Letting Go

This essay, appeared in the Jewish Journal on July 27, 2017, but was written about a month before that.  Thank you to Editor Steven Rosenberg for publishing it and for his help in keeping the story short and (bitter) sweet. 

JULY 27, 2017 – Scrolling through social media yesterday I stopped to “like” my friend’s post. Actually, these days you can “love” a photo, and as I held the like button down to get to the word “love,” I felt tears welling up.

The picture was his 9-year old daughter, getting on the bus to go to sleep-away camp for the first time. There she was, this little girl, in her denim shorts with the white lace cut-outs, a hot pink baseball cap and a back-pack that looked like it held absolutely nothing, looking back over her shoulder, waving a final goodbye to her daddy.

Thirteen years ago, right around now, I was packing up my youngest child, a skinny 10-year-old boy, for sleep-away camp in the Berkshires. He had slept soundly the night before. I had been up until some ungodly hour, labeling every item of clothing, folding bedding and towels, cramming sports equipment into a huge duffel bag, and writing our address and stamping envelopes he’d never use.

Jacob loved camp so much he called it his home away from home. His camp friends became his best friends. He went back summer after summer and although he always continued with his Jewish studies through our synagogues, he will credit camp with the most vital of his Jewish learning, growth, and identity.

As his sister had done, he took advantage of the camp’s trip to Israel when he was 15 and the bonds with his friends became deeper. As his brother had done, he went to Israel for his junior semester abroad, and like his parents, attended Tel Aviv University.

I really wanted to visit him there and I knew he was wary about the whole family descending on him while he was studying abroad.  Looking back on my own experiences, I was a bit hesitant when my parents visited me at age 20, living in the dorms at Tel Aviv University. When I got on the plane in Newark that December, I was already quite self-confident, but I had never really had the experiences that would form the core of whom I was to become.

I did things in Israel I would never have done here in the US. Camping in the Sinai, no tent, just a sleeping bag under the stars, watching the sun come up over the Red Sea. Having nothing more critical to do than go snorkeling and trade for eggs and pita with the local Bedouin kids.

Hitchhiking on a day off from classes to get to the beach with a few American friends, realizing I had spent the whole day speaking only Hebrew. Going on a date with an Israeli guy and finding out that, due to the fact certain words were not yet in my vocabulary, I had agreed to going to a live sex show! Afterward, of course we went out for a snack, and as I learned, he knew the best place for hummus.

After all I had been through, I wasn’t so sure I was ready to be “parented” yet. I had also changed physically, my once straightened hair now long, slightly bleached by the sun, and curly. But when my parents arrived, after they got over the shock of my sundress, Israeli sandals, and wild hair, we had a fine time, and they wined and dined me, even setting me up on a blind date.

Believing I had my own son all figured out, we booked the trip anyway and planned to tread lightly on his schedule and plans. We took my older son and daughter, and thought we had a wonderful time.

After Jacob had been home for quite a while, more than a year, he referred to that time as less than stellar. I felt I had done so well in mastering the fine line between family time and giving him space. We fed him well, and then left him alone. But I guess that was not how he best wanted to spend those days. I then realized not only is he not a junior me, he is also not his siblings.

When Jacob graduated college last spring and announced that he won a fellowship to teach in Israel, I felt conflicted. Everything indicated parenting gone right, right? Then why did it feel so wrong? It would be a 10-month job. Apartment, car, money for food; a mother’s dream for her child. Except that I was no longer a part of that dream.

And, he asked us not to visit.

How sheepish I feel when speaking to people about how proud I am of the work he’s doing in one breath, and in the next answering the obvious question: “Well, no, I didn’t get to see him there this time.”  I just can’t bring myself to say “because he didn’t want us to come.” I told my husband recently I wonder if I will look back on this and regret it, or if I did the right thing, respecting his autonomy.

This Israel-loving, independent child is now a 23-year-old young man who is living a life that I barely get to see. There have been some posts on Facebook, short messages via WhatsApp, and a few phone conversations. Just enough to know that he’s fine.

