Steven Harper's Blog, page 62
July 30, 2018
Eastern Seaboard Vacation 5: A Girl in Tears
We got back from whale watching and tower climbing very tired. But after resting a while, I felt restless, so I went out for a walk. I had no idea how strangely a simple stroll would go.
The night was beautiful--warm and breezy with a full moon and the smell of the ocean. I wandered down the road and came around a curve. There I saw ahead of me a dead end that had a little parking area in it lit by a mercury lamp. A staircase led downward, and the ocean spread out in the distance. How lovely! This needed exploring!
However, a car was parked under the mercury lamp. This meant that someone was down there already. This kind of thing gets tricky at night. This struck me as the kind of place teenagers went for . . . romance, and a strange adult male wandering by in the dark would make for all kinds of awkward for everyone involved.
As I drew closer, adolescent voices wafted up the staircase, meaning I was right. The voices were getting louder, too, which meant they were coming up. I didn't feel like interacting with these kids, so I ducked into the yard of a house near the staircase. The yard was separated from the road by a high fence and some bushes, and I stuck to the shadows in there. The teens reached the top of the stairs, and I heard a boy and a girl.
"I know I heard someone up here," the girl said. (My footsteps were indeed loud on the gravel.)
"He must have gone that way," the boy said. "Get in and start the car."
This sparked a minor argument between them. I waited quietly. In the end, the girl said, "It's like being in a horror movie." The car started. Judging from the sounds I heard, the boy walked around some more, then also got in. The car drove away.
But wait . . .
Once they were completely gone, I emerged from hiding and strolled down the steps. At the bottom, I found a beach and a quiet cove. Perhaps two dozen boats of varying sizes and quality floated at anchor on the softly lapping water. Even more kayaks and rowboats were scattered all over the shore. A bit farther up the beach sat a giant boulder the size of a small house. It was striking both for its size and unusual placement. I wondered how it got there. A trick of the ice age? Or had humans actually hauled it in? I couldn't see any reason for the latter and decided it had to be the former.
I wandered around the beach for a while, enjoying the water and the moon.
Eventually it was time to leave. I went back up the staircase and had just left the circle of mercury light when headlights came around the curve in the road and stopped. It was the teenager car. I was caught out now. No way for me to duck into hiding--the light behind me illuminated my shadow. So I just kept walking. I had no reason not to be on a public road, after all, so the awkward would just have to be awkward.
A car door opened and shut. Abruptly, the car turned around and zoomed away. The girl I'd heard earlier was left on the road. She walked toward me, and I heard her crying. Full, gut-wrenching tears. She continued walking toward me, and I crossed the road to be opposite her. She passed me by, still weeping, and I could see that she was drenched. Soaked from head to foot. Her long hair was an unruly, wet mess down her back and her clothes were sticking to her body.
She walked past me, crying her eyes out, either ignoring me or not noticing me. I kept on walking, too. There was nothing I could do. A strange man in the dark wouldn't be a source of help to a crying teenage girl!
The girl reached the staircase and glided down the steps. The darkness swallowed her up, and she was gone. I never learned a thing about her.
I walked back to the flat.
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The night was beautiful--warm and breezy with a full moon and the smell of the ocean. I wandered down the road and came around a curve. There I saw ahead of me a dead end that had a little parking area in it lit by a mercury lamp. A staircase led downward, and the ocean spread out in the distance. How lovely! This needed exploring!
However, a car was parked under the mercury lamp. This meant that someone was down there already. This kind of thing gets tricky at night. This struck me as the kind of place teenagers went for . . . romance, and a strange adult male wandering by in the dark would make for all kinds of awkward for everyone involved.
As I drew closer, adolescent voices wafted up the staircase, meaning I was right. The voices were getting louder, too, which meant they were coming up. I didn't feel like interacting with these kids, so I ducked into the yard of a house near the staircase. The yard was separated from the road by a high fence and some bushes, and I stuck to the shadows in there. The teens reached the top of the stairs, and I heard a boy and a girl.
"I know I heard someone up here," the girl said. (My footsteps were indeed loud on the gravel.)
"He must have gone that way," the boy said. "Get in and start the car."
This sparked a minor argument between them. I waited quietly. In the end, the girl said, "It's like being in a horror movie." The car started. Judging from the sounds I heard, the boy walked around some more, then also got in. The car drove away.
But wait . . .
Once they were completely gone, I emerged from hiding and strolled down the steps. At the bottom, I found a beach and a quiet cove. Perhaps two dozen boats of varying sizes and quality floated at anchor on the softly lapping water. Even more kayaks and rowboats were scattered all over the shore. A bit farther up the beach sat a giant boulder the size of a small house. It was striking both for its size and unusual placement. I wondered how it got there. A trick of the ice age? Or had humans actually hauled it in? I couldn't see any reason for the latter and decided it had to be the former.
I wandered around the beach for a while, enjoying the water and the moon.
Eventually it was time to leave. I went back up the staircase and had just left the circle of mercury light when headlights came around the curve in the road and stopped. It was the teenager car. I was caught out now. No way for me to duck into hiding--the light behind me illuminated my shadow. So I just kept walking. I had no reason not to be on a public road, after all, so the awkward would just have to be awkward.
A car door opened and shut. Abruptly, the car turned around and zoomed away. The girl I'd heard earlier was left on the road. She walked toward me, and I heard her crying. Full, gut-wrenching tears. She continued walking toward me, and I crossed the road to be opposite her. She passed me by, still weeping, and I could see that she was drenched. Soaked from head to foot. Her long hair was an unruly, wet mess down her back and her clothes were sticking to her body.
She walked past me, crying her eyes out, either ignoring me or not noticing me. I kept on walking, too. There was nothing I could do. A strange man in the dark wouldn't be a source of help to a crying teenage girl!
The girl reached the staircase and glided down the steps. The darkness swallowed her up, and she was gone. I never learned a thing about her.
