09-22-2014, 04:52 PM
I WANT CANDY
The day starts with another 6 mile walk around Lake Quannapowitt. Hopefully, if I keep spelling Quannapowitt, rather than lake, I’ll be able to actually remember the name of Lake Quannapowitt.
The path is much quieter and peaceful on Saturday. The walk actually feels contemplative rather than an automobile assault on the senses. Until you pass the Honey Dew doughnut shop where all the Accountants and Lawyer Harley Davidson aficionados are taking a break before their weekend ride. Ten motorcycles all starting at once would be the opposite of contemplative.
Quannapowitt is very ethereal with the thick fog rising off it. I’m betting money the cel phone picture did not capture the magic of it. Still kicking myself for not lugging the big camera. But the cel phone is good for those quick hits of upload bliss.
When I get back to the house, Steve wants to show me something down in the basement. Oh, dear, you would thick this is the end of the road for me, but no. Steve or rather Natalie, has inherited her father Walter’s 1988 Pontiac Fiero sports car and it’s sitting in the garage. All it’s styling sings the 1980’s. Steve wants to know if I would like to go for a ride later. Just the thought of driving the car puts a twinkle in Steve’s eye. I agree to a later ride.
Since we are downstairs near all his tools, I gently broach the subject of the running water in the toilet. Steve tells me just to jiggle he handle. I tell him I’ve investigated the problem and mention the water streaming out of the float. And how if I had two big wrenches, I could fix it.
He said sure. Have at it. I wondered what he was thinking when I told him I already knew where one of the wrenches was hiding. We finally found an old plumber’s wrench among Walter’s old tools. Not the best choice, but it would do.
There was cursing and grunting for quite some time but I eventually realized I was turning the pipe the wrong way. Sigh. After that, it was pretty straight forward. Old float out. New float in. No more constant sounds of running water.
I go into Helen’s room to write up the previous days experiences. Steve comes in with some notes from my mother. He also wants to know if I can get some file off my father’s phone to print out on their wireless printer. What? Who?
I look at my mother’s note. It’s handwritten in her left handed-scrawl that takes forever to decipher. The bright pink felt pen doesn’t help either as all the letters bleed together into a blur. I decode, from what Steve is saying, that this is an email my mother wants me to type up and send to one of her students.
My mother has been making my father do this for years. I, on the other hand, want nothing to do with this little task. For a variety or reasons, some amazingly petty. I stomp downstairs and dump the three small pages in front of my mother. I tell her I’m already busy doing my own jobs, thank you very much.
She gets all cranky that I won’t help her out. She gives me a mad “Fine” when I tell her I am not doing the email.
I finish up with my writing and come back down stairs. My father asks me if he can use his phone to send the email. Score one for evil. The only thing I would hate more than sending the email was having to see my father struggle to send the email on his little phone.
I take the pages upstairs. I notice that there is no actual email address on the note, just the person’s name. I stomp back downstairs. The original email is on my father’s phone. I ask him to forward it to my computer. Another email my mother wants sent has now joined the pile of little pink papers.
Isn’t this part of my mother’s job? Doesn’t she get paid to correspond with her students?
My mother decided long ago to not learn how to use a computer. We’ve attempted to teach her multiple times. But everyone just gets frustrated and finds it is easier just to type it ourselves rather than fight with her for the millionth time on which button to press. Again my mother loves for people to cater to her.
Today my mother dines with her High School classmates from Mary Cliff academy at the Escadrille restaurant in Burlington. Because of our wanderings in the car, I have already driven by this restaurant many times.
It has been offered that my father and I join them for lunch. Sorry, no. Rather eat glass. although I can see all of our futures, when we are in our eighties reminiscing about past high school dances and school newspapers.
The only thing I have said it would be fun to do while we are in Boston, would be to go to a classic Massachusetts restaurant out at Revere Beach. It was a place my father used to go back in the long ago. He took us to one of the newer branches of the restaurant, Kelly’s Roast Beef, when we came out for my Uncle Jimmy’s funeral two years ago.
The original was located at Revere Beach which was Boston’s answer to Coney Island. All those rides and amusement arcades are long gone, but I thought it would be fun to see.