And recently, sadly, when my mother-in-law passed away, Jacob was on a plane and with our family as we grieved. There was no conversation about whether he should come home, just the logistics.  He was fully present and there when it mattered.

He is due to come home at the end of next month. Texts about jobs and plane tickets go unanswered. I look forward to seeing him, and hopefully, having my choices validated. As surely as I returned from Tel Aviv a changed person, I am considering that this is what will happen with my son. But his way.

For now, I have had to settle for scrolling through all of my friends’ photos of camper’s smiles, with the hope that I will see my son’s smile somewhere in my news feed.

Jacob and me at a Tel Aviv Beach during his Junior year. 

Juliet Barr is married, and the mother of three. She is a Jewish educator and has worked in congregations and Jewish federations in Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York and Washington. 

Let all who are hungry...

Grandma's special plates, the ones I only use for gefilte fish, are already put away.
The seder plate is in the drying rack. 
Silver kiddush cups are upside down on a towel, the sunlight is hitting them just now making them sparkle.
Matzah crumbs are everywhere... as they will be all week.

My house is again way too quiet... this is the way it is now that the kids don't live here.  After the joy of the Seders and having them home, they have gone back to Boston to get back to work. 

As it has happened twice before, one of my three children was not here.  This year, my it was youngest who was not home for Passover, as he was away for his semester abroad.  He actually spent his Seder in Israel, with the same family that hosted me when I was 20, and I loved that.  But of course he was missed.  

I would like to share with you the words he sent to his sister to be read at our Seder table.  

Shalom and Chag Samayach from the holy land.  This is Jacob (Barr), writing while I wait for Yael Betzelel to take to me to her husband's family's Seder near tel aviv.  As it says in the Torah, B'shanah haba'ah b'tel aviv.

Last year at the Seder, Maddie (*point to self*) read us a portion of the New Haggadah edited by Jonathan Safran Foer where he examines the text "Let all who are hungry come and eat," and makes us really consider if we are following this commandment.  Foer  challenges us not to make this another phrase we say because of the holiday, but actually turn it into a reality.  Practically speaking there is no use saying that when you are already sitting down to eat.  Those who are hungry can't hear you.  

I've been reflecting on this since I arrived in Israel (did I mention I'm in Israel?), where I've been coasting on the generosity of friends and strangers for some time now.  I could list many many instances of when Israelis have helped me, fed me, even clothed me.  I went on a four day hike from the Mediterranean to the Kinneret and each night stayed with a different trail angel, a person who lives near the trail and opens his home to travelers.  Sometimes it was planned, sometimes not.  One family invited us in when it was raining, gave us dry socks and shoes to keep, another took us to his kibbutz breakfast, and at our last location a large group of Thai workers at a kibbutz shared their (incredibly spicy and questionably prepared) Thai food with us while they took videos of us eating from across the table.

Did my characteristic pluck and boyish charm help?  Of course.  My unparalleled wit?  No doubt.  But all this aside, I have never felt so welcomed as I have been in the weeks before Pesach. We took a trip to Safed for a shabbat and stayed with the trail angel we stayed with on the hike weeks ago, and before we left he told our group of five that if any of us or any of our friends needed a Seder we were welcome to his and to stay at his house.

I emailed my birthright tour guide from December to ask about small day trips I could take from Tel Aviv and he responded first with an invitation to his Seder and to stay in his house, and second with ideas for trips.  An adult on the Frisbee team I practice with here told the entire team of twenty that if any of us needed a place for the Seder we were invited to his.

The list goes on:  Chabad Rabbis, Taxi drivers, my Israeli friends from camp: All of them ask us not out of courtesy but from a real desire to help us and give us a place to go.  There may be turmoil, political crisis, and absurdly expensive ground beef here, but in some ways the people here really do act like its the promised land.  So b'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalyim, may next year bring us closer to a world where everyone acts with the same genuine care as I've experienced with the people here.   

At a time when I am so caught up in my own work, and then in my preparations for the holiday, I have not been able to stop to be reflective.  I am deeply grateful that my son has.  