I walked back to the flat.
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Eastern Seaboard Vacation 4: Whales and Towers and Cemeteries
The next day, we had tickets to go whale watching. This meant dragging Darwin out of bed early (before 10 AM) and getting him up to P-Town in time to board the 10:30 boat, which we did.
The boat had two levels, and Darwin wanted to go up top, so we did, along with a hefty group of other whale watchers. With everyone aboard, the boat headed out of the harbor and toward the whale preserve off the Massachusetts shore.
The weather couldn't have been more perfect: crystal sky, bright sun, warm, and a flat calm ocean. A youngish cetologist came on a mic and told us about the various whales we might see. She'd been studying the area for years and knew all the big ones by sight.
There was a long period with nothing, then we caught glimpses of some minke whales, which are small and shy. At the first sighting, everyone got up and ran to the port side of the boat, which made it lean. This was both amusing and unnerving.
In the far, far distance, a fin whale breached, but it was hard to see. Only the blue whale is bigger than the fin whale, and it would have been cool to see better, but ah well.
And then we saw a trio of humpbacks. The surfaced to breathe several times, and also dove deep several times, exposing their tail flukes. (For you Christopher Moore fans, none of them had BITE ME written on them.) Most humpbacks have white front flukes, and in the plankton-filled water, they seem to glow green under the surface, so you can see this ghostly green creature hovering below the surface for a while before the whale surfaces. Whales both fascinate and frighten me (I know it's illogical, but they do nonetheless), so I found this eerie.
We got to see the whales broach several times. There were a bunch of other smaller boats out looking for whales, too, and every time the humpbacks surfaced, they rushed over like fanboys stampeding to see Mark Hamill, and "our" cetologist complained that they were violating the rules. When whales surface, the area becomes a no-wake zone so the whales don't get hurt, but these boats didn't care. Fortunately, none of the whales we saw were injured.
I took some photos and I'll post them on Facebook--it's too difficult to post them here, and besides, we've all seen photos of humpbacks. It was very interesting and a little nerve-wracking at the same time. It was well worth the time and money, though.
When we got back to P-Town and disembark, we decided next to explore the Pilgrim Monument. The Monument is a 280-odd foot high tower built of rough granite blocks, and it sits on the highest hill at Provincetown. Granted, this isn't very high--P-Town is barely above sea level--but that only makes it stand out the more. The native lady who helped us find our car the previous day told us that when she was growing up, she and her friends often went out into the swamps and coves to play but never worried about getting lost because they could just sight on the Monument to find their way home.
The Monument was built in 1910 to commemorate the Pilgrims, who landed first at Provincetown before continuing on to Plymouth. Teddy Roosevelt dropped in to help set the first cornerstone, and Howard Taft dedicated it two years later. It's the tallest granite structure in the USA and juts upward like a great stone finger. You pay $10 at the gate, and they shoo you toward the tower. At the base is a little house that was built in the very early days of P-Town and was eventually turned into the very first museum in Massachusetts.
Darwin is acrophobic in the extreme, but he stoutly maintained he could climb the tower because it was enclosed, so off we went!
We were a little worried, though. The tower has no elevator, so you have to spiral your way up inside. That's a LOT of stairs! But it turned out some kind soul had years ago ordered the interior wooden staircase removed and replaced it with a ramp that spiraled up instead. It made the climb much, much easier! We weren't even winded when got to the top.
Along the way, you can read plaques set into several blocks that were donated by various cities and organizations across the USA Each block gives the city or organization's name and what year it was founded. One was from an association in Michigan, but I don't remember the name.
At last, we arrived at the top. The panoramic view of the Atlantic and the town and the coves was spectacular. I especially liked the view of the local graveyard--I'd never seen one from this high up. The top is enclosed with plexiglass and wrought iron fencing, so there's no chance you can fall, but Darwin turned a little green at the sight anyway and had to go sit on a bench for a while. Eventually he regained his composure and edged close enough for a few quick glimpses. I have no fear of heights whatsoever and spent considerable time trying to get better photo angles, which only made Darwin turned greener. Eventually I had enough, and we spiraled back down, to Darwin's relief. But he did the climb, so go him!
At some point during our visit, we did tromp through the cemetery at Orleans, something we both enjoy. We were a little surprised at the lack of graves from the 1700s--the gravestones all came from after the Civil War. Though it's very likely that earlier graves were either unmarked or marked only with wooden monuments, which didn't survive.
We did find one oddity, though--a low brick building the size of a large shed or small cottage with a peaked roof. It had no windows and heavy locked wooden door. We initially thought it had once been a storage area, a place to put the dead in winter, where the cold would preserve the bodies until the ground unfroze in the spring and they could be buried. However, this one had a strange feature--a square opening at the bottom of the door. It reminded me of a dog door, but it was completely open. I got down on my knees to peer through it and found myself looking at three metal sarcophagi lined up in the little room. There were inscriptions engraved on the long sides, but I couldn't read them entirely. They were from the 30s, though.
This puzzled both Darwin and me. If the little shed was actually a crypt, why did it look like a shed? Why was there a hole in the door? Why was there no inscription outside?
It occurred to me much later that maybe the building had indeed once been used for storing corpses in winter, but after mechanical digging equipment came along (late 20s, early 30s), the cemetery no longer needed it for that and maybe they decided to sell it as crypt space. That would explain a lot, though it seems like the people who bought it would want epitaphs (or at least a family name) on the outside.
It made for an interesting graveyard visit, though!
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The boat had two levels, and Darwin wanted to go up top, so we did, along with a hefty group of other whale watchers. With everyone aboard, the boat headed out of the harbor and toward the whale preserve off the Massachusetts shore.
The weather couldn't have been more perfect: crystal sky, bright sun, warm, and a flat calm ocean. A youngish cetologist came on a mic and told us about the various whales we might see. She'd been studying the area for years and knew all the big ones by sight.
