Chris Bohjalian's Blog, page 50
February 8, 2010
Some new Secrets of Eden links
Attached are some links to new interviews and posts about Secrets of Eden.
1) Andrea Weinstein's interview with me for commitmentnow.com; SECRETS OF EDEN is the site's Book of the Month.
http://commitmentnow.com/cooking-part...
2) Laurie Paisley, a blogging bookseller, offered this delightful review on her 60 second video blog.
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/bloggin...
3) On Entertainment Real, Amy Steele calls Secrets of Eden "an exquisitely crafted whodunit as well as an expose on domestic violence and its tragic consequences. A compelling read, Secrets of Eden is truly memorable and a conversation starter." Here is the link to the full review:
http://entertainmentrealm.com/2010/02...
Thanks too all of them -- and to al of you. I am very grateful!
All the best,
Chris B.
1) Andrea Weinstein's interview with me for commitmentnow.com; SECRETS OF EDEN is the site's Book of the Month.
http://commitmentnow.com/cooking-part...
2) Laurie Paisley, a blogging bookseller, offered this delightful review on her 60 second video blog.
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/bloggin...
3) On Entertainment Real, Amy Steele calls Secrets of Eden "an exquisitely crafted whodunit as well as an expose on domestic violence and its tragic consequences. A compelling read, Secrets of Eden is truly memorable and a conversation starter." Here is the link to the full review:
http://entertainmentrealm.com/2010/02...
Thanks too all of them -- and to al of you. I am very grateful!
All the best,
Chris B.
February 7, 2010
Not in the Job Description
Lincoln, Vermont Town Clerk Sally Ober is sitting behind her desk at the town office, smiling patiently, the phone pressed against her ear. The caller is Jeff Bercuvitz, a Lincoln taxpayer and a trainer and coach of community builders and leaders.
"A number of people have told me they've noticed a large increase in the number of commercial jet flights flying over Bristol Cliffs," Jeff says. "Have you heard anything about a change in flight patterns at regional airports?"
Jeff's concern is the compromising of the wilderness experience here in Lincoln. Sally can't confirm whether there is indeed more air traffic overhead, only that -- as far as she knows -- Armageddon isn't imminent. After the call, she shrugs and smiles. "The other day someone phoned wanting to know how to spell asbestos," she says. "It's all part of the job."
Sally has been the town clerk since March 2006. She loves the work and, as she puts, it, "being connected to the community." She lives with her husband and two daughters in the center of the village, barely one-hundred yards from the town office. (In addition, conscientious readers may also recall that Sally was the human mother to Sparkle the Wonder Duck and Griff the "Morning Edition" crooning dog.)
Right now is among the busiest times of the year for Sally: January and February, the months that precede that first Tuesday in March, when Vermonters in towns and villages across the state once more emerge from winter hibernation and revel in legislative self-determination.
January is marginally more chaotic than February because the deadlines for different elements of the printed Town Warning fall in the first month of the year: "Everything that goes through the report is funneled through me. I am the Grand Central Station for all of it."
But February isn't a cakewalk either, because this month she has to recruit her election workers, manage the absentee ballots, and organize the final logistics for town meeting -- all while handling her usual day-to-day responsibilities.
Her office is across the street from my house, and I see the lights on at all hours. "This time of the year," she says, "I sometimes wake up at three or four in the morning and just go to the office. The phone doesn't ring and I get a lot of work done."
And yet the parts of the job that Sally loves best often begin with a phone call, and often the Lincoln resident at the other end is calling about decidedly non-governmental business. "I hear from a lot of elderly people who call me for very basic needs. They don't have power in a snowstorm and need hot water or they've driven their car off their driveway. And it may not be my job, but how can I not help them?"
Indeed, it is the human connection that means the most to Sally. Every year at Town Meeting, some taxpayers request that we vote on the school budget via Australian ballot. It is as certain as the sun rising in the East and Paris Hilton dressing like a tart in the West. And while the procedural logjam that accompanies a paper ballot might drive some clerks crazy, Sally savors the moment: "It gives people in line the chance to visit and informally chat about the meeting -- and the issues. We moan and groan about the time the secret ballot takes, but people are seeing each other for the first time in months, in some cases, and it gives them the chance to talk. It's a good thing."
