Day 12 (part 2): My Godson, M, (who is perfect)

I’ve said often enough that my family is perfect. Not the immediate family, but my extended family, the assorted aunts, token uncle, in-laws and out-laws that make up my mother’s family. I told someone that once, and her reaction was of horror, that perfection was awfully hard to live up to. She had it wrong. Perfection was not the standard set for us to meet; we were the standard. Whatever we did was, by definition, perfect. That’s how it seemed, anyway, because we’re a diverse group of over 40 individuals. And I do mean individuals. We pretty much span the political/lifestyle/opinion spectrum. I mentioned the Army Major in Djibouti, and my grandmother was the one with the bumper sticker on the refrigerator. (She wouldn’t put it on the car and drive with it, though. Give the woman some credit.) (Told you to watch for it. Djibouti! Djibouti!)

The first great-grandchild was M. He’s 12-going-on-13 now, but in his glory years as the only one in his generation, his nickname was “El Diablo.” (No, we didn’t know that future children would meet and surpass him in demon-like behavior.) He earned it. Smart as anything else out there, he’d tie you up in knots until you forgot just who was supposed to be the adult and who was the child.

And he was the one who needed a “Come to Jesus” meeting on our first day touring Boston. He’s got the whole “WHAT?” eye-rolling, sullen “I can’t believe I’m stuck with these crazy folks” attitude down pat, which I guess means he’s normal. Or as normal as anyone from my family can be, because we’re all our own extremes. I don’t know what precipitated this particular display of teenaged angst, but we were all pretty wiped out from our sprint across the Charles River (visions of Rosie Ruiz ducked into my head close to the finish line, of course) and the really long day. We all wanted to go home. M hadn’t quite finished perusing the wares of the gift shop, however, and didn’t react appropriately when his mother told him it was time to leave.

And then? Things got worse.

I didn’t want my cousin to take him on either—I didn’t have bail money for either of them—so I told her to take the children who were behaving onto the ferry. M and I would have it out on the banks of the Charles.

When a 3-year old or 7-year old throws a tantrum, you get them under control and don’t let them hurt themselves or you; it's euphemistically called a therapeutic hug. I didn’t think I had it in me to take the 12-year old adolescent quite the same way as I had dragged the 7-year old through the streets of Philadelphia. (Now I’ll be singing Bruce for the next few hours.) He told me to go away, and I told him that I wouldn’t, but I wouldn’t make him talk. That he needed to get over being such a (insert appropriate curse word here), and when he did we would go back. That I couldn’t make him do anything. (I have done something to my left shoulder, and have been popping advil and using the hot/cold packs. I am feeling every one of my 39 years.) Being a teenager is tough. You think you need to know and be so many things, and you don’t have the experience for any of them. When he calmed down a little bit, I talked to him about the same things I talk to my 7-year old about after she gets out of control. Throwing a temper tantrum isn’t any more fun for the person on the inside of the tantrum than it is for the casual bystander. (Is that the voice of experience? Why ever would you ask?)

M is turning into an exceptional teenager, and I think he’ll continue our tradition of perfect people when he gets to be a Real Person. (We’ve had to remind him that he’s a serf still, which fits in a historical lesson quite nicely, thankyewverymuch.) As we sat on our bench and on the ferry (yes! another ferryboat!), we talked about everything. . .shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings, why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. I told him that I expected him to apologize to his mother, but that he didn’t need to make a huge production of it. He wanted to rehash the event, but I didn’t. So I told him that I didn’t doubt that his mom didn’t handle yanking him out of the gift shop in the best possible way, but that didn’t mean he had to be such a jerk. (Except, of course, since I’m the cool Godmommy, I didn’t say jerk. I used the profanity. Mommies can’t do that; Godmommies can.)