There was a long period with nothing, then we caught glimpses of some minke whales, which are small and shy. At the first sighting, everyone got up and ran to the port side of the boat, which made it lean. This was both amusing and unnerving.
In the far, far distance, a fin whale breached, but it was hard to see. Only the blue whale is bigger than the fin whale, and it would have been cool to see better, but ah well.
And then we saw a trio of humpbacks. The surfaced to breathe several times, and also dove deep several times, exposing their tail flukes. (For you Christopher Moore fans, none of them had BITE ME written on them.) Most humpbacks have white front flukes, and in the plankton-filled water, they seem to glow green under the surface, so you can see this ghostly green creature hovering below the surface for a while before the whale surfaces. Whales both fascinate and frighten me (I know it's illogical, but they do nonetheless), so I found this eerie.
We got to see the whales broach several times. There were a bunch of other smaller boats out looking for whales, too, and every time the humpbacks surfaced, they rushed over like fanboys stampeding to see Mark Hamill, and "our" cetologist complained that they were violating the rules. When whales surface, the area becomes a no-wake zone so the whales don't get hurt, but these boats didn't care. Fortunately, none of the whales we saw were injured.
I took some photos and I'll post them on Facebook--it's too difficult to post them here, and besides, we've all seen photos of humpbacks. It was very interesting and a little nerve-wracking at the same time. It was well worth the time and money, though.
When we got back to P-Town and disembark, we decided next to explore the Pilgrim Monument. The Monument is a 280-odd foot high tower built of rough granite blocks, and it sits on the highest hill at Provincetown. Granted, this isn't very high--P-Town is barely above sea level--but that only makes it stand out the more. The native lady who helped us find our car the previous day told us that when she was growing up, she and her friends often went out into the swamps and coves to play but never worried about getting lost because they could just sight on the Monument to find their way home.
The Monument was built in 1910 to commemorate the Pilgrims, who landed first at Provincetown before continuing on to Plymouth. Teddy Roosevelt dropped in to help set the first cornerstone, and Howard Taft dedicated it two years later. It's the tallest granite structure in the USA and juts upward like a great stone finger. You pay $10 at the gate, and they shoo you toward the tower. At the base is a little house that was built in the very early days of P-Town and was eventually turned into the very first museum in Massachusetts.
Darwin is acrophobic in the extreme, but he stoutly maintained he could climb the tower because it was enclosed, so off we went!
We were a little worried, though. The tower has no elevator, so you have to spiral your way up inside. That's a LOT of stairs! But it turned out some kind soul had years ago ordered the interior wooden staircase removed and replaced it with a ramp that spiraled up instead. It made the climb much, much easier! We weren't even winded when got to the top.
Along the way, you can read plaques set into several blocks that were donated by various cities and organizations across the USA Each block gives the city or organization's name and what year it was founded. One was from an association in Michigan, but I don't remember the name.
At last, we arrived at the top. The panoramic view of the Atlantic and the town and the coves was spectacular. I especially liked the view of the local graveyard--I'd never seen one from this high up. The top is enclosed with plexiglass and wrought iron fencing, so there's no chance you can fall, but Darwin turned a little green at the sight anyway and had to go sit on a bench for a while. Eventually he regained his composure and edged close enough for a few quick glimpses. I have no fear of heights whatsoever and spent considerable time trying to get better photo angles, which only made Darwin turned greener. Eventually I had enough, and we spiraled back down, to Darwin's relief. But he did the climb, so go him!
At some point during our visit, we did tromp through the cemetery at Orleans, something we both enjoy. We were a little surprised at the lack of graves from the 1700s--the gravestones all came from after the Civil War. Though it's very likely that earlier graves were either unmarked or marked only with wooden monuments, which didn't survive.
We did find one oddity, though--a low brick building the size of a large shed or small cottage with a peaked roof. It had no windows and heavy locked wooden door. We initially thought it had once been a storage area, a place to put the dead in winter, where the cold would preserve the bodies until the ground unfroze in the spring and they could be buried. However, this one had a strange feature--a square opening at the bottom of the door. It reminded me of a dog door, but it was completely open. I got down on my knees to peer through it and found myself looking at three metal sarcophagi lined up in the little room. There were inscriptions engraved on the long sides, but I couldn't read them entirely. They were from the 30s, though.
This puzzled both Darwin and me. If the little shed was actually a crypt, why did it look like a shed? Why was there a hole in the door? Why was there no inscription outside?
It occurred to me much later that maybe the building had indeed once been used for storing corpses in winter, but after mechanical digging equipment came along (late 20s, early 30s), the cemetery no longer needed it for that and maybe they decided to sell it as crypt space. That would explain a lot, though it seems like the people who bought it would want epitaphs (or at least a family name) on the outside.
It made for an interesting graveyard visit, though!
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July 29, 2018
Eastern Seaboard Vacation 3: Orleans and P-Town
Orleans turned out to be . . . rather dull. It has the requisite shops and restaurants you expect in a tourist area, but they're all spread out, and the town isn't very walkable. We did like examining one of the local cemeteries, and I bought a book at the local bookstore, but that was really it. So we drove out to Provincetown.
It's a long, long drive up the Cape to P-Town, and on a Saturday afternoon, the traffic was hellish. But we arrived at last, found a lot that "only" charged us $20 for the day, and ditched the car.
Provincetown started out as the first stop for the Pilgrims before Plymouth, then evolved into a whaling town, and finally turned into the vacation spot it is now. It was settled by Europeans in the late 1600s, and you can tell--the streets are NARROW, and they twist and wind and make odd dead-ends. And it's filled with summer visitors. The entire downtown area is shops, bars, and restaurants. The docks are lined with sailors hawking whale watching tours, seal watching tours, fishing excursions, pirate trips, and more. It reminds me very much of Mackinaw Island, but with cars and lots and lots of gay people. Nearly every business flies a Pride flag. So many, in fact, that we began wonder exactly what the flag's presence means. Gay-owned? Gay-friendly? Gay-supportive? Trying to blend in? However, we found it nice to be in a place where our presence was both requested and welcomed (even if it's mostly because we have money to spend).