And in a small town, visiting counts. "The one thing I have learned about my job is that people want their clerk to be someone they can talk to. People come into the office with no business to do, but they will stay there for hours. And sometimes, it's very personal. They share with me their marital problems. Their money problems. Their not-to-be-repeated problems. I hear it all. They tell no one but the town clerk."
Therapist isn't a part of the job description, but neither is spell-checker. Still, like most of Vermont's town clerks, Sally does both -- and relishes in the work.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on February 7, 2010.)
"A number of people have told me they've noticed a large increase in the number of commercial jet flights flying over Bristol Cliffs," Jeff says. "Have you heard anything about a change in flight patterns at regional airports?"
Jeff's concern is the compromising of the wilderness experience here in Lincoln. Sally can't confirm whether there is indeed more air traffic overhead, only that -- as far as she knows -- Armageddon isn't imminent. After the call, she shrugs and smiles. "The other day someone phoned wanting to know how to spell asbestos," she says. "It's all part of the job."
Sally has been the town clerk since March 2006. She loves the work and, as she puts, it, "being connected to the community." She lives with her husband and two daughters in the center of the village, barely one-hundred yards from the town office. (In addition, conscientious readers may also recall that Sally was the human mother to Sparkle the Wonder Duck and Griff the "Morning Edition" crooning dog.)
Right now is among the busiest times of the year for Sally: January and February, the months that precede that first Tuesday in March, when Vermonters in towns and villages across the state once more emerge from winter hibernation and revel in legislative self-determination.
January is marginally more chaotic than February because the deadlines for different elements of the printed Town Warning fall in the first month of the year: "Everything that goes through the report is funneled through me. I am the Grand Central Station for all of it."
But February isn't a cakewalk either, because this month she has to recruit her election workers, manage the absentee ballots, and organize the final logistics for town meeting -- all while handling her usual day-to-day responsibilities.
Her office is across the street from my house, and I see the lights on at all hours. "This time of the year," she says, "I sometimes wake up at three or four in the morning and just go to the office. The phone doesn't ring and I get a lot of work done."
And yet the parts of the job that Sally loves best often begin with a phone call, and often the Lincoln resident at the other end is calling about decidedly non-governmental business. "I hear from a lot of elderly people who call me for very basic needs. They don't have power in a snowstorm and need hot water or they've driven their car off their driveway. And it may not be my job, but how can I not help them?"
Indeed, it is the human connection that means the most to Sally. Every year at Town Meeting, some taxpayers request that we vote on the school budget via Australian ballot. It is as certain as the sun rising in the East and Paris Hilton dressing like a tart in the West. And while the procedural logjam that accompanies a paper ballot might drive some clerks crazy, Sally savors the moment: "It gives people in line the chance to visit and informally chat about the meeting -- and the issues. We moan and groan about the time the secret ballot takes, but people are seeing each other for the first time in months, in some cases, and it gives them the chance to talk. It's a good thing."
And in a small town, visiting counts. "The one thing I have learned about my job is that people want their clerk to be someone they can talk to. People come into the office with no business to do, but they will stay there for hours. And sometimes, it's very personal. They share with me their marital problems. Their money problems. Their not-to-be-repeated problems. I hear it all. They tell no one but the town clerk."
Therapist isn't a part of the job description, but neither is spell-checker. Still, like most of Vermont's town clerks, Sally does both -- and relishes in the work.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on February 7, 2010.)
February 4, 2010
Some of this week's reviews of Secrets of Eden
"Superb. . .Fans of Bohjalian's 11 other novels (including Midwives) know to expect the unexpected and, thanks to his creativity and cunning, readers usually get walloped by one heck of a plot twist by book's end. In Secrets of Eden, the old saw that none of us knows what really goes on in a house when the shades are drawn rings chillingly true."
—Carol Memmott, USA Today
"Superbly written -- vivid and horrifying without being melodramatic...a tribute to Bohjalian's storytelling skill."