My father has been fluctuating in his health status on this journey from feeling crappy to slightly less crappy. I was getting the feeling that driving all the way out to Revere wasn’t something he was particularly interested in doing. I started pushing for a sub shop near Burlington.
He said no, kind of grudgingly, more like he was trying to please me than actually wanting to go. Plus, he got to dispense more stories about the Meadow Glen Mall which used to be the Meadow Glen drive-in, a place he worked at in college, and other stories during the drive through more half remembered streets.
My father was shocked to see all the big condo complex that now lined Revere Beach. He was equally amazed to see people swimming in the doubtless frigid New England waters. Planes came in across the bay and landed at nearby Logan airport in a steady stream. A couple of kite surfers fought the blowing wind and the placid water.
Kelly’s was right where he said it was. Unlike the place we went to in Saugus which had a big dining facility, the Kelly’s in Revere just had a walk up window and a couple of tables. But the charm of eating at Kelly’s was getting your brown bag of food, sitting at the benches along the strand and dining Al Fresco. You place you order at the window and then with a dozen other people who also await their orders. I took some time to look at the postcards Revere Beach back in it’s heyday.
Miracle of miracles, my father started to perk up a little. The stories started to flow while he chowed down on his roast beef with real horse radish. Seagulls and pigeons pestered us for crumbs.
A strange man with a cat on his shoulder wanted to know if I wanted to take a picture of this extremely docile cat while the cat sat atop a Revere Beach sign. I did but I also think the guy was angling for a tip after I took the picture. Other tourists saw the cat and dragged the guys focus towards them and I wandered away.
The other reason I opted for not going to Revere was that it was about a forty five minute drive from Burlington. We only had about two hours before we had to pick up my mother. Seeing my dad happy made the trip worthwhile.
My mother still owns her father’s home in Cambridge. She rents it out to people and the previously mentioned David McKenna plays handy man. My mother had called the tenants the night before and told them the owners were coming by. That has to be a scary call for any tenant.
After we picked up my mother, we drove over to Cambridge. We went along a route that I half remembered. As we got closer I remembered even more of how to get where we were going. Me telling this to my father had no effect on the constant stream of directions coming my way.
The house on 109 Lake View ave, no lake view included, looks the same as ever. It’s part of duplex. The trees are bigger in front. More of the porch has decayed.
The tenants were extremely nice people. He’s a professor of Sanskrit poetry in Harvard. I don’t think I ever heard what she does. They have two kids and now a small dog that is against the terms of the lease. David McKenna said it would be okay, without consulting with my parents. The small dog was nowhere in evidence during our visit.
The house looks much better than when my grandfather owned it. The tenants have done a great job on decorating it with some eclectic pieces of art, including some huge pieces of brass which look similar to giant swords but are actually money.
I toured all three floors and basement of the house, snapping pictures of everything and comparing the rooms and fixtures to my own memories with the current state of the house.
Tenant Joanna followed me down to the basement which had it’s familiar must smell. Natalie had also come along to see the house which was a big part of her childhood as well.
Joanna wasn’t very happy with David. She was constantly asking him to do repairs. The current round of chores had been hurriedly done only the last week because he knew we were going to be visiting. Joanna loves the house, would buy it. She knows plenty of handymen that could do better repairs than the ones David currently does.
We spent a good fifteen minutes talking about the David situation. I told her I had no power to solve these problems but I would see what I could do.
Since we had seen my father’s parent’s graves, my mother demand equal time for us to see her parent’s graves. We followed Natalie over to the Mount Auburn cemetery, who’s most famous tenant is Mary Baker Eddy. Eddy had a phone installed at her grave, if I remember the story correctly, so Eddy could call back from beyond death.
My mother actually cracked out some genuine emotion at her parents grave. I took more pictures of headstones with familiar names on them. The cemetery tour continued with a stop at Natalie’s parent’s graves. I noticed that Walter had been buried with both of his wives. Yes, I made an inappropriate remark about this to Natalie and immediately regretted it.