We explored and shopped and people-watched. I found a stylish backpack that I really, really wanted, and Darwin enabled me into buying it. And we got t-shirts. And food.
For supper, in fact, we hit up a second-floor restaurant that was really one big covered balcony. It was crowded, and Darwin and I managed to snag seats at a bar-like section that overlooked the main street and let us watch the people over dinner. They had a raw bar, so I got a raw crab claw just for fun. It was messy to break open and eat, but delicious. Their clam chowder disappointingly came out of a can, but their sushi was delish.
The restaurant is across from a leather clothing shop, and I noticed a hetero couple out front of it. The Handsome Husband (and boy, was he!) was waiting impatiently for his wife. She came out the door wearing a black leather jacket, which she modeled for him. They had an intense discussion which Darwin and I couldn't hear, but for which we made up our own dialogue. ("If you let me buy this, I'll spank you as many times as you want.") She went back inside, leaving him on the steps, and emerged a few minutes later wearing another jacket. This sparked an even more intense conversation.
By now, Darwin and I were getting interested. We were dying to know exactly what the conversation was about. It was clear that she wanted the jacket but he didn't want her to buy it, but the fine details of the situation eluded us. ("Oh, darling," we cooed on behalf of the wife, "I have to have it! It makes my butt look absolutely tiny!" "Honey, we have to make the yacht payment this month.") Their gestures and expressions got bigger and bigger. Finally, she swept back into the shop, clearly intent on buying the coat. The husband waited a few seconds, then stomped away. Oh no! This was bigger than we imagined! She chose the coat over her husband! Or he chose money over her!
The wife emerged again--without the coat! She'd decided not to buy it after all. But when she got to the steps, she looked around in confusion and dismay. Her husband was gone! She looked uncertainly about, then wandered sadly down the street. We never did find out what happened in the end.
We consoled ourselves by admiring our extremely handsome waiter.
By now we were shopped and restauranted out, so we headed back to the flat--or tried to. We couldn't find the parking lot. And worse, the Ford app that usually finds the car had undergone an update that wiped out its ability to find the car. Darwin and I wandered P-Town like lost puppies for more than an hour until we ran into a very nice native lady who, based on our description of the lot, kindly guided us to the place. Whew!
We spent the evening back at the flat, recovering from the adventure. But then I decided to go for a walk, and things got decidedly strange...
comments
It's a long, long drive up the Cape to P-Town, and on a Saturday afternoon, the traffic was hellish. But we arrived at last, found a lot that "only" charged us $20 for the day, and ditched the car.
Provincetown started out as the first stop for the Pilgrims before Plymouth, then evolved into a whaling town, and finally turned into the vacation spot it is now. It was settled by Europeans in the late 1600s, and you can tell--the streets are NARROW, and they twist and wind and make odd dead-ends. And it's filled with summer visitors. The entire downtown area is shops, bars, and restaurants. The docks are lined with sailors hawking whale watching tours, seal watching tours, fishing excursions, pirate trips, and more. It reminds me very much of Mackinaw Island, but with cars and lots and lots of gay people. Nearly every business flies a Pride flag. So many, in fact, that we began wonder exactly what the flag's presence means. Gay-owned? Gay-friendly? Gay-supportive? Trying to blend in? However, we found it nice to be in a place where our presence was both requested and welcomed (even if it's mostly because we have money to spend).
We explored and shopped and people-watched. I found a stylish backpack that I really, really wanted, and Darwin enabled me into buying it. And we got t-shirts. And food.
For supper, in fact, we hit up a second-floor restaurant that was really one big covered balcony. It was crowded, and Darwin and I managed to snag seats at a bar-like section that overlooked the main street and let us watch the people over dinner. They had a raw bar, so I got a raw crab claw just for fun. It was messy to break open and eat, but delicious. Their clam chowder disappointingly came out of a can, but their sushi was delish.
The restaurant is across from a leather clothing shop, and I noticed a hetero couple out front of it. The Handsome Husband (and boy, was he!) was waiting impatiently for his wife. She came out the door wearing a black leather jacket, which she modeled for him. They had an intense discussion which Darwin and I couldn't hear, but for which we made up our own dialogue. ("If you let me buy this, I'll spank you as many times as you want.") She went back inside, leaving him on the steps, and emerged a few minutes later wearing another jacket. This sparked an even more intense conversation.
By now, Darwin and I were getting interested. We were dying to know exactly what the conversation was about. It was clear that she wanted the jacket but he didn't want her to buy it, but the fine details of the situation eluded us. ("Oh, darling," we cooed on behalf of the wife, "I have to have it! It makes my butt look absolutely tiny!" "Honey, we have to make the yacht payment this month.") Their gestures and expressions got bigger and bigger. Finally, she swept back into the shop, clearly intent on buying the coat. The husband waited a few seconds, then stomped away. Oh no! This was bigger than we imagined! She chose the coat over her husband! Or he chose money over her!
The wife emerged again--without the coat! She'd decided not to buy it after all. But when she got to the steps, she looked around in confusion and dismay. Her husband was gone! She looked uncertainly about, then wandered sadly down the street. We never did find out what happened in the end.
We consoled ourselves by admiring our extremely handsome waiter.
By now we were shopped and restauranted out, so we headed back to the flat--or tried to. We couldn't find the parking lot. And worse, the Ford app that usually finds the car had undergone an update that wiped out its ability to find the car. Darwin and I wandered P-Town like lost puppies for more than an hour until we ran into a very nice native lady who, based on our description of the lot, kindly guided us to the place. Whew!
We spent the evening back at the flat, recovering from the adventure. But then I decided to go for a walk, and things got decidedly strange...