—The Boston Globe
"Chris Bohjalian has always known how to keep the pages turning. In his latest novel, a small Vermont hamlet has been racked by a well-established couple's apparent murder-suicide. Bohjalian describes the aftermath of that ruinous night in varied voices, effortlessly slipping into the heads of the shaken local pastor, the no-nonsense deputy state attorney, and the best-selling author whose own past draws her to the scene of the crime. . .[A:] study of guilt and grief."
— Entertainment Weekly
—Carol Memmott, USA Today
"Superbly written -- vivid and horrifying without being melodramatic...a tribute to Bohjalian's storytelling skill."
—The Boston Globe
"Chris Bohjalian has always known how to keep the pages turning. In his latest novel, a small Vermont hamlet has been racked by a well-established couple's apparent murder-suicide. Bohjalian describes the aftermath of that ruinous night in varied voices, effortlessly slipping into the heads of the shaken local pastor, the no-nonsense deputy state attorney, and the best-selling author whose own past draws her to the scene of the crime. . .[A:] study of guilt and grief."
— Entertainment Weekly
January 31, 2010
A new video about SECRETS OF EDEN
Thanks to Random House, here is a new video about SECRETS OF EDEN.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GMU66...
Two things:
1) The videography is terrific. (Thank you Jacob and Pat and Kira.)
2) When did I get so bald?
Thanks for watching -- and, perhaps this week, reading!
All the best,
Chris B.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GMU66...
Two things:
1) The videography is terrific. (Thank you Jacob and Pat and Kira.)
2) When did I get so bald?
Thanks for watching -- and, perhaps this week, reading!
All the best,
Chris B.
Couch potato among the gym rats
The other day when I was at Bristol Health and Fitness, I saw my friend John Vautier on the elliptical trainer -- a stationary exercise machine that is easier on the joints than a Stairmaster or treadmill -- and he was working up a pretty good sweat. Now, John is a lifter. Usually he steers clear of any machines that involve running and pedaling as if they were radioactive. So I asked him what he was doing and he shook his head and said, "I'm getting fat. Well, fatter."
Fat is a relative term. So is working out. I mention this because I have come to the realization that my wife, who never does anything halfway, is a gym rat. Without giving you more information than you need to know, half her laundry is gym clothes. Three days a week she is at the gym for a fitness class at 5 a.m. This means she gets up at 4:15 in the morning. Two days a week she spins at 6 in the morning -- living large those two mornings by sleeping until 5:15. On weekends she goes at a more civilized hour, but her workout is still all business.
I, on the other hand, am not a gym rat. I am a total slacker compared to her. I get to the gym a mere three or four days a week, always in the afternoon, and I have noticed the following: There is no conversation that I will not allow to interfere with my workout regimen. During a perfect 75-minute-long workout, I will do the following: Talk with the above mentioned John Vautier about football; talk with Drew Smith about Cubber's, his restaurant; talk with John Elder about whatever books we're reading at the time; and talk with Geoffrey Jones about raising our daughters. In addition, I will joke with Andrew Furtsch about Tiger Woods, chat with David Furney about a new iPhone app, and talk to Damian Strona about his burgeoning wrestling career. Finally, there is Chris Nugent, a terrific trainer who gives his heart and soul to the gym and agrees with me that the demolition of the Champlain Bridge was the coolest thing to happen on the lake since Ethan Allen waltzed into Fort Ticonderoga. We can kill a boatload of time together.
In a perfect workout, these conversations will add up to 38 minutes, or exactly one minute more than half my budgeted time at the gym.
But given how much time I spend alone at my desk talking to fictional people who don't talk back (thank heavens), I have come to the conclusion that spending about 51 percent of my workout not working out makes sense. During the winter, when I don't ride my bicycle, there are days when I venture no further from my front door than the end of my driveway to get the mail. Consequently, the gym has become a place that is as much about human connection as it is free weights and spin bikes -- or, perhaps, a place that is as much about mental health as it is physical health. And while my wife is considerably more disciplined than I am, I think this is true for her, too: She says that even if the gym conversation is limited at 5 in the morning because everyone is still half asleep, there is a real "the few, the proud, the chosen" sort of camaraderie.