The Haggadah he refers to is amazing...  Click here for the link on Amazon.

Once In A While You Get Shown the Light

August 6, 2013

I'm in the midst of composing two other posts... but this just happened and for all of you teachers, educators, and counselors out there who wonder why we keep fighting the good fight... this will remind you, and make you feel like truth, justice and the American way is on your side.  Or at least you'll feel all warm and fuzzy for a few minutes.

I got a call from my son yesterday.  He works at the URJ Eisner Camp, so a call is rare.  He was on his way back from a doctor's appointment so he had time to chat.  (Let's not think about the fact he was using his phone while driving, okay?)

First things first.  How'd the appointment go? This is not germaine to the blog, but as a Jewish mother, I wouldn't want you to think that we didn't discuss my son's health.  He and I then checked in on the rest of the family, and I told him about some adventures I had. 

Then this.

Mom, do you remember a kid named Alex P. back from when you were the principal at Temple B'nai Emunat Yisrael? 

YES!  Of COURSE I do!  I LOVED Alex!  

Well, he is in my friend Steve's bunk, so I don't know him that well. Apparently he had a pretty good first half, but then all his friends left, and he's struggling during the second half of camp.  When he comes to adventure he seems like a good kid but Steve said he's starting to act-out in the bunk.  Then when they were at Limmud (the educational period of camp) he was asked who his role model was. He said, "Juliet Barr."  I wasn't there, but Steve figured out that it was you, Mom.  So I reached out to him, and told him who I was, so he would know he had a connection and a friend.

I was temporarily speechless.

Then I went on to tell my son about my special connection with Alex, and what I thought might work... he was really great with younger kids and took on responsibility very well.  I felt like reaching out to Alex's mom, but I might just hold on to this moment.

I am his role model.  Why?  Because I saw past his behavior and into his heart?  Because instead of punishing his "attitude" I saw something beyond it, found a way to turn it around and allowed the synagogue to become a safe place.  I'm sorry the rest of his teachers and counselors still aren't seeing this too.  

And how wonderful that I found out.  That somewhere at Eisner Camp, a counselor put two and two together, with this exotic last name of BARR and mentioned it to my son, who actually remembered to tell me.  So I can know that that meeting when I stood up for this child and explained that punishment and make-up assignments would do absolutely NOTHING to help him, but having him help in the first grade class would, actually did.

May all of you teachers have a moment when you hear that you are a student's role model, hero, or favorite teacher.  I feel like SuperWoman today.  Where's my cape?


Of course the name of the student and the synagogue have been changed.  The name of the camp really is Eisner Camp and magic happens there.  And my name is actually Juliet Barr.

Where's the Big Puppy?

By Guest Blogger Scout Barr

Guest Author: Scout Barr

I'll be filling in today for the Big Mommy.  That's what I call Juliet.  I offered to write a piece for her blog, and she said it would be okay, as long as there were a few photos and no typos.  If you think it's easy to type when they haven't clipped my toenails in months, think again.

I'm worried.  I know Big Mommy has a lot of readers, so I'm hoping someone can help me.

The Big Puppy is missing.  At first, I thought he'd be right back.  After a few days, I thought maybe it was one of those longer trips he sometimes takes.  Then it became clear that he was not coming home.  Big Puppy has never been gone this long.  And Bear and I are starting to worry.  Without the Big Puppy, things are going to be pretty dull around here.  Here's what he looks like.

Big Puppy

In our pack, there's Bear, the other canine*, and Big Daddy and Big Mommy.  They take care of us.  They sometimes leave, but they always come back.  Ever since I was born, they have been here.  Back then, there was Little Mommy too. To show my love for her, I sleep on her bed and chew up her stuffed animals.  When Little Mommy comes for a visit, she can tell how much I love her.  Little Mommy takes Bear and me for really long walks, sometimes up to the mountain.  And the Other Daddy who doesn't really love us, but is nice to us and will take care of us when he visits.    