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Eastern Seaboard Vacation 2
In the morning, we headed out to Cape Cod. The drive started out nice, but turned awful. Some bad timing landed us just outside Boston right at rush hour, which extended the drive by a good two hours. We didn't arrive at Orleans and our AirBnB flat until after dark.
Orleans is a smallish town at the beginning of the place where Cape Cod juts into the Atlantic. It's a smallish town that mostly serves as a staging point for tourists visiting other parts of the Cape (as Darwin and I planned to do). Our flat is just outside of town and occupies the upper story of a detached garage. It's a lovely, airy studio with wood floors and bare beams and white walls. It's only disadvantage is that it's fully 45 minutes away from Provincetown. On the other hand, it was affordable! P-Town is notoriously expensive.
We dropped our luggage, then headed into Orleans to find supper. We managed it at a restaurant called Land, Ho. Fantastic clam chowder there! Then we stopped for provisions at a big grocery store called Stop and Shop. I only mention this because my ex-wife Kala and her friend Stephanie used to come out to the Cape during summer break at Central Michigan University because the Cape paid three times the national minimum wage and they could stay rent-free at a relative's house. They always worked at the Stop and Shop. I texted them photos.
Next morning, we headed out to explore . . .
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Orleans is a smallish town at the beginning of the place where Cape Cod juts into the Atlantic. It's a smallish town that mostly serves as a staging point for tourists visiting other parts of the Cape (as Darwin and I planned to do). Our flat is just outside of town and occupies the upper story of a detached garage. It's a lovely, airy studio with wood floors and bare beams and white walls. It's only disadvantage is that it's fully 45 minutes away from Provincetown. On the other hand, it was affordable! P-Town is notoriously expensive.
We dropped our luggage, then headed into Orleans to find supper. We managed it at a restaurant called Land, Ho. Fantastic clam chowder there! Then we stopped for provisions at a big grocery store called Stop and Shop. I only mention this because my ex-wife Kala and her friend Stephanie used to come out to the Cape during summer break at Central Michigan University because the Cape paid three times the national minimum wage and they could stay rent-free at a relative's house. They always worked at the Stop and Shop. I texted them photos.
Next morning, we headed out to explore . . .
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Eastern Seaboard Vacation 1
For our second trip of the summer season, Darwin and I decided to go to Cape Cod and Boston.
Actually, =he= decided to go to Boston. I said we should also visit Cape Cod/Provincetown while we're out there, since P-Town is a Big Gay Mecca. He agreed.
We drove it, and decided rather than do a single 15-hour drive, we'd break it in half. I pushed to stop at Niagara Falls, since neither of us has been there. Darwin wasn't enthusiastic, but finally went along with it. Our plan was to stop there for a few hours, then continue a little farther west and overnight in Rochester, New York.
After many hours of driving, we hit the town of Niagara Falls, and we were both startled and disappointed. The town was seedy, run-down, and just . . . crappy. Abandoned houses, boarded-up businesses, long lines of dull strip malls. This was the city in charge of a world-famous natural wonder?
It took some finagling, but we got to the national park with the falls in it. In this section things were rather better kept up. We stopped at a visitor's center to get basic information, then drove across the river to the island. The river splits around the island, you see, and creates two sets of falls on either side of it. It cost only $10 to park, a pleasant surprise. We were expecting either a stiff parking fee or orders to park far away and take an annoying shuttle bus.
The island itself was an unexpected wonder. Photos of the falls always concentrate on the waterfalls, but never on the surroundings. The island is resplendent with trails that take you past stunning little rapids and delightful tiny waterfalls that ring the island. I was surprised at how shallow the river is--between knee and ankle deep in most places. But make no mistake--if you set foot in that river, it would sweep you away in an instant. Flocks of water birds sit in the river paddling like mad to stay in place. A big bunch of them sat on warily a shelf of rocks just upstream from the main event as if saying, "Nope nope nope! We saw what happened to Fred, and this is as close as we're getting." We spent considerable time wandering the island, holding hands and enjoying the loveliness.
And, of course, we saw the Falls. Both sets. Incredible and thunderous and amazing. I took lots of photos, but everyone has seen similar ones, so I won't put them here. (This blog's format makes photos a pain to post anyway.) Far, far, far below we could see tour boats filled with raincoated tourists edging close to the falls, but we didn't indulge. Darwin said he was very glad we stopped.
Oh--and there was History. You can see the old power plants and the site of the cabin built by the first white inhabitant of the area. He became a hermit and spent his days painting in the early 1800s.
We decided to get a late supper at the park's restaurant. The service was lackluster, but the food was wonderful. And the view was spectacular.
At last, we climbed back into the car and wound our way to Rochester, where we checked into a motel for the night, pleased with our trip so far.
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Actually, =he= decided to go to Boston. I said we should also visit Cape Cod/Provincetown while we're out there, since P-Town is a Big Gay Mecca. He agreed.
We drove it, and decided rather than do a single 15-hour drive, we'd break it in half. I pushed to stop at Niagara Falls, since neither of us has been there. Darwin wasn't enthusiastic, but finally went along with it. Our plan was to stop there for a few hours, then continue a little farther west and overnight in Rochester, New York.
After many hours of driving, we hit the town of Niagara Falls, and we were both startled and disappointed. The town was seedy, run-down, and just . . . crappy. Abandoned houses, boarded-up businesses, long lines of dull strip malls. This was the city in charge of a world-famous natural wonder?
It took some finagling, but we got to the national park with the falls in it. In this section things were rather better kept up. We stopped at a visitor's center to get basic information, then drove across the river to the island. The river splits around the island, you see, and creates two sets of falls on either side of it. It cost only $10 to park, a pleasant surprise. We were expecting either a stiff parking fee or orders to park far away and take an annoying shuttle bus.