My sense is that I am a more social person than I like to admit. When I went to the American Legion Post in Middlebury this month to get an H1N1 flu shot, I was excited to see the place was crowded and I would be there for an hour. I saw my friend and accountant, Sue Lilja, and I saw a half-dozen area neighbors who otherwise I would never have had the pleasure of meeting. I had a fine time.
And in the winter, when it's all too easy to hibernate if you live in a small Vermont village halfway up a mountain, sometimes getting the latest Tiger Woods joke at the gym is as important as adding a few extra minutes on the Stairmaster.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 31, 2010.)
Fat is a relative term. So is working out. I mention this because I have come to the realization that my wife, who never does anything halfway, is a gym rat. Without giving you more information than you need to know, half her laundry is gym clothes. Three days a week she is at the gym for a fitness class at 5 a.m. This means she gets up at 4:15 in the morning. Two days a week she spins at 6 in the morning -- living large those two mornings by sleeping until 5:15. On weekends she goes at a more civilized hour, but her workout is still all business.
I, on the other hand, am not a gym rat. I am a total slacker compared to her. I get to the gym a mere three or four days a week, always in the afternoon, and I have noticed the following: There is no conversation that I will not allow to interfere with my workout regimen. During a perfect 75-minute-long workout, I will do the following: Talk with the above mentioned John Vautier about football; talk with Drew Smith about Cubber's, his restaurant; talk with John Elder about whatever books we're reading at the time; and talk with Geoffrey Jones about raising our daughters. In addition, I will joke with Andrew Furtsch about Tiger Woods, chat with David Furney about a new iPhone app, and talk to Damian Strona about his burgeoning wrestling career. Finally, there is Chris Nugent, a terrific trainer who gives his heart and soul to the gym and agrees with me that the demolition of the Champlain Bridge was the coolest thing to happen on the lake since Ethan Allen waltzed into Fort Ticonderoga. We can kill a boatload of time together.
In a perfect workout, these conversations will add up to 38 minutes, or exactly one minute more than half my budgeted time at the gym.
But given how much time I spend alone at my desk talking to fictional people who don't talk back (thank heavens), I have come to the conclusion that spending about 51 percent of my workout not working out makes sense. During the winter, when I don't ride my bicycle, there are days when I venture no further from my front door than the end of my driveway to get the mail. Consequently, the gym has become a place that is as much about human connection as it is free weights and spin bikes -- or, perhaps, a place that is as much about mental health as it is physical health. And while my wife is considerably more disciplined than I am, I think this is true for her, too: She says that even if the gym conversation is limited at 5 in the morning because everyone is still half asleep, there is a real "the few, the proud, the chosen" sort of camaraderie.
My sense is that I am a more social person than I like to admit. When I went to the American Legion Post in Middlebury this month to get an H1N1 flu shot, I was excited to see the place was crowded and I would be there for an hour. I saw my friend and accountant, Sue Lilja, and I saw a half-dozen area neighbors who otherwise I would never have had the pleasure of meeting. I had a fine time.
And in the winter, when it's all too easy to hibernate if you live in a small Vermont village halfway up a mountain, sometimes getting the latest Tiger Woods joke at the gym is as important as adding a few extra minutes on the Stairmaster.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 31, 2010.)
January 27, 2010
A goodreads giveaway
Greetings!
Some of you have wonderded whether there will be an advance copy giveaway of SECRETS OF EDEN.
There is. Follow this goodreads link:
http://www.goodreads.com/videos/show/...
Enjoy -- and Happy Reading.
Some of you have wonderded whether there will be an advance copy giveaway of SECRETS OF EDEN.
There is. Follow this goodreads link:
http://www.goodreads.com/videos/show/...
Enjoy -- and Happy Reading.
January 24, 2010
Dogfight, no. Doggie detente, yes.
The other day, my 81-year-old father was walking Fluffy, his girlfriend's dog. Fluffy is a mutt from the animal shelter but he has a lot of terrier in him. He may also have an attention deficit disorder, but that just may be part of being a dog.
