A B&B Can Be “Home” on the Road

10 Tuesday Sep 2013

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By FRANK TERRANELLA

Staying at a bed and breakfast (B&B) is not for everyone. It takes a bit of a leap of faith, and more than a little effort to be sociable. So if you’re really not a morning person, and just want to be left alone while you eat breakfast, you’re better off staying at the Hilton, Holiday Inn, or any of the other cookie-cutter hotel room providers. But if you are up for a bit of adventure, and just love meeting new, interesting people, there’s nothing like a B&B. Recently, I was reading that in the 19th century many inns did not provide private rooms. Strangers shared rooms, and even in some cases, they shared beds. Meals were, of course, communal.

Well. 21st century B&Bs have maintained the shared meals and shared living rooms, but the rooms in most B&Bs are now private, and come with private bathrooms. Yet it is the communal part of the B&B experience that makes it special. My wife and I were in our 50s when we tried our first B&B.

It was a wonderful home in Bennington, Vermont called The Four Chimneys. We had some trepidation about how communal an experience this would be. We quickly found out that at a B&B you can be as social or as unsocial as you want. Those who want to keep to themselves can do so. But the real fun is sitting around the communal living room and meeting the other guests. Invariably we had met fascinating people, and had a great time. Some B&Bs are just large, old houses that the owner sets up for guests. You stay in a guest bedroom; you eat in the dining room; you hang out in the living room of what was once a normal house. Newer B&Bs are built almost like a hotel with all the modern amenities except that care is taken not to get larger than a large house. So typically, there are five or fewer bedrooms.

One B&B we stayed at in Mendocino, California, the MacCallum House, had both the old-fashioned-house guest rooms, as well as a newly-constructed annex. Mendocino is one of those places that are full of B&Bs. Most recently, we stayed at a new B&B in Williamstown, Mass., up near the Vermont border. It was called Journey’s End, and I hesitate to mention it because I fear I may never be able to get a reservation again once people discover it.

Journey’s End is a beautiful new construction B&B. It’s a log cabin on a hill with a gorgeous view of the Berkshires. The people we met there were mostly over-50 travelers, so we had a lot in common. But probably the best thing at Journey’s End is the food that Carlos feeds his guests for breakfast. That’s something that’s common to all B&Bs. You get a real home-cooked meal every morning. B&Bs are perfect for making you feel like you’re at home while you’re on the road. I recommend them to all over 50 travelers who may be looking for a cross between a motel and the youth hostels we stayed in while backpacking 40 years ago. A B&B provides a great communal traveling experience but with private rooms. It’s the best of both worlds.

My Avant-Garde Sister, and Her Hip, Off-the-Shoulder Tattoo

09 Monday Sep 2013

Posted by in Art, Confessional

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Bodhi

Bodhi.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Way, way before tats became au courant, my sister had a gorgeous tattoo of a bodhisattva, that enlightened disciple of Buddha, etched onto her right shoulder. I remember the first time I saw it – around 1986 or 1987. I was shocked that she had had half of her arm covered by a tattoo. But there was no denying the artistry of the piece. It had been drawn by a brilliant artist who simply preferred skin to canvas, never a concept I quite embraced, but it was a work of fine art. The delicacy of the lines, and the sensitivity of the shading, merged into a face of compassion and tranquility. The posted photo does not do it justice, but after searching the thousands of photos of my sister I found out I never nailed a great shot of the tattoo. I was too resistant to the idea of scored skin (still am) to want to take a picture. But after 20 years, I became used to it. Even fond of it.

But things change, and the tattoo no longer fit my sister’s lifestyle, so she decided to have it removed. She told me it was a long and painful process. The one piece of advice she has given her daughters, should they decide to go the way of Bob’s son, and get a tattoo is: stay away from color.

It is purely practical advice because it is a bear to remove inked-in red, blue and green hues from the skin. And as we, who reside on the right side of 50 know all too well, skin texture morphs, melts and perhaps even sags in some places. We know that that tattooed cinnabar heart, which seemed so alluring on the arm at 20, may actually droop uncontrollably at 60.