 Big Mommy,  Big Daddy in the back
Little Mommy, Other Daddy and Big Puppy Seated in the Front

And there was Big Puppy.  Big Puppy was one of us.  Big Puppy walked us every day, and fed us sometimes.  Big Puppy took us outside no matter what the weather was, and played rough with us.  Big Puppy stopped whatever he was doing to show us love, and he and I grew up together.  I slept next to him at night.  Big Puppy has gotten bigger and bigger, but he always makes time for us.  

Bear Barr

But Big Puppy has been gone for a long time.  After a few nights of waiting by the door and sleeping in Big Puppy's room, I realized he wasn't coming home. I started sleeping in Big Mommy and Daddy's room, where it's cooler.  Bear still sleeps outside Big Puppy's door, like he's still waiting.

Other Daddy and Little Mommy have come to visit, but still no Big Puppy.  Sometimes Big Mommy takes us  outside and she tries to play with us the rough way, but it's really not the same.  A few times she even threw the frisbee and the football for us.  (Lame.)  Bear and I humored her for a few minutes but then we just came in and let her give us a cookie and plopped by the front door and waited for someone more fun to come along.  

So if any of you have seen Big Puppy, please tell him it's time to come home now.  It's just not the same without him.  

*There are other pets in this house too, but until the Cat and the Turtle start being even remotely fun, they do not get a mention.

Parenting 101

This happened.


At a party last week, I was cornered by a long-time acquaintance whose three children are each about eight or ten years older than my three kids.  She wanted to know my "secret" to parenting.


"How did you manage to keep your kids Jewish?  How is it that they still are so respectful?  How did you get them to get along with each other so well?"


"Um, Dianna, isn't it a bit late for you and your kids?"


Luckily she assumed  I was making a joke, took it with a smile and said that she's working on her doctorate. She was looking for information on birth order and parenting.  I assured her I'd give her all my parenting "secrets," but just not right then, as we were making our way to the the dinner table.  I started to think about what I'd tell her if she did call me.


You make a lot of decisions when you are a  parent.  (Well, I hope you do...)  This is part one of what I think will be a multi-part blog piece with some thoughts about raising kids to be healthy, mentschy, "normal" human beings in this not-so-normal world.


Before we even had children, and certainly when they were very young parents, my husband and I were deliberate in our choices... We will raise our three children in a house that promotes peace, and love. I believed then, and believe now that every generation must be the next generation that comes closer to an understanding of true peace.  I wanted our home to reflect what I teach in my classes.  

• No weapons in the house. 

• Toys will be gender neutral.  

• No violence on television.

• No cursing or negative, hateful language.

Hah hah hah.

The first time we were challenged just slightly with our crazy gender neutral parenting ideas was when our oldest, "Daniel," was in nursery school.  He must have been 4, and our daughter, "Maya" was 1  1/2.


His teacher, Miss Laura, asked me to stay after the other moms had left with their toddlers.  She was very solemn.  Daniel was never naughty.  Not at home and not at school, so I was immediately concerned.   She let Daniel continue to "read" in the library corner, and said to me in a hushed voice, "I need to tell you something very serious."  I felt my heart race.  I looked at him.  He seemed fine.  I looked back at Laura and she was clearly very nervous to tell me...
"Yes, what is it?"
"Daniel wants to be Queen Esther in our Purim Parade."
"Oh, ok."
My pulse goes back to a normal beat.
"You know, not Ahashveros, not Mordechai or Haman.  Queen Esther."
"Yes, I get it.  That's fine."
"It's fine?"
"Yes, it's completely fine, let him make the Queen Esther costume."


I looked at my perfectly happy, healthy son and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Having completed cancer treatments less than a year before and not being sure my next scan would be clean, this was anything but serious.  He identifies with Queen Esther, eh? The hero of the story...I always related more with Vashti, but okay. (I'd be a lot more worried if it were Haman, the evil-doer who wanted to kill the Jews.)
I scooped up my delicious, healthy, son and put him in his carseat and brought him home.


On the day of the Purim parade, there marched my son, with his crown and cape, and he beamed as he knew how great he looked.  (The fact was, the kids made their costumes and they all looked pretty much the same.  Except for the little Hamans.  They had sinister looking black paper hats, and black paper mustaches that fell off about 2 minutes after the parade started.)