Now, it was time to find candy. You heard me. My mother wants to bring candy to people in Ireland. My father kind of remembers where the historic Fanny Farmer store is located.
Yeah, not there. I checked my phone for a location and discover that they were consolidated with another company ten years ago and are now owned by 1-800 FLOWERS. You can only get their candy through them.
No problem. We can got to Brighams. He knows where there store is in Belmont. Again, not so much. Brigham’s much like Fanny’s was taken over, mismanaged and disappeared a decade ago, too. I continued to tell them we should just by something at the airport and save me all this driving around.
Speaking of driving around, found out my mother is afraid of driving on freeways. Every time we enter the freeway, she crosses herself. Every time we come up behind another car, she clutches at her armrest, gives a scared intake of breath, and slams on her chicken brake. I tell you, that doesn’t drive the driver crazy at all. Not ever a little bit.
We end our chocolate quest and head to Reading. Took the freeway. Applied the chicken brake only a couple of times.
Natalie had suggested we all attend the movie “The Old Women” starring Kevin Kline and Helen Mirrin as part of the evening’s entertainment. As a bonus, the director would give a talk after the show. This was almost enticing. I did kind of want to see the film starring two actors I enjoy. The director talk would be a bonus.
Well, the more I drove, the more I just wanted to crash when I got home. My father was already done for the day and wasn’t going. Helen was coming down with a cold so Steve was leaning towards not going so he could take care of Helen.
At this point only my mom was up for going. It was suggested, that she and I go alone to the movies. They don’t know me very well.
The other factor effecting that decision was time was running out to actually go. Natalie was out doing errands and still hadn’t returned home. When my parents and I came back, Steve and I took the Fiero out to get pizza from his favorite local place.
Time ran out. Natalie returned but didn’t want to go since no one else wanted to go. The suggestion was made that Steve and I take my mother, which I almost agreed to do just so Steve wouldn’t be stuck with my mother. I couldn’t let him take that bullet.
Well, my mother said she was too tired to go, too. But maybe Steve and I could go and report back to her on what happened at the theater. Steve and I nixed that idea immediately.
Turned into a quiet night after a day of driving.
The day starts with another 6 mile walk around Lake Quannapowitt. Hopefully, if I keep spelling Quannapowitt, rather than lake, I’ll be able to actually remember the name of Lake Quannapowitt.
The path is much quieter and peaceful on Saturday. The walk actually feels contemplative rather than an automobile assault on the senses. Until you pass the Honey Dew doughnut shop where all the Accountants and Lawyer Harley Davidson aficionados are taking a break before their weekend ride. Ten motorcycles all starting at once would be the opposite of contemplative.
Quannapowitt is very ethereal with the thick fog rising off it. I’m betting money the cel phone picture did not capture the magic of it. Still kicking myself for not lugging the big camera. But the cel phone is good for those quick hits of upload bliss.
When I get back to the house, Steve wants to show me something down in the basement. Oh, dear, you would thick this is the end of the road for me, but no. Steve or rather Natalie, has inherited her father Walter’s 1988 Pontiac Fiero sports car and it’s sitting in the garage. All it’s styling sings the 1980’s. Steve wants to know if I would like to go for a ride later. Just the thought of driving the car puts a twinkle in Steve’s eye. I agree to a later ride.
Since we are downstairs near all his tools, I gently broach the subject of the running water in the toilet. Steve tells me just to jiggle he handle. I tell him I’ve investigated the problem and mention the water streaming out of the float. And how if I had two big wrenches, I could fix it.
He said sure. Have at it. I wondered what he was thinking when I told him I already knew where one of the wrenches was hiding. We finally found an old plumber’s wrench among Walter’s old tools. Not the best choice, but it would do.
There was cursing and grunting for quite some time but I eventually realized I was turning the pipe the wrong way. Sigh. After that, it was pretty straight forward. Old float out. New float in. No more constant sounds of running water.
I go into Helen’s room to write up the previous days experiences. Steve comes in with some notes from my mother. He also wants to know if I can get some file off my father’s phone to print out on their wireless printer. What? Who?