He's 20 pounds of relentless energy who loves nothing more than leaping onto a bed where a human is sleeping and landing like an anvil on his or her crotch. Actually, that's not true: He also loves barking at the television set. This barking at the TV is the big difference between my dad and Fluffy. Fluffy only barks at the TV when it's off, and my dad only barks at the TV when he's watching "Meet the Press" or "This Week with George Stephanopoulos."
Fluffy also survived a leap from a third-floor balcony into the bushes 30 feet below. A bird flew by and Fluffy was off the ground like a fighter jet. He missed the bird and dropped like a lawn dart, but wound up without even a broken bone. According to my dad and his girlfriend, the dog was already emerging from the shrubbery when they got to him, looking up in the air for the bird and barking.
In any case, my dad was walking Fluffy along one of the manicured roads that mark the Fort Lauderdale, Fla., neighborhood in which he lives. Some readers may recall that my father and his girlfriend live in a condominium community built around a golf course, and everyone there is old enough to know that a "high ball" is the name of a drink and not the medical shorthand for a male medical problem. Of course, if a high ball were the medical shorthand for a male medical problem, the folks there would still use it. There is no medical problem they don't talk about. I just love my lunches with my dad's golf buddies when I visit because it is always such an interesting window into just how much I have to look forward to as I age.
So, my father had Fluffy's leash in one hand and his ever-ready plastic bag in the other. My dad and the dog were strolling contentedly along the sidewalk when a Cadillac slowed to a stop beside them. My dad didn't know the fellow behind the wheel and presumed that he was going to ask directions. He didn't. The guy, who my father guessed was roughly his age, proceeded to demand that my father pick up the dog mess that he insisted he saw Fluffy deposit in the grass.
"He hasn't done anything yet," my dad said, and held up the empty bag as evidence.
"He just did," the stranger insisted, at which point he climbed from the car and stomped over to my dad. My dad says the following thought crossed his mind: "Men in their 80s are not supposed to have fist fights and this is just not going to be pretty." Nevertheless, he was prepared to defend his reputation and his girlfriend's dog's honor.
Instead, however, his antagonist bent over the grass and started searching for proof of the allegation. This made Fluffy very happy: A human acting like a dog.
At that point, my father did the sort of thing that makes me quite content with the reality that eventually I may grow into him. He put his hand on the guy's shoulder and introduced himself. He offered his address and phone number and said, "Look, if you really think I didn't clean up after Fluffy, report me to the condominium association." (Apparently, they have what my dad refers to as the Dog Poop Police.)
And this completely de-escalated the tension: Cuban missile crisis averted. My dad and the guy from the Cadillac haven't yet become golf buddies, but I think it's only a matter of time. Growing old might not be easy, but it's encouraging to see that diplomacy doesn't need to disappear along with one's hearing and eyesight.
Incidentally, my father turns 82 tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Dad.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 24, 2010.)
He's 20 pounds of relentless energy who loves nothing more than leaping onto a bed where a human is sleeping and landing like an anvil on his or her crotch. Actually, that's not true: He also loves barking at the television set. This barking at the TV is the big difference between my dad and Fluffy. Fluffy only barks at the TV when it's off, and my dad only barks at the TV when he's watching "Meet the Press" or "This Week with George Stephanopoulos."
Fluffy also survived a leap from a third-floor balcony into the bushes 30 feet below. A bird flew by and Fluffy was off the ground like a fighter jet. He missed the bird and dropped like a lawn dart, but wound up without even a broken bone. According to my dad and his girlfriend, the dog was already emerging from the shrubbery when they got to him, looking up in the air for the bird and barking.
In any case, my dad was walking Fluffy along one of the manicured roads that mark the Fort Lauderdale, Fla., neighborhood in which he lives. Some readers may recall that my father and his girlfriend live in a condominium community built around a golf course, and everyone there is old enough to know that a "high ball" is the name of a drink and not the medical shorthand for a male medical problem. Of course, if a high ball were the medical shorthand for a male medical problem, the folks there would still use it. There is no medical problem they don't talk about. I just love my lunches with my dad's golf buddies when I visit because it is always such an interesting window into just how much I have to look forward to as I age.