Not long after that came the twin cursing incidents of the winter of '92.


I supposed that every family has a story or two like these.  


I had asked my husband to work hard to curb his language when we had children.  He agreed with me that this was a good idea.  It was not just about cursing, but all kinds of language that I did not want our children to ever hear in our house.  I'm proud to say that we do not use "hate," "stupid," or "shut-up" directed at one another to this day.


A bit of history here:  Our two cats, of blessed memory, had been with us for many years and had edged right up into pure decrepitude by this point in our family life.  Not a day went by when one or the other cat didn't miss the litter box entirely, or cost us a fortune at the vet. To say that they were long past bringing us joy is putting it kindly.  One night, little Daniel came in to see my husband very upset about something.  He was muttering and tromping around the living room, and innocently, Daniel asked, "Dad, is it the fucking cats?"


This was immediately followed by a family dinner to our favorite Chinese Restaurant, the Great Wall.  Little Maya was on her daddy's shoulders, and we ran from the car to the doors of the restaurant, through the snowy, slushy parking lot.  I held Daniel's hand on this messy night, right behind them.  As we walked in through the doors, a huge pile of melting snow/slush fell on my husband's bald head, causing him to yell out, "Shit!"  This delighted my toddler daughter to no end: The splash of the snow, the yelling of a brand new word, the excited reaction from me.  The rest of the night, Maya sat in the high chair at the Great Wall restaurant exclaiming "Shit! Shit! Shit!" enjoying her soup and noodles, and mortifying me and my mom, (and probably secretly delighting my dad).  My husband became MUCH more careful about his language after that.


As our kids grew up, the BAN on cursing morphed into a tolerance on cursing, but only when it was funny.  Which was to say, you cannot curse at another family member, but it was okay for comedic effect.


Then there was my ban on weapons.


Easy enough to enforce with our first two children.  Daniel and Maya never missed them.  At other children's homes, they were not interested, and  I was the slightly smug mom who raised the peaceful new generation of mini-hippies.  They shall learn war no more.  Not in my house.  Nope.  Not until "Jack" was born.  Before this little guy was out of the crib, he had turned everything in sight into a weapon.  We still didn't buy him any guns or swords; there was no need!  Each tree branch was a perfect pistol or rifle.  Whether he was a Jedi or a ninja, every toy in the playroom was re-purposed into his trusty weapon, and stowed into his belt.  A favorite sword was the snorkel, which I believe also served as a secret walking stick, until he left it in the movie theater in our town.  He was so utterly despondent we went back to find it, but it had been discarded with the containers of half-eaten pop-corn and overly-sweetened slushies.  Eventually we got Jack a knight costume that came with a little plastic sword, and there was no going back.  


I came to understand that this was the way he needed to play.  Pretending that the plastic knife from the play kitchen was a dagger during the Robin Hood phase satisfied or soothed something in him and allowed him to pretend, in the same way that my older son found joy in creating masterpieces with Legos, and my daughter found outlets with her art kits.  If I had taken away the markers from Maya, she would have found the crayons, take them away and she would find the colored pencils.  Was little Jack going to grow up to be a war-mongering overlord?  I didn't know.  I decided that I would continue to parent as best as I could, trying to monitor what he watched on tv and supervise the way he played with others so that he learned what was and was not appropriate play. Pretending you are pirates on the swingset is okay.  Pushing younger kids off and saying they have fallen off the plank is not okay.  ("That's a time out.  Why?  Because you aren't really a pirate.")


After I said yes to Jack having a sword, and later, a fake gun* from Wild West City** I was pretty sure I knew what I'd say to Daniel when he asked if he could have a Barbie Doll. I can't say I didn't think about it a little bit.  I had a few concerns.  Would he want to bring it to school, and if he did, would he get teased?  Should I insist that he should get a Ken doll? Should I ignore his request and see if he forgot about it?  And the big question... if you buy a boy a Barbie, will that make him gay?  