The island itself was an unexpected wonder. Photos of the falls always concentrate on the waterfalls, but never on the surroundings. The island is resplendent with trails that take you past stunning little rapids and delightful tiny waterfalls that ring the island. I was surprised at how shallow the river is--between knee and ankle deep in most places. But make no mistake--if you set foot in that river, it would sweep you away in an instant. Flocks of water birds sit in the river paddling like mad to stay in place. A big bunch of them sat on warily a shelf of rocks just upstream from the main event as if saying, "Nope nope nope! We saw what happened to Fred, and this is as close as we're getting." We spent considerable time wandering the island, holding hands and enjoying the loveliness.
And, of course, we saw the Falls. Both sets. Incredible and thunderous and amazing. I took lots of photos, but everyone has seen similar ones, so I won't put them here. (This blog's format makes photos a pain to post anyway.) Far, far, far below we could see tour boats filled with raincoated tourists edging close to the falls, but we didn't indulge. Darwin said he was very glad we stopped.
Oh--and there was History. You can see the old power plants and the site of the cabin built by the first white inhabitant of the area. He became a hermit and spent his days painting in the early 1800s.
We decided to get a late supper at the park's restaurant. The service was lackluster, but the food was wonderful. And the view was spectacular.
At last, we climbed back into the car and wound our way to Rochester, where we checked into a motel for the night, pleased with our trip so far.
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July 20, 2018
Workout Update
I'm getting Actual Results (tm) from the lifting, though every workout is awful. Darwin and I complain to each other: "Why are you making me do this?" "Why would my husband torture me this way?" and so on. Darwin lifts for half an hour, then works on abs for half an hour. I lift for half and hour and do treadmill wind sprints for half an hour.
Yesterday I realized my arms are bigger. Both biceps and triceps. And actual definition in both! My chest is growing, too. I don't do a lot of leg lifting--my legs are already tree trunks, thanks to a lifetime of biking and running. This is cool! Darwin is also getting more definition. He's lifting more to tone up than get bigger, so he does more reps with smaller weights, while I concentrate on fewer reps with as much weight as I can pound.
Since I don't have my home DVR at the gym, I listen to episodes of Zombies, Run! while I work out. The app thinks I'm lazy because I don't go much of anywhere. :) One weakness with ZR, though, is that its GPS/motion sensor system is rotten for keeping track of running on a treadmill, and it gives me wildly inflated scores. ("You've run. Two kilometers. In. Four. Minutes. And. Fifteen. Seconds," says the computer. Well, not quite) So the app also thinks I'm a sloth for the first mission, and an Olympic athlete for the second.
Another side-effect of lifting--I'm =gaining= weight instead of losing it. I'm assuming it's because I'm gaining muscle, which weighs more than fat. Still, it's disconcerting to check the scale after weeks of hard workouts only to see the number rise. I've ordered a body fat calculator to compensate and get a more accurate idea of my fitness level.
And back to the gym we go!
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Yesterday I realized my arms are bigger. Both biceps and triceps. And actual definition in both! My chest is growing, too. I don't do a lot of leg lifting--my legs are already tree trunks, thanks to a lifetime of biking and running. This is cool! Darwin is also getting more definition. He's lifting more to tone up than get bigger, so he does more reps with smaller weights, while I concentrate on fewer reps with as much weight as I can pound.
Since I don't have my home DVR at the gym, I listen to episodes of Zombies, Run! while I work out. The app thinks I'm lazy because I don't go much of anywhere. :) One weakness with ZR, though, is that its GPS/motion sensor system is rotten for keeping track of running on a treadmill, and it gives me wildly inflated scores. ("You've run. Two kilometers. In. Four. Minutes. And. Fifteen. Seconds," says the computer. Well, not quite) So the app also thinks I'm a sloth for the first mission, and an Olympic athlete for the second.
Another side-effect of lifting--I'm =gaining= weight instead of losing it. I'm assuming it's because I'm gaining muscle, which weighs more than fat. Still, it's disconcerting to check the scale after weeks of hard workouts only to see the number rise. I've ordered a body fat calculator to compensate and get a more accurate idea of my fitness level.
And back to the gym we go!
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July 19, 2018
Big Gay Birthday Cards
Darwin's birthday is next week, but we're celebrating it this week because we're going out of town on his actual birthday.
"I hope you're not planning some big thing for my birthday," he said.
"Just how attached are you to that statement?" I asked.
He wants to go out for dinner, so we'll be doing that. Meanwhile . . .
It's cherry season! And I also have in the freezer a white chocolate mousse cake that I've been dying to cover in mirror glaze.
This afternoon, I whipped up a chocolate mirror glaze and poured it over the mousse cake. The consistency of the chocolate mirror glaze was a little different. It was more viscous. And it went everywhere in ways the other versions didn't. The cleanup took longer than the glazing!
There was a crack in the mousse that encased the cake, however. The glaze ate into it and, like water in Michigan roads, washed away a chunk of the outer coating. I spooned it away and put it in a bowl, where it created an appealing-looking whirl of white mousse and glossy semi-sweet chocolate. Hmmm . . .
I have several bags of cherries, since it's cherry season and we eat them like popcorn. I washed and pitted a bowful of them and set them out to dry. Then I scraped the remaining cake glaze into a bowl.
With two plates covered in waxed paper, I dipped the cherries into the chocolate glaze to coat them well and set them on the paper. Then I swirled more cherries through the white mousse/chocolate glaze mixture. They all look very pretty, and I put them into the refrigerator to set.
The cake, accented with yet more cherries, went into the freezer to firm up.
I already have Darwin's present (some cologne he likes, and Max got him a set of headphones he's been wanting), but I needed a card, so I went to get one.
The card section at the store had rows and rows and rows of birthday cards for women. To My Sister. To My Wife. To My Mother. Grandmother. Aunt. Great-Grandmother. Great-Aunt. Great-Aunt's Grandmother. But nothing for male recipients. It took some searching to find them. There were very few of them. Apparently men don't get many cards.