We’ve all taken turns this trip getting angry and getting over it. Some of us more often than others, but that’s all part of growing up. Maybe at some point I’ll be all grown up as well, but I wouldn’t bet anything on that. But the me that I was had a lot in common with the person that M is right now. So even if he's working on his sullen teenager face, he's worth it to hang out with.

Day 12 - Boston

Having heard horror stories about parking in Boston, and having learned our lesson with the car top carrier, we wisely decided to use public transportation. We drove a little way north, to the subway station at the end of the Red Line. In Boston they call it the “T”. We were delighted to learn that children under 11 were free.
After much deliberation, we had decided to go on a Duck Tour. The Ducks (or DUKW) are WWII amphibious vehicles. The Boston tour went to almost all of the sights on the Freedom Trail, and splashed into the Charles River as well. We have been traveling for 12 days and have walked our poor children’s feet off. So we decided to spare them a bit in Boston. We figured anything the duck didn’t fly by; we could go back and do afterwards.
The duck ride was definitely the highlight of Boston. Our driver (Captain Culvert) was excellent, and kept us all in stitches, while throwing in some history as well. In fact, M and C wanted his autograph when we were done, so apparently he made an impression. The kids were sitting in the front rows on either side of the aisle. After splashing into the Charles River (with a bugle charge for sound effects), Captain Culvert asked “Who wants to drive?” How many hands do you think went up in the first row? M was the first picked, and although he did an excellent job of driving the duck, he did not pass the listening portion of the exam.

At the beginning of the tour, CPT Culvert told us that the first elected Governor of MA was John Hancock. As M was driving, Capt. Culvert was asking him where he was from and what he had visited. M told him that he was homeschooled and about the Great American History Tour. CPT Culvert asked “Who was the 1st Gov of MA?” M failed the quiz. So did all the other children when he asked them. But they all got to drive the Duck, even J. Our driver also called back to headquarters, to ask them to give us a copy of their educational packet which they use for school tours (I guess he thought we really needed it!). Having looked at the packet online the night before, I was really excited, as they get an A+ for the most interesting and well put together packet.
Of course, ever since then, we have been randomly asking them who the first elected Gov of MA was. I think they’ll remember.
Although the duck could not get through the narrow streets of the North End, our captain was very enthusiastic about the restaurants there. The North End is mainly Italian now, and he said you couldn’t pick a bad one. Since Paul Revere’s House is also in the North End, and that was next on our list, we decided to wander up there and eat lunch. We did pick the first restaurant we came to, since everyone was hungry. It was a little tiny Italian restaurant named Antico Forno. If anyone is ever in Boston, I recommend it.

M and P had seen a play about Paul Revere last year, so P was really excited to see “his actual house”. I was pretty excited myself. They have some furniture that actually belonged to the Reveres. Did you know that Paul Revere had 16 children? 8 by his first wife, and 8 by his second. That’s in addition to being a well-known silversmith, Son of Liberty, engraver, pioneer in the production of copper-plating, and a few more things. We then set off for the North Church, but you can’t climb the tower. The church was nice, though. We were starting the Freedom Trail somewhere in the middle, since we had both agreed that Paul Revere’s House, the Old North Church, and the USS Constitution would be more meaningful (and interesting) to the kids. As we left the Old North Church, I realized that it was 3:10. The last guided tour of the Constitution was at 3:30. I was ready to throw up my hands in disgust, since that was one of the few things I had really wanted to do. (you only get to go below decks on the guided tour). AtlMom was convinced we could make it. I was not so sure, as you have to cross the Charles River over a huge bridge (on foot), and then walk along the docks forever. She was determined. Actually, she shouted (channeling her inner drill seargent) “Go on, and we’ll catch up later”. (I don’t think the big ship was as important to her. I knew M and C would think it was really neat.) We were doing great up until the middle of the bridge. I was so focused on moving quickly, that I hadn’t really noticed how the bridge was constructed. P and C were ahead of me, and I realized M was behind me at a dead stop. I looked down, and realized I was on a grate with nothing between me and the Charles River except a thin piece of metalwork (we were REALLY high up!) And I had to be grownup about it and go reassure my son. (At that point I really gave up on getting there by 3:30) He was seriously panicked, and not going to move an inch over the grate. Although I had given up on the 3:30 tour, I still wanted to see the Constitution, and the long way around was REALLY long – involving a ferry and LOTS of walking. So I tried to calm M’s fears (while still being a bit freaked out myself), and told him he could close his eyes and I’d take him across. Nope, that wasn’t going to work. We talked a bit more, and decided we would run across and not look down. I am very proud of my son for overcoming his fear, and making it across the bridge . We made it across at 3:25Although we missed the first few minutes of the tour (because we had to slow down for the security checkpoint), the very nice Navy guy let us go onboard and catch up with the rest of the tour. So we got to go below decks and see the whole ship.