Let's get that last question out of the way, and let me just say that was for the benefit of any parent who is reading this now and is going through something similar.  Because let's face it.  A toy cannot possibly have the power to change a person's sexual identity.   So the real question was, is there a chance that my child may grow up and realize he's gay?  And will buying him a Barbie now change that later?


Here's what I did, and I am pretty sure I discussed it with my husband, though now I don't remember the conversation.    The kids' babysitter, Meggie wanted to buy the kids each something for Hanukkah, and Daniel had asked her too.  So she asked us if it would be alright, and knowing this was a way that Daniel needed to play, I said yes, please don't spend too much, but sure.  Meggie bought him a Barbie and a Ken, and Daniel was a very happy guy.  He did not ask to bring them to school. 


What lessons did I learn from my children's play habits?  My daughter Maya loved to play with little toy animals, and for a while wanted to be a vet.  She also liked to draw on the walls with Sharpie, but had no inclination to become a graffiti artist.  She now teaches children in an after-school environmental education program.


My older son, Daniel, as it happens is gay.  Jokingly, he says it's because I let him play with the Barbie, but seriously, I think we both know that letting him play with the doll then just means he doesn't need to play with one now, as a 25 year old young man.  He's a teacher and a great role model to young people.


And my son, Jack, who, during his Zorro phase carved a giant "Z" into my parents kitchen table with one of their knives?  Well, we don't know about him yet.  So far he seems to have left his need for weapons behind and has followed in his mother's more peaceful ways, but he's only 18, so we're keeping an eye on him.  After spending the summer as a camp counselor, he probably has a few stories of his own to share.


And after all this thinking and writing... so far, Dianna has not called me.  And these aren't really all my secrets, not by a long shot... just the first few things that came to mind when I thought about my children, and what I had to think, and re-think as parenting theory gave way to parenting reality.   


I wanted to raise each child to be the best most unique person that he or she could be... I hope I am still doing that.












*I did not really say "yes" to the fake gun so much as I didn't have a full-blown fight with my husband in the middle of the OK Corral when he bought it for Jack while I was in the bathroom with Maya.
**Wild West City:  The worst, tackiest theme park in NJ.   So terrible that we had to go there twice during Jack's cowboy phase.  Click here to check it out.

Someday We'll Look Back on This and it Will All Seem Funny

I live in New Jersey.  I was born here.  I spent a good couple of years putting it down and waiting to get out.  And many more years calling it home again. 


So what's up with New Jersey?


Thanks to TV, the rest of the United States, (and probably a good part of the television viewing world) thinks that we speak with some kind of less-than-articulate accent, that we have big hair, and crave the material things in life.  I've never even watched two of those popular New Jersey shows, but I know the stereotype.  Ironically enough, when my family and I were at the Jersey shore two summers ago, we saw the iconic stars of that famous shore show.  But I think somehow I better not post their pictures in my blog.  


New Jersey used to feel like a an annex to New York.  When I was growing up, I didn't get that NJ had its own shtick.  All we had then was Bruce Springsteen, and we had so much of him, I lost interest.  (I know, that is blasphemy, and I've come around to appreciate him a bit more.)  


I've lived in Boston, North Carolina, Portland Oregon and San Francisco.  I even lived in Israel for part of my Junior year in college.  All of these places had their own personality.  They were all great places to live.  But I was always a visitor.  New Jersey was my home.  My parents were here, and for much of their lives, so were my grandparents. As much as I might like to put this state down, this happened to be my state.


What's up with New Jersey?  Here's what works for me...

This is a dolphin swimming by.  Really.