I look at my mother’s note. It’s handwritten in her left handed-scrawl that takes forever to decipher. The bright pink felt pen doesn’t help either as all the letters bleed together into a blur. I decode, from what Steve is saying, that this is an email my mother wants me to type up and send to one of her students.
My mother has been making my father do this for years. I, on the other hand, want nothing to do with this little task. For a variety or reasons, some amazingly petty. I stomp downstairs and dump the three small pages in front of my mother. I tell her I’m already busy doing my own jobs, thank you very much.
She gets all cranky that I won’t help her out. She gives me a mad “Fine” when I tell her I am not doing the email.
I finish up with my writing and come back down stairs. My father asks me if he can use his phone to send the email. Score one for evil. The only thing I would hate more than sending the email was having to see my father struggle to send the email on his little phone.
I take the pages upstairs. I notice that there is no actual email address on the note, just the person’s name. I stomp back downstairs. The original email is on my father’s phone. I ask him to forward it to my computer. Another email my mother wants sent has now joined the pile of little pink papers.
Isn’t this part of my mother’s job? Doesn’t she get paid to correspond with her students?
My mother decided long ago to not learn how to use a computer. We’ve attempted to teach her multiple times. But everyone just gets frustrated and finds it is easier just to type it ourselves rather than fight with her for the millionth time on which button to press. Again my mother loves for people to cater to her.
Today my mother dines with her High School classmates from Mary Cliff academy at the Escadrille restaurant in Burlington. Because of our wanderings in the car, I have already driven by this restaurant many times.
It has been offered that my father and I join them for lunch. Sorry, no. Rather eat glass. although I can see all of our futures, when we are in our eighties reminiscing about past high school dances and school newspapers.
The only thing I have said it would be fun to do while we are in Boston, would be to go to a classic Massachusetts restaurant out at Revere Beach. It was a place my father used to go back in the long ago. He took us to one of the newer branches of the restaurant, Kelly’s Roast Beef, when we came out for my Uncle Jimmy’s funeral two years ago.
The original was located at Revere Beach which was Boston’s answer to Coney Island. All those rides and amusement arcades are long gone, but I thought it would be fun to see.
My father has been fluctuating in his health status on this journey from feeling crappy to slightly less crappy. I was getting the feeling that driving all the way out to Revere wasn’t something he was particularly interested in doing. I started pushing for a sub shop near Burlington.
He said no, kind of grudgingly, more like he was trying to please me than actually wanting to go. Plus, he got to dispense more stories about the Meadow Glen Mall which used to be the Meadow Glen drive-in, a place he worked at in college, and other stories during the drive through more half remembered streets.
My father was shocked to see all the big condo complex that now lined Revere Beach. He was equally amazed to see people swimming in the doubtless frigid New England waters. Planes came in across the bay and landed at nearby Logan airport in a steady stream. A couple of kite surfers fought the blowing wind and the placid water.
Kelly’s was right where he said it was. Unlike the place we went to in Saugus which had a big dining facility, the Kelly’s in Revere just had a walk up window and a couple of tables. But the charm of eating at Kelly’s was getting your brown bag of food, sitting at the benches along the strand and dining Al Fresco. You place you order at the window and then with a dozen other people who also await their orders. I took some time to look at the postcards Revere Beach back in it’s heyday.
Miracle of miracles, my father started to perk up a little. The stories started to flow while he chowed down on his roast beef with real horse radish. Seagulls and pigeons pestered us for crumbs.
A strange man with a cat on his shoulder wanted to know if I wanted to take a picture of this extremely docile cat while the cat sat atop a Revere Beach sign. I did but I also think the guy was angling for a tip after I took the picture. Other tourists saw the cat and dragged the guys focus towards them and I wandered away.
The other reason I opted for not going to Revere was that it was about a forty five minute drive from Burlington. We only had about two hours before we had to pick up my mother. Seeing my dad happy made the trip worthwhile.
My mother still owns her father’s home in Cambridge. She rents it out to people and the previously mentioned David McKenna plays handy man. My mother had called the tenants the night before and told them the owners were coming by. That has to be a scary call for any tenant.