They also have a very hands-on Museum for the Constitution, where kids can go through the steps of loading a cannon, sleep in a hammock, walk the rigging (just not 80 feet up), and experience a sailor’s life in general.
We did take the ferry back, as it let us out right by a T station, and we were all ready to go back to the hotel. We did stop and throw some tea into the water before we left.

On the way home, AtlMom looked at me and said, “How would you feel if we ditched Plimoth?” Funny, I had been thinking the same thing, but hadn’t wanted to mention it because I thought she really wanted to see Plimoth. Tomorrow would be our last day in the Boston area, and while I thought I could live without seeing Plimoth Rock (which I’ve heard is really small), I was not sure I could go home and face my extended family without seeing the Ducks Statue in the Public garden (of Make Way for Ducklings fame),and riding the Swan Boats.
We decided that Plimoth was very much like Jamestown (a boat, a Native American Village, and an English Settlement), and that our time would be better spent giving Boston an extra day.

Day 11 (Part 2): Thirteen Colonies

Along our trip, as we got further and further from home, people asked about our journey. One of those people—best recollection has it as one of the volunteer sailors on a Jamestowne ship—said that we would be going through just about every one of the 13 Colonies. We looked at our maps and realized that we were going through twelve of them, missing only New Hampshire. And we saw how close the towns of Lexington and Concord were to the NH border.

The rules for checking off a state as being visited are that you can’t just drive through and breathe the air. Foot must touch earth in the state. Not only that, the earth must not be in an interstate rest area or airport. You actually have to get out and do something. So we decided that we’d go to New Hampshire for lunch.

This is not to be confused at all with going to Paris for dinner, even if the “Welcome to New Hampshire” signs are also in French. (And hat-tip to an internet friend who made the comparison for me.)

We stopped in Derry, which was a far cry from the Derry, Maine featured in Stephen King books. (If I recall correctly, that town was destroyed at some point, so it probably wouldn’t have been the best lunch spot in any case.) We were just looking to see what we found, knowing that to be a risky gamble already. Luck and New Hampshire smiled on us, though, and we saw a sign for C & K Family Restaurant.

Exactly what the kids needed—the menu was full of the carb heavy foods that stick to your ribs and keep you going, even when it’s raining and your mom insists on singing the Preamble one more time. I highly recommend the C & K Family Restaurant next time you are in New Hampshire with a destructive horde. Even the more delicate among us laid waste to the table.

Upon our return to Massachusetts, we went to the portion of Minuteman National Park that’s in Lexington, pretty near where Mr. Revere was captured. I cast a longing look and sighed in the direction of Wayside House—where some of my old American Transcendentalist friends lived once upon a time—but we just went to the visitor center.

I’m glad we did.

That visitor center boasts (with every right) the absolute best presentation for subject that I’ve ever seen in a national park, ever in all of my life. And while I’m not as old as some of you reading, I’m certainly as old as I’ve ever been up to now. I don’t want to admit how much I learned from the presentation, but let’s just say that having little red lights on the map for the British, blue lights on the map for the Patriots (or Rebels, whichever way you’re more comfortable putting it) as well as some reenactments made it come clear to me. For some reason, I thought that I hated history all through school. Well, I did. But I think it probably had something to do with the way that the coaches taught it rather than the subject matter.