1. Great Beaches.  Okay, my favorite is and always has been Seaside.  With the honky tonk of the boardwalk of Seaside Heights and the spectacular waves, beaches and (usually) clean ocean of Seaside Park... this is where my family has gone for years.  Everyone has their favorite spot on the Jersey Shore. This year, we saw dolphins swim right past us.  And I have still never had better pizza  than that on the boardwalk at Seaside Heights.  (Not even in Italy.)
2. Great Schools.   I know that NJ cares about education... and although not every single town has outstanding schools, this was definitely a plus when we decided to move back here from San Francisco.
3. Proximity to New York.  Yup.  Like most people I know, my husband and I don't go into NY nearly as often as one would think, and don't take advantage of nearly enough of the cultural options.  But we COULD if we wanted to!  Mostly we go to NY for rock concerts and work related things.  And then we complain about the traffic.  But, it's still there when we want it!
4. Distance from New York.  And here's the perfection of where we live.  In our idyllic little town in Bergen County, you can almost pretend you are back in a simpler time.  Neighbors know one another and stop to chat.  Our worst traffic nightmare here is when school lets out and the crossing guard holds up the cars to let the kids cross. 
5. Happy Kids.   As much as I wanted to get out, my kids seem to have been very happy growing up here.  They loved this little town, and the freedom it afforded them to go out on their own as they got older.  They loved the shore too, and being very close to their NJ grandparents. (Their other grandparents are in Maine, and this was always a very easy drive we made 3 times a year.)
6. Prices.  This is not worth moving here, but our gas prices are lower than the surrounding states, and you never have to pump it yourself.  Also, no tax on clothing.
7. Cory Booker.   Mayor of Newark.  Maybe Governor of NJ someday.  I just wanted to mention him because I think he's all that. 
8. Tomatoes and Corn.  The best when they are in season.  Peaches too.

A few things that could be better?

1. We could do better with our environmental policies and regulations.  In my perfect little town we cannot drink the water because of high levels of arsenic.  Hmm.  
2. The Blue Laws.  Yes, we still have them.  No shopping in Bergen County on Sunday.  Don't get me started.
3. Same Sex Marriage... not here, not yet.  A same sex couple can get married in Iowa, but not in NJ?  WHAT?   DC,  New York, Massachusetts... come on now NJ, it's our turn.

Am I missing anything? 

Yes, Jon Bon Jovi.  Sorry.  I simply have nothing to say about him.  Except this.  Why does he pretend to be a cowboy? 

And It Surely Looks Like Rain

It's Saturday afternoon, August 27, 2011.  The Hurricane Irene is on her way.  It's all people are talking, tweeting, facebooking and blogging about.  Even me.


We are all "battening down the hatches" or however you spell that, and preparing for this storm of the half- century.  If it's as big as they predict, there's a good chance that we will probably have a flooded basement and lose power.  I don't live near the ocean, but if you have read my earlier blogs, I do live on a small lake which becomes a mighty, well, lake that overflows when we have these types of weather situations. 


Here's how we've prepared so far: 


1.  Eldest child has escaped to his own apartment in Boston, also in the danger zone, but a rental and not his problem.  He's carefree and probably just making sure his laptop, Droid and flashlights are at the ready.  I hope that I've taught him well and he has a stocked fridge and liquor cabinet.


2.  Middle child has also escaped to visit friend in Ann Arbor... she'll enjoy the hurricane from the comfort of the midwest which is scheduled for no weather at all this weekend.


3.  Youngest son did his obligatory 1/2  hour of helping move stuff around the garage and is hanging with his friends before being stuck in the house with his parents.  I believe he's a little put off by the threat of no electricity and having to play Grateful Dead-opoly with Mom and Dad for two days by candle light.


4.  Garage is cleaned out, garbage cans moved in.  The guy actually did arrive and put in a larger drain and pipes to drain the water out of our driveway so hopefully the flooding we usually get will not be so bad.  We do have a few holes in our roof (see "Phase One") so a leak could be in our future.  We have frozen bags of water and are filling up a few coolers of water, just in  case.  We have a full fridge, and of course, a full liquor cabinet.  Also, the great Mayor Corey Booker (Newark) suggests filling up your cars with gas and getting cash today, so that's done too.


Tom Petty said "The Waiting is the Hardest Part."  I think it's the cleaning.  If I could just sit on the couch with a nice cold drink and wait, I mean really, how hard could that possibly be?  But I need to get back to it and get everything off the basement floor and away from the windows.  


