue skies, and hills high enough to see the horizon.  At night, there's enough darkness to see the stars in full display.  I saw Orion, and the Big Dipper.  I saw the Milky Way and counted at least two falling stars.  But the skies weren't the only thing I found enchanting.  In the open grass across the lane from her house is a large green verge where the local deer Mamas encourage their fawns to graze.  T calls it Deer Day Care and I can see why.

This set wasn't the least troubled by our presence in the yard.  They just happily munched as we enjoyed the woods together.

Luckily for me, the deer weren't interested in the wild wineberries growing along the drive.

And, sure I know that the deer population in the Garden State is out of control.  But, golly, they are so cute. So I plan to overlook it and just admire deer o'clock in the big woods.

Summer Time

Blueberry season has arrived and that means a non-stop blueberry festival in my kitchen.  Yesterday, for the last day of school, we had blueberries and cream for breakfast. 

Yum.

Down on the Farm

New Jersey is awash in agri-tourism farms and on Friday we set off to visit one located nearby, Alstede Farms.  We went with my neighbor, M and her daughters V and G (1 and 4, respectively).  Our plan: pick some raspberries, try out the corn maze, and generally enjoy the beautiful day.  The farm, like so many of this style of family-run business in New Jersey, was truly lovely.  Out past the corn maze in the fields with flowers, pumpkins, and veggies of all kinds, the views were first rate.

We started with a picnic.  V had the seat of honor.

There were plenty of things for kids to do.  While G rode a pony, JT and I took a tour through the corn maze.  JT eagerly took the lead.

 And managed to get us out alive.

JT consented to having his picture made on the pumpkin truck.  G decided to be the driver.

The pumpkin has understandable concerns about his safety in the hands of an erratic and overly-enthusiastic driver.

JT doesn't have siblings and sometimes he's a little surprised by younger children.  G and her sister V seem to really like my boy and he tolerates their fondness.  He's even told me that he likes the way they make him feel like a really big kid.

And sometimes he does more than that, looking after G in a way that I find awfully charming.

Drinking Up the Last of Summer

We landed perfect weather for the long weekend and on Sunday afternoon, we headed south to visit my friend Sharkbutt and enjoy a last day at the beach.  The waves, distant remnants from Hurricane Earl, were pretty spectacular.  And the sunlight and breezy warmth also measured up quite nicely.  It was a perfect day at the beach.

JT played in the sand, later announcing that he had sand in places it shouldn't be.

 He dared the waves to knock him down and they obliged.

And we all banked some rest and relaxation for the tiring schooldays ahead.

Real Life Conversations with JT: Local Color edition

The backstory: On the drive to school the other day, we were temporarily behind a shiny black car with a large sticker in the back window which read "Italian Princess."  JT had questions.

JT: What is an Italian Princess?

Mama:  It's an Italian girl from New Jersey.

JT:  But what makes her a princess?

Mama:  Big hair, long shiny fingernails, and an attitude.

JT: You forgot good pizza.  We have good Italian pizza in New Jersey.

The boy makes a valid point.

Twenty Years

August never passes that I don't reflect on the ways that my life has often changed in the eighth month of the year. August is my month for moving house. Twenty years ago this month, I left California for grad school in Nashville, Tennessee. Five years later, in 1994, I left Nashville for a job in rural Nebraska. And yet another August move was made in 2002, when I left Nebraska for a new job in New Jersey.

I generally think of myself as a Californian but I've lived in the West, the South, the Midwest, and the East. And the place I love best is Tennessee. I wouldn't say that I'm a drifter, but I certainly have tried a fair share of places. My son was born in Nebraska but he left at the age of two and isn't really a midwesterner. New Jersey and the East Coast are his home; the place most familiar to him. I am always surprised to realize that JT's most familiar place is not native to me.

I'm a bit of an outsider, I guess, in that I view my new home through the lens of someone who has lived elsewhere for a while. I've always come to see the place I live as beautiful; as places that fed my heart and felt like home. When I think of mountains, I still think of the immense grandeur of the Sierra Nevada range in California; no other mountains can hope to match up. I loved the woods and green hills of Tennessee and the vast sweep of the prairie in Nebraska. In New Jersey I've found satisfaction as well. In the woods where I go walking and on the front porch and in the backyard of my home, I see a restful beauty that is at odds with the stereotypical impressions people have of this state.

I'm not moving this month; I expect that I'll be in New Jersey for some years to come. But I've been thinking often of the ways that home has been a moving target for me. A friend of mine used to say that home is where you keep your clothes, and that's certainly true. But for me it's more than that. Home is the place you choose to make your own, where you find comfort and sustenance for your heart and soul.

And in my case, these days, home is the Garden State, a state with plenty of opportunities for retail therapy, replete with Jersey peaches, the best pizza in the world (and you'll want to call it a pie when you call Giuseppe's for takeout), and a Dunkin' Donuts at every corner.