That’s when it became clear to me that this trip wasn’t completely about educating the kids; sometimes the mommies needed some smartening as well.


On the way back to Boston—or rather Brockton, where we were staying at the super swank Super 8 Hotel—we got caught in some horrendous traffic. So our hour trip up morphed into a 2+ hour trip back. And there was much whining. But overall, that day was a winner. Two states, not including panic, denial and euphoria. Big lunch. And then, to sleep.

Day 11: "The British are coming! The British are coming!"

Most parents today are close enough in age to me to remember waking up for Saturday morning cartoons. Real cartoons, the ones that had Wile E. Coyote blowing himself up (due to user error, of course, and not reading the small print on the directions for ACME Explosives) and Bugs Bunny making double entendre comments to Elmer Fudd, as the latter chased the former. That’s where I learned most of what I know about opera, for instance, because having heard “Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit!” once, I never forgot it.

Every now and then, the regularly scheduled programming would be interrupted by a short educational clip that somehow kept the kids glued to the television set. (Of course, I’ve seen this also in my children, and know now that it takes real talent to be so boring that you don’t keep the kids glued to the magic box that shows the moving pictures.)

Anyway, my knowledge of American History was formed at an early age by Schoolhouse Rock, as was my inner grammar nerd. (Come on, didn’t you rock out to ‘Conjunction Junction’ and ‘Lolly Lolly Lolly, Get Your Adverbs Here’?) So when we began planning the trip, I watched I played America Rock for my kids more than once. They’re memorizing the Preamble to the Constitution in much the same way we did, by singing along. So of course, today we sang as we drove north (much to the annoyance of M, the sullen teenager, who is Far Too Cool for his family. Ah, the tragedies of birth.) Sing with me now:

Now the ride of Paul Revere
Set the nation on its ear,
As the shot at Lexington heard ‘round the world
When the British fired at early dawn
The War of Independence had begun,
The die was cast, the rebel flag unfurled. . .

Before we made it to Minuteman NP, I had to be talked out of driving the gang past Walden Pond. I was a junior in college when I first read Thoreau & other American Transcendentalists, and remember being floored. (There, Dad, that should make up for driving to Hendersonville on Sundays for beer. I actually learned something, in between plays and parties. Money well spent, right?) I highlighted the texts wherever I found a quotable quote, and found that more words were highlighted than not. I don’t have the quote memorized, and don’t remember whether it was Emerson or Thoreau, but one of them wrote that consistency was overrated—a ship doesn’t sail in a straight line, but rather makes a thousand tacks. I called my mother, who had recently taken up sailing in her mid-40s—an age that sounds younger every year—and delighted her with the quote. We had more in common than I’ll ever admit. She was (and I am) a person of inconstant extremes, so finding an excuse for such was wonderful.

(Edit: Have found the quote. Emerson, from Self Reliance:

The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks. See the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing.

End edit.)

Did I mention the rain? The torrential rain, which made me gloat—I had brought the umbrellas out of the van. It had only been sprinkling then, and I had been mocked. I did insist that the mockers apologize before using umbrellas, because I am just that way. We made it to the North Bridge, without a rowboat, where we had a view of the Old Manse, where Emerson lived, which made my little liberal arts heart go pitter pat. We’d planned on reading the Emerson poem, but didn’t want to lug the laptop that far (didn’t travel with the printer), so settled for a dramatic! reading! of Longfellow. I’d have to say that reads almost as well as The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, and yes, I did tear up.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year. . .