So, my father had Fluffy's leash in one hand and his ever-ready plastic bag in the other. My dad and the dog were strolling contentedly along the sidewalk when a Cadillac slowed to a stop beside them. My dad didn't know the fellow behind the wheel and presumed that he was going to ask directions. He didn't. The guy, who my father guessed was roughly his age, proceeded to demand that my father pick up the dog mess that he insisted he saw Fluffy deposit in the grass.
"He hasn't done anything yet," my dad said, and held up the empty bag as evidence.
"He just did," the stranger insisted, at which point he climbed from the car and stomped over to my dad. My dad says the following thought crossed his mind: "Men in their 80s are not supposed to have fist fights and this is just not going to be pretty." Nevertheless, he was prepared to defend his reputation and his girlfriend's dog's honor.
Instead, however, his antagonist bent over the grass and started searching for proof of the allegation. This made Fluffy very happy: A human acting like a dog.
At that point, my father did the sort of thing that makes me quite content with the reality that eventually I may grow into him. He put his hand on the guy's shoulder and introduced himself. He offered his address and phone number and said, "Look, if you really think I didn't clean up after Fluffy, report me to the condominium association." (Apparently, they have what my dad refers to as the Dog Poop Police.)
And this completely de-escalated the tension: Cuban missile crisis averted. My dad and the guy from the Cadillac haven't yet become golf buddies, but I think it's only a matter of time. Growing old might not be easy, but it's encouraging to see that diplomacy doesn't need to disappear along with one's hearing and eyesight.
Incidentally, my father turns 82 tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Dad.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 24, 2010.)
January 21, 2010
Bookpage interviews Chris about Secrets of Eden
Alden Mudge of Bookpage interviewed Chris for the February issue. The article that came out of the conversation, "Trouble in paradise: The surprising twists of a small-town murder mystery," can be read here:
http://www.bookpage.com/books-1001281...
http://www.bookpage.com/books-1001281...
January 18, 2010
Secrets of Eden among 10 books for 2010
The January 18 Boston Herald listed ten books that people are looking forward to in 2010. Among the titles? Secrets of Eden. I am honored to be on any list that also includes Howard Frank Mosher and Stieg Larsson. Thanks, Boston Herald; thanks New England Mobile Book Fair. Here is the whole list:
http://bostonherald.com/entertainment...
http://bostonherald.com/entertainment...
January 17, 2010
Rite of passage? Right of way.
When you last heard from Bridgette Bartlett in this column, it might have been when she was endeavoring to sing like Ariel, the Little Mermaid, pretending she had fins instead of legs while she sat on the dock by the pond in the back of her house. Or it might have been when she was one of the 11 girls under the age of 5 who were sharing the role of Dorothy in a Lincoln Community Preschool production of "The Wizard of Oz." Oh, she has appeared in this column since then, but many readers still presume that Bridgette and my daughter's other friends are elementary school students.
Well, here's a news flash -- and it is among the most terrifying sentences I have ever written in my life. Bridgette Bartlett now has her driver's license. At precisely 10:01 a.m. on Jan. 7, she passed her driver's test. In the week and a half since then, her parents' hair has become noticeably grayer.
Bridgette is the first of my daughter's close friends in Addison County to make this rite of passage. The first thing Bridgette did after passing her driver's test that Thursday morning in Middlebury? "I dropped my mom off at Hannaford's and drove to the natural foods co-op to get a veggie wrap," she said.
Her second day with her license, a week ago Friday, she navigated through her first snowstorm. She was driving home to Lincoln at night from a friend's house in Monkton and she said the road was slick and the visibility awful. Such is the reality of learning to drive here in the faux tundra of northern New England: You don't get a long grace period when the asphalt is dry and you're not driving through a tunnel of oncoming white darts. But she made it just fine.
I asked her if she had ever been in a car accident.
"Well, there was that time you went off the Boyce-Munson driveway in the snow," she replied.
Oh.