Exactly six were directed specifically to a husband. One of them had "from your wife" in it. Another had a picture inside of a man and a woman holding hands. Neither of these fit my purposes.
I also checked some of the To Anyone birthday cards, but they all had some version of the word "friend" in them. Nope.
So I had four left to choose from. Meanwhile, in the For My Wife section, I counted nearly 20 different cards.
This is why we need more marriage equality.
(I don't really want to see links to web sites that sell birthday cards for same-sex couples. I know they exist. I needed a card today.)
Anyway, I finally chose one of the four and personalized heavily at home.
Now we have the restaurant, the cake, the cherries, the card, and the present. No trouble at all!
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"I hope you're not planning some big thing for my birthday," he said.
"Just how attached are you to that statement?" I asked.
He wants to go out for dinner, so we'll be doing that. Meanwhile . . .
It's cherry season! And I also have in the freezer a white chocolate mousse cake that I've been dying to cover in mirror glaze.
This afternoon, I whipped up a chocolate mirror glaze and poured it over the mousse cake. The consistency of the chocolate mirror glaze was a little different. It was more viscous. And it went everywhere in ways the other versions didn't. The cleanup took longer than the glazing!
There was a crack in the mousse that encased the cake, however. The glaze ate into it and, like water in Michigan roads, washed away a chunk of the outer coating. I spooned it away and put it in a bowl, where it created an appealing-looking whirl of white mousse and glossy semi-sweet chocolate. Hmmm . . .
I have several bags of cherries, since it's cherry season and we eat them like popcorn. I washed and pitted a bowful of them and set them out to dry. Then I scraped the remaining cake glaze into a bowl.
With two plates covered in waxed paper, I dipped the cherries into the chocolate glaze to coat them well and set them on the paper. Then I swirled more cherries through the white mousse/chocolate glaze mixture. They all look very pretty, and I put them into the refrigerator to set.
The cake, accented with yet more cherries, went into the freezer to firm up.
I already have Darwin's present (some cologne he likes, and Max got him a set of headphones he's been wanting), but I needed a card, so I went to get one.
The card section at the store had rows and rows and rows of birthday cards for women. To My Sister. To My Wife. To My Mother. Grandmother. Aunt. Great-Grandmother. Great-Aunt. Great-Aunt's Grandmother. But nothing for male recipients. It took some searching to find them. There were very few of them. Apparently men don't get many cards.
Exactly six were directed specifically to a husband. One of them had "from your wife" in it. Another had a picture inside of a man and a woman holding hands. Neither of these fit my purposes.
I also checked some of the To Anyone birthday cards, but they all had some version of the word "friend" in them. Nope.
So I had four left to choose from. Meanwhile, in the For My Wife section, I counted nearly 20 different cards.
This is why we need more marriage equality.
(I don't really want to see links to web sites that sell birthday cards for same-sex couples. I know they exist. I needed a card today.)
Anyway, I finally chose one of the four and personalized heavily at home.
Now we have the restaurant, the cake, the cherries, the card, and the present. No trouble at all!
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July 17, 2018
Stormy
After days of hot, muggy weather and no rain, the weather finally broke last night. Huge thunderstorms and torrential rain swept through the area last night.
Once it lifted, Darwin wanted to go to the gym, so off we went.
It was dark out, and we drove through a surreal landscape. Store lights were flickering, and passing cars threw up great gouts of water. The gym is open 24 hours, but when we arrived, we found the doors locked. A sign said they were closed due to power loss. The lights were on inside, and the sign had been printed by a computer, so they clearly had power of some kind, but all the gym's TVs were off, and some of the lights flickered.
This morning, we learned most of the businesses in that area of town were without power, which explained the eerie lighting. They're still waiting for power, too. We never even experienced a brown-out, though our power lines are buried.
Today the weather is fresh-scrubbed and clean and lovely out!
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Once it lifted, Darwin wanted to go to the gym, so off we went.
It was dark out, and we drove through a surreal landscape. Store lights were flickering, and passing cars threw up great gouts of water. The gym is open 24 hours, but when we arrived, we found the doors locked. A sign said they were closed due to power loss. The lights were on inside, and the sign had been printed by a computer, so they clearly had power of some kind, but all the gym's TVs were off, and some of the lights flickered.
This morning, we learned most of the businesses in that area of town were without power, which explained the eerie lighting. They're still waiting for power, too. We never even experienced a brown-out, though our power lines are buried.
Today the weather is fresh-scrubbed and clean and lovely out!
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July 12, 2018
51!
In recent events, I've gotten notice that I just sold a story to a fantasy anthology. Details will come later, but I wanted to say that this is my 51st short sale. So I've now sold one story for every year I've been alive!
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The Poison Box
Last year, a horde of yellow jackets built a nest in the upper corner of our front porch in a matter of hours. I didn't realize what was going on until I walked outside and thought I was in a cloud of flies. Then one stung me, and I saw a nest the size of a loaf of bread under the eaves. I bought some wasp poison that sprayed at a nice, long distance and destroyed the nest with it. It was quite a mess to clean up, but at least I didn't get stung again.
Fast forward to this summer.
My summer office is the front porch. I sit in the cool shade on our comfortable outdoor furniture surrounded by trees and potted plants while I write on my laptop. The end tables are a set of 100-year-old shipping crates made of oak or maple that would survive a bomb blast. I often wonder where these crates have been and what they've held. Two of the crates are open boxes, but the third has a lid on a hinge. They add a nice, rustic look to my office. This year, I added a free-standing fountain from the garden store. It's a set of interconnected pitchers done up to look like ancient Greek pouring jars, and the water runs in an endless stream from the top jar to the middle jars to the bottom. It sits on the lidded crate. I like the sound of trickling water while the mourning doves call in the distance. It's a very nice space.