Of course, Longfellow was no more historically accurate than the John Jakes novels. Revere was one of several riders that night; William Dawes and Dr. Samuel Prescott. Dawes and Revere met Dr. Prescott by accident that night; he was returning home to Concord after going courting in Lexington. Dr. Prescott was actually the only rider to make it to Concord—Revere was arrested, and Dawes escaped and went home, the laggard. But Revere had the better press agent. Remember that; good press can overcome many a flaw.

When we got back to the car, soaked and muddied, we did boot up and read Concord Hymn by Emerson.

Concord Hymn
Ralph Waldo Emerson

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Yeah. We teared up again. At least the sentimental grownups did.

I have more to blog about this day, but since this is already at 4 pages, I’ll stop. I need to drive about 15 minutes to be able to steal bandwidth to put this and some other posts up.

Day 10: NYC Skyline

Six years plus a few days ago, I was visiting New York City. Primarily to visit the in-laws, showing off the wonder-child that has since grown to be my wonderful daughter. We hit all of the normal tourist spots, but decided to skip the trip to the top of the World Trade Centers. There was a line, and I much preferred to be at ground level, seeing the people and sights, feeling the electricity and smelling the potpourri that did and still does make up The City. We did take pictures on the Staten Island ferry, though, even though at the time, I didn’t have a thing for ferryboats. Not as much as I do now, anyway.

The pictures on the ferry have the WTC in the background, and are dated September 4, 2001.

Driving back by this skyline, this week, I feel old. Each generation has a loss of innocence and faith in government. For my generation, it was the vulnerability that 9/11 exposed. For my parents, it was Watergate, Vietnam—or the Kennedy assassination. For those who were young adults in the late 18^th century, it was the declining faith and trust in the king and Parliament. They took matters in their own hands, and by the fortune of having some really remarkable minds in their midst, were able to hold some very important truths to be self-evident. (I don’t know if that phrase is entirely accurate, as no generation before theirs had really believed that all men were created equal. Even the writer of those words had a few stumbles along the way.)

They did the right thing; it wasn’t legal, it was dangerous and it was revolutionary on more than one level.

I wonder if successive generations haven’t descended into complacency. Such a rebellion seems fairly impossible today.

No, I’m not thinking of any particular political issue of today. Even if I were, I’d know better than to raise it here, on a blog that will be read by an Army Major in Dijbouti as well as those who agree with the bumper sticker saying “The road to hell is paved with Republicans.” Let’s keep it friendly here, folks. My wondering and thinking is more of the Radical Homeschooler bent—that children today learn there is one right answer, and that questioning authority is wrong. That the right answer is usually B, and when you’re taking the SAT, it’s not good to guess. (I like working the name of that particular country into conversation whenever possible, so keep an eye out for it. Dijbouti! Dijbouti!)

Life isn’t like that. There’s more than one right answer, sometimes even in math. Questioning authority is good. Sometimes you need to push the limits. I’ve been testing my own limits, pushing my own personal boundaries ever since I started on my homeschool adventure. This trip, as frustrating and exhilarating as it has been, is typical of homeschooling in general. And homeschooling is typical of parenting in general. You keep trucking, day after day, becoming frustrated and tired. Then something happens. It could be a parenting first—a gummy smile, first step—or educational first, connecting facts learned at separate times into thoughts and questions, applying knowledge. But whatever the moment is, you realize that your efforts aren’t in vain. That you are helping to shape a small person, and gradually they take their own shapes, individual shapes that perhaps aren’t best accommodated by the rows of desks found in traditional schooling.

My point? Well now, I don’t really have one. Just that rebellion isn’t always a bad thing, and when one does rebel, the consequences can be wonderful.

Day 10: Why There Are So Many Dead Yankees

They starved to death.

Seriously.

After we left Sleepy Hollow, we had a while to go before hitting the interstate, so we were sure that we'd hit something worth eating before long. Even when you drive from Greenville, SC to Hendersonville, NC on a Sunday afternoon, you'll hit "World Famous Hamburgers" which does indeed serve a nice burger. (There's no need to mention to my father exactly why I made that trip on Sunday afternoons, is there?) And in Traveler's Rest, SC, you can find "Feed Store" which not only has great hot dogs, but also has a sign that they serve "Dranks". And yes, they do say it just that way.