Before I go... I changed the set up of this blog so you can post your comments.  (I think.  Try it and let me know.)

And a prize goes to the person who can name this object I found while cleaning the basement!








Stay safe, and enjoy the ride!

Who'll Stop the Rain

Picture a Nicholas Sparks movie adaptation of one of his novels.  (You can't?  Ask your sister / mother / girlfriend/ gay friend.) 


The four kids (mentioned yesterday) are sitting blithely around the pool.  It's tomorrow, so it's sunny, and someone has cleaned the pool.  They are joking and laughing, and having snack and drinks out there (in plastic cups, of course).  Scene cuts to worried Mom (me) inside on the computer, tracking Hurricane Irene. 

Next scene cuts to very uptight father at work.  He's looking at the bank statement online and wildly clicking things to see if he can make money appear where it needs to be.  Viewers are perplexed.


Cut to May of this summer.  No, make that May of six years ago. Yes, that's how they do it in the movies.


The parents look pretty much the same, but the kids of course are six years younger. We come to take a final look at the house we are about to buy.  After at least 5 years of  taking our tiny house on and off the market, debating whether to stay in our  little town in Northern NJ, comparing the value of a decent sized house with a decent sized yard, we have finally sold our place and settled on what basically amounts to a brick raised ranch.  On what is arguably the nicest piece of property in the entire town.  (Did I use arguably correctly here? Read on and let me know what you think.)  As I have said, the house is really just a shoebox, only one room bigger than the one we've just sold, though each room is a little larger (except the master bathroom, which I may get to in another entry).  But then there's the yard.

And here's the funny thing.  We had pretty much decided we didn't care about the yard, as long as we had enough room in the house for our "stuff."  That lasted right up until we saw the yard.  The first thing you notice is that the front door is facing a huge front yard, but is set up away from the street.  It's hard to describe and also harder to find.  Kids on Halloween have a very tough time (guess you could say it's our trick if they want to get their treat). 

The next thing you see is that there's a beautiful pool, shaped like a chipotle pepper.  Of course, we didn't realize it at first.  I mean, of course we knew there was a pool, and that it had a fun shape, but chipotle peppers didn't come into vogue til recently, and we had really not identified it as any specific type of pepper at the time.




 

Pool with people in it.

Kids canoeing on the lake.



But the piece de resistance is the fact that behind the house and the pool flows a small river, or creek, punctuated by two waterfalls. This little pocket of zen surrenity in the midst of suburbia is what our family has called home for six years.  We love our upper lake, our waterfalls, and lower lake.  We love our barely-used canoe and the fact that there are snapping turtles in the middle lake that sometimes need rescuing.  We love that the upper lake has an abundance of fish in it, and on spring and summer nights you can see them jumping out of the water to catch insects. 

We don't love that this summer, for some reason, this lake has begun to overflow into our pool.  Which brings us to this past May.

Pool with mud in it.

The tranquil lake overflowed into the lovely blue pool TWICE, causing thousands of dollars worth of work, mess, and damage to pool, property and flooding into the house.  The pool had to be drained both times and refilled, leaving it with a stained and cracked bottom.  We had a berm built to staunch the flow of the water, and it has been tested already (and will be tested again with the impending Irene and her winds and water).

And our movie cuts back to today.  And our unknowing, naive but happy young adults are enjoying the pool and hammock... not knowing the worry in their parents' hearts.  Will the berm hold up?  Will the redirected water find a different way into the pool or into the thrice-flooded house?  (Yes, the house.  This could be the sequel, or possibly a prequel to this cinematic thriller.)  And, if you've been playing along, you'll recall that we are still not sure if there is a hole in the roof where the tree fell on the house, as the roofing contractor has failed to show at each of our arranged appointments so far.  And while we are on the subject of the money pit we call our home, we are still waiting for a no-show plumber to dig a new drainage system to allow for the water to flow away from our home and into the lawn and lake.

So, maybe it's really not like a Nicholas Sparks' movie at all.  Perhaps it should be more aptly called "Little House in the Suburbs." 

Stay tuned to find out how we fare during Hurricane Irene...