A couple days ago, however, I noticed several yellow jackets buzzing around the lidded crate under the fountain. They were crawling in and out through two particular cracks. Oh, geez. I got the wasp poison and from a safe distance, sprayed into the cracks. A number of yellow jackets flew out and died and created a small killing field outside the crate, but an hour later, there were just as many of them as before.
I hate yellow jackets, for all the usual reasons. They sting without provocation, and do it repeatedly. They don't pollinate plants or do anything else useful. They're the assholes of the animal word.
I put on a sweatshirt, long pants, a hood, and gloves and slowly, carefully pulled the fountain off the lidded crate. The fountain, of course, was full of water, so this was quite a trick. The yellow jackets buzzed around, disturbed by the vibrations, but they didn't go for me. With the fountain gone, the lid was accessible. I used a broom handle to pop it open.
A cloud of yellow jackets boiled upward, and I retreated. When the damn bugs calmed down, I edged close enough to peer into the crate. Another yellow jacket nest, bigger than the previous one. It looked like an Elephant Man tumor clinging to the inside of the box.
By now, I was almost out of wasp spray, so I sent Max to the store for more. (This is what teenagers are for.) When he got back and I was fully armed and armored, I stood back and let the nasty nest have it. I emptied most of the bottle into the nest, in fact. The startled yellow jackets rushed around, trying to figure out what to do. Most of them dropped to the porch, dead or dying. I hosed the nest some more until the entire thing was saturated. No stings--the bugs didn't connect me with what was going on.
I let the thing sit for a few hours, then came out to check on it. A few survivors scraggled around the ruined nest. I sprayed them--die die die!--then smashed up the remains of the nest. It crumbled into damp fragments, revealing hundreds and hundreds of dead baby yellow jackets. They looked like giant maggots. I cleared out the chunks, hosed the box clean, and let it dry. Then I put the box back in its usual place.
Within minutes, more survivors were buzzing around the cracks, trying to get in. Seriously, dudes? I shooed them away and rearranged the furniture on the front porch. I put the fountain on the ground where the crate originally sat (better positioning anyway--I did get nervous that the fountain was too heavy to sit atop the crate) and put the crate in a different spot. The survivors buzzed around the fountain. Where was their fortress? Their queen?
But it didn't take them long to find the box in its new spot. Grousing, I opened the lid and filled it with a cloud of insecticide, creating a poison box. Then I sprayed all the cracks with more insecticide. Ha!
This morning I came out to work and found yet more survivors flitting around the porch. They don't go near the poison box, but they hang around my fountain. I have the can of insecticide with me, and whenever I see one--GOOSH!
Yellow jackets. Yeesh!
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Fast forward to this summer.
My summer office is the front porch. I sit in the cool shade on our comfortable outdoor furniture surrounded by trees and potted plants while I write on my laptop. The end tables are a set of 100-year-old shipping crates made of oak or maple that would survive a bomb blast. I often wonder where these crates have been and what they've held. Two of the crates are open boxes, but the third has a lid on a hinge. They add a nice, rustic look to my office. This year, I added a free-standing fountain from the garden store. It's a set of interconnected pitchers done up to look like ancient Greek pouring jars, and the water runs in an endless stream from the top jar to the middle jars to the bottom. It sits on the lidded crate. I like the sound of trickling water while the mourning doves call in the distance. It's a very nice space.
A couple days ago, however, I noticed several yellow jackets buzzing around the lidded crate under the fountain. They were crawling in and out through two particular cracks. Oh, geez. I got the wasp poison and from a safe distance, sprayed into the cracks. A number of yellow jackets flew out and died and created a small killing field outside the crate, but an hour later, there were just as many of them as before.
I hate yellow jackets, for all the usual reasons. They sting without provocation, and do it repeatedly. They don't pollinate plants or do anything else useful. They're the assholes of the animal word.
I put on a sweatshirt, long pants, a hood, and gloves and slowly, carefully pulled the fountain off the lidded crate. The fountain, of course, was full of water, so this was quite a trick. The yellow jackets buzzed around, disturbed by the vibrations, but they didn't go for me. With the fountain gone, the lid was accessible. I used a broom handle to pop it open.
A cloud of yellow jackets boiled upward, and I retreated. When the damn bugs calmed down, I edged close enough to peer into the crate. Another yellow jacket nest, bigger than the previous one. It looked like an Elephant Man tumor clinging to the inside of the box.
By now, I was almost out of wasp spray, so I sent Max to the store for more. (This is what teenagers are for.) When he got back and I was fully armed and armored, I stood back and let the nasty nest have it. I emptied most of the bottle into the nest, in fact. The startled yellow jackets rushed around, trying to figure out what to do. Most of them dropped to the porch, dead or dying. I hosed the nest some more until the entire thing was saturated. No stings--the bugs didn't connect me with what was going on.
I let the thing sit for a few hours, then came out to check on it. A few survivors scraggled around the ruined nest. I sprayed them--die die die!--then smashed up the remains of the nest. It crumbled into damp fragments, revealing hundreds and hundreds of dead baby yellow jackets. They looked like giant maggots. I cleared out the chunks, hosed the box clean, and let it dry. Then I put the box back in its usual place.
Within minutes, more survivors were buzzing around the cracks, trying to get in. Seriously, dudes? I shooed them away and rearranged the furniture on the front porch. I put the fountain on the ground where the crate originally sat (better positioning anyway--I did get nervous that the fountain was too heavy to sit atop the crate) and put the crate in a different spot. The survivors buzzed around the fountain. Where was their fortress? Their queen?
But it didn't take them long to find the box in its new spot. Grousing, I opened the lid and filled it with a cloud of insecticide, creating a poison box. Then I sprayed all the cracks with more insecticide. Ha!
This morning I came out to work and found yet more survivors flitting around the porch. They don't go near the poison box, but they hang around my fountain. I have the can of insecticide with me, and whenever I see one--GOOSH!
Yellow jackets. Yeesh!
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