But when you drive on the side roads between Sleepy Hollow NY, and wherever we picked up the interstate. . .pack a snack, lest ye end up in one of the very many graveyards you pass. For a while, the highway was limited access, but the region has not yet picked up on the trick of putting the Food/Fuel/Lodging signs before the exit, only actually on the exit ramp. We missed a couple that way.

We passed by Chappaqua, New York, and I gave a little fangirl squee for love of a woman who lives there. No, not that one; the other one. We cranked the radio and bopped around to "Christians and the Pagans." The music was only slightly marred by the grumblings of our hungry bellies.

Finally, the limited access ended, and after who knows how many miles and minutes--I've blocked it out, so I don't--we passed something that said "CAFE". I pulled in, not even taking a vote. We'd found a small Hispanic grocery, exactly like the many that line Buford Highway back home. I thought we'd taken pictures, but it appears we were too busy eating. My recollection is that it was 4:00 by the time we ate lunch, and if you know my daughter, you know that she believes that lunch is late by 12:01.

She managed to get over it, and so did the rest of us.

Day 10 - Sleepy Hollow and travelling to Boston

Day 10 – Sleepy Hollow

For some reason, (5 chldren having nothing to do with it), we did not get started quite as early as we had planned. Loading the car took a bit longer, as we had to suck all the air out of our bedding and towels (for the space bags) so that it would all fit in the car top carrier. Finally, we got on the road, and set off for Sleepy Hollow. This was going to be our longest drive, so we were trying to break it up a bit with a fun stop for lunch.

We were driving on I95, so we passed close enough to New York to see the skyline. My children were very excited to realize that we were so close to New York. A’s comment was “What’s that smell??!!”

Answer: “That’s New Jersey!”

We crossed the George Washington Bridge (reviewing all of G.W.’s accomplishments), and pointed out the Tappen Zee Bridge. We discussed the Dutch influence of New York and touched on Sleepy hollow and Washington Irving. We aren’t sure that anyone was listening except ourselves. We stopped at the Vince Lombardi rest area, and realized very quickly that we were “not in Kansas anymore" (or at least not in the South). Many New Jersey accents surrounded us.
We arrived in Sleepy Hollow and pulled up at the Old Dutch church. M is somewhat tired of his mother's insistence on documenting every detail of our trip. Washington Irving is buried in the graveyard there, and AtlMom wanted to find his grave. The graveyard is much bigger than we realized and I gave up. I wanted to go find the bridge. P and C were back at the car, so we drove down the lane, and in about ½ mile, we came upon the Headless Horseman bridge. C wanted to get out and take pictures, but I knew that M would never forgive me if I left him out of the pictures. So we turned around, using the bridge (which made P really nervous). We arrived back where we had left the others, and they reported success in finding Washington Irving’s grave. They placed coins on it, just like Ben Franklin’s grave. We all piled into the car and drove back to the bridge. M, C, A, and J piled out of the car and started running across the bridge. M and C pretended to be running from the Headless Horseman. P exercised her right to stay in the car. She still was not convinced that the Horseman would not make an appearance.

We were all fairly hungry at this point and promised the children we would stop at the next acceptable restaurant for lunch. (McDonalds not being an acceptable restaurant at this point.) I am going to let AtlMom tell you about our lunch stop.
For some reason (again, 5 children with different bladder habits having nothing to do with it) we arrived at the Super 8 in Brockton, MA much later than planned. Thankfully, we did not have to make up beds, and no one was hungry after such a late lunch, so we threw all the children in bed as soon as we could. The hotel very nicely gave us adjoining rooms right off the lobby, so AtlMom and I were able to sit in the lobby after the kids went to bed and plan the next day.