After we picked up my mother, we drove over to Cambridge. We went along a route that I half remembered. As we got closer I remembered even more of how to get where we were going. Me telling this to my father had no effect on the constant stream of directions coming my way.
The house on 109 Lake View ave, no lake view included, looks the same as ever. It’s part of duplex. The trees are bigger in front. More of the porch has decayed.
The tenants were extremely nice people. He’s a professor of Sanskrit poetry in Harvard. I don’t think I ever heard what she does. They have two kids and now a small dog that is against the terms of the lease. David McKenna said it would be okay, without consulting with my parents. The small dog was nowhere in evidence during our visit.
The house looks much better than when my grandfather owned it. The tenants have done a great job on decorating it with some eclectic pieces of art, including some huge pieces of brass which look similar to giant swords but are actually money.
I toured all three floors and basement of the house, snapping pictures of everything and comparing the rooms and fixtures to my own memories with the current state of the house.
Tenant Joanna followed me down to the basement which had it’s familiar must smell. Natalie had also come along to see the house which was a big part of her childhood as well.
Joanna wasn’t very happy with David. She was constantly asking him to do repairs. The current round of chores had been hurriedly done only the last week because he knew we were going to be visiting. Joanna loves the house, would buy it. She knows plenty of handymen that could do better repairs than the ones David currently does.
We spent a good fifteen minutes talking about the David situation. I told her I had no power to solve these problems but I would see what I could do.
Since we had seen my father’s parent’s graves, my mother demand equal time for us to see her parent’s graves. We followed Natalie over to the Mount Auburn cemetery, who’s most famous tenant is Mary Baker Eddy. Eddy had a phone installed at her grave, if I remember the story correctly, so Eddy could call back from beyond death.
My mother actually cracked out some genuine emotion at her parents grave. I took more pictures of headstones with familiar names on them. The cemetery tour continued with a stop at Natalie’s parent’s graves. I noticed that Walter had been buried with both of his wives. Yes, I made an inappropriate remark about this to Natalie and immediately regretted it.
Now, it was time to find candy. You heard me. My mother wants to bring candy to people in Ireland. My father kind of remembers where the historic Fanny Farmer store is located.
Yeah, not there. I checked my phone for a location and discover that they were consolidated with another company ten years ago and are now owned by 1-800 FLOWERS. You can only get their candy through them.
No problem. We can got to Brighams. He knows where there store is in Belmont. Again, not so much. Brigham’s much like Fanny’s was taken over, mismanaged and disappeared a decade ago, too. I continued to tell them we should just by something at the airport and save me all this driving around.
Speaking of driving around, found out my mother is afraid of driving on freeways. Every time we enter the freeway, she crosses herself. Every time we come up behind another car, she clutches at her armrest, gives a scared intake of breath, and slams on her chicken brake. I tell you, that doesn’t drive the driver crazy at all. Not ever a little bit.
We end our chocolate quest and head to Reading. Took the freeway. Applied the chicken brake only a couple of times.
Natalie had suggested we all attend the movie “The Old Women” starring Kevin Kline and Helen Mirrin as part of the evening’s entertainment. As a bonus, the director would give a talk after the show. This was almost enticing. I did kind of want to see the film starring two actors I enjoy. The director talk would be a bonus.
Well, the more I drove, the more I just wanted to crash when I got home. My father was already done for the day and wasn’t going. Helen was coming down with a cold so Steve was leaning towards not going so he could take care of Helen.
At this point only my mom was up for going. It was suggested, that she and I go alone to the movies. They don’t know me very well.
The other factor effecting that decision was time was running out to actually go. Natalie was out doing errands and still hadn’t returned home. When my parents and I came back, Steve and I took the Fiero out to get pizza from his favorite local place.
Time ran out. Natalie returned but didn’t want to go since no one else wanted to go. The suggestion was made that Steve and I take my mother, which I almost agreed to do just so Steve wouldn’t be stuck with my mother. I couldn’t let him take that bullet.
Well, my mother said she was too tired to go, too. But maybe Steve and I could go and report back to her on what happened at the theater. Steve and I nixed that idea immediately.
Turned into a quiet night after a day of driving.
So much for the flickr badge idea. Dammit