Yes, there was that, I recalled. I had been driving my daughter, Bridgette, Amelia Munson and Yuki Davis to a dance class in Colchester. And I did exactly what I never want my daughter or Bridgette or their friends ever to do when they're driving: Blast Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young" on the car stereo and tap their hands to the beat on the steering wheel. One minute I was banging on the wheel as if it were a snare drum, and the next I was spinning my wheels in a foot-and-a-half of powder three impassable yards from the edge of the Boyce-Munson driveway. The girls had to take a cab to dance class and I had to call AAA for a tow.
Yup, do as I say. Not as I do. At least I wasn't texting.
It has been fascinating to watch my daughter's friends grow up these last 16 years. As a parent, you always hope your children won't do the same ridiculous things as teenagers that you know all too well you yourself did. You always hope that you are a solid role model in their presence -- or, at least, you will have the common sense not to pretend you're a rock star while piloting a few thousand pounds of metal on a slippery driveway in January.
And you always worry. You never stop. You worry about your own children and you worry about all those children who are friends of your kids. Except, suddenly, you are worrying about someone who is 16 years old instead of 6.
I asked Bridgette's mom what it was like to sit in the passenger seat over the last year when she was helping Bridgette learn to drive. "I gasped a lot," she said simply.
Apparently, that, too, is part of being a parent. It doesn't matter whether you have a tyke or a teen.
Congratulations, Bridgette. Now, be careful. Be cautious. Be smart. And turn down the volume on the Billy Joel.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 17, 2009.)
Well, here's a news flash -- and it is among the most terrifying sentences I have ever written in my life. Bridgette Bartlett now has her driver's license. At precisely 10:01 a.m. on Jan. 7, she passed her driver's test. In the week and a half since then, her parents' hair has become noticeably grayer.
Bridgette is the first of my daughter's close friends in Addison County to make this rite of passage. The first thing Bridgette did after passing her driver's test that Thursday morning in Middlebury? "I dropped my mom off at Hannaford's and drove to the natural foods co-op to get a veggie wrap," she said.
Her second day with her license, a week ago Friday, she navigated through her first snowstorm. She was driving home to Lincoln at night from a friend's house in Monkton and she said the road was slick and the visibility awful. Such is the reality of learning to drive here in the faux tundra of northern New England: You don't get a long grace period when the asphalt is dry and you're not driving through a tunnel of oncoming white darts. But she made it just fine.
I asked her if she had ever been in a car accident.
"Well, there was that time you went off the Boyce-Munson driveway in the snow," she replied.
Oh.
Yes, there was that, I recalled. I had been driving my daughter, Bridgette, Amelia Munson and Yuki Davis to a dance class in Colchester. And I did exactly what I never want my daughter or Bridgette or their friends ever to do when they're driving: Blast Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young" on the car stereo and tap their hands to the beat on the steering wheel. One minute I was banging on the wheel as if it were a snare drum, and the next I was spinning my wheels in a foot-and-a-half of powder three impassable yards from the edge of the Boyce-Munson driveway. The girls had to take a cab to dance class and I had to call AAA for a tow.
Yup, do as I say. Not as I do. At least I wasn't texting.
It has been fascinating to watch my daughter's friends grow up these last 16 years. As a parent, you always hope your children won't do the same ridiculous things as teenagers that you know all too well you yourself did. You always hope that you are a solid role model in their presence -- or, at least, you will have the common sense not to pretend you're a rock star while piloting a few thousand pounds of metal on a slippery driveway in January.
And you always worry. You never stop. You worry about your own children and you worry about all those children who are friends of your kids. Except, suddenly, you are worrying about someone who is 16 years old instead of 6.
I asked Bridgette's mom what it was like to sit in the passenger seat over the last year when she was helping Bridgette learn to drive. "I gasped a lot," she said simply.
Apparently, that, too, is part of being a parent. It doesn't matter whether you have a tyke or a teen.
Congratulations, Bridgette. Now, be careful. Be cautious. Be smart. And turn down the volume on the Billy Joel.
(This column originally appeared in the Burlington Free Press on January 17, 2009.)