Anyway, from time to time, I sort of miss the bodhi that danced on my sister’s shoulder. However, she has informed me, that if I look closely, traces of her remain – an outline of a memory.

So here’s to my sister, who had the hipness to decide to get a tattoo ahead of the curve. And is no doubt still ahead of the curve in getting it removed.

My Stool-Sample Story

06 Friday Sep 2013

Posted by in Confessional, Men

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Drawing by Julie Seyler.

Drawing by Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

Last week, as part of my annual check-up, I had routine bloodwork done. I was also given “homework” in the form of a stool-sample kit, which tests for blood in your feces. If they find blood, it could mean you have colon cancer, which is highly treatable in its early stages, but frightfully deadly later on.

The stool-sample kit is ingenious. You lay a piece of thin paper on the surface of the water in your commode to create a temporary floating platform, “make your deposit” on it, then jab the top of the floating waste with a tool resembling a spiky plastic toothpick – twisting to ensure full coverage. Then you snap the befouled toothpick into a sterile plastic carrying case, wrap the case in a sliver of bubble wrap, and slide the whole thing into a padded, postage prepaid envelope addressed to the testing lab. Dump the envelope into the nearest mailbox, and it’s done.

Are we having fun yet? Surely not half as much fun as the lab technician whose job it is to unwrap and test those spiky sticks all day long.

Anyway, I dutifully completed the test, mailed it off, and totally forgot about the blood work and stool sample – until I went home after four days away and listened to the accumulated phone messages. There were four: one wrong number, and the next three, ominously, from my doctor’s office. All three merely recited that it was Dr. Gold’s office calling for Robert W. Smith, and asked that I give them a call. I’m not technically savvy, so I couldn’t figure out whether the messages had been left over three days, or three hours. Nonetheless, I was a bit alarmed that the doctor’s office was so anxious to reach me.

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A Final Climb to the Top of Hawk Mountain

05 Thursday Sep 2013

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atop the mountain

BY MARGO D. BELLER

The months run by. It seems like yesterday that I was looking at an Eastern Phoebe on the first full day of spring. Now the summer is over, the kids are going back to school (yay!),and the birds that came north to breed are heading south for the winter.

On Sept. 1, many hawk watches opened for “business.” These platforms, where people scan the skies for eagles, osprey and smaller hawks are located atop or near ridges where rising warm air, and northerly wind create an aerial highway for these diurnal travelers.

New Jersey has lots of these places, from Cape May in the south, to Sandy Hook along the eastern coast, to the ridges in the west along the Delaware River, and many others in between.

But before I discovered the treasures of my home state, we went west to Hawk Mountain Sanctuary in Pennsylvania. This place, where men once blasted migrating hawks out of the sky for sport, was bought by a rich woman and turned into a sanctuary.

What draws the birdwatchers, is seeing the birds practically at eye level from the topmost lookout. But there is a price to pay. The higher you go, the harder the climb, with many rocks that shift under your weight.

The first time we climbed to the top, we were beguiled by all the warblers we found along the way. It was a weekday and the crowd was small. We had come prepared, and enjoyed watching the raptors fly. On the way down, we even found a bird we’d never seen before, a Bicknell’s thrush. We knew we had to return someday.

That happened a few years later. However, rocks shift, mountains get worn from the rain and people get older. Our second climb up – no warblers to be found – was on a Saturday. There were many more people making the climb and sitting at the top.

Watching the hawks up close was just as wonderful. But the climb down, for we without wings, was much more hazardous than last time. Even with a walking stick, I came close to falling several times, which scared me.

There were older people making the climb in both directions, and they seemed to have no problem. But there were others who had to travel very slowly, helped by younger people. They all kept going because they were drawn to the hawks, and I hope they weren’t disappointed.

But when we got to the bottom of the mountain, MH and I knew we wouldn’t be making that climb again.

As I said, there are lots of hawk watches closer to home, and my favorite one allows us to drive to the top, take out the folding chair, and watch the show. It will do.

A Song With a Story Sings to Me

04 Wednesday Sep 2013

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the girl with the bow

The girl with the bow. By Julie Seyler.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

I have always loved songs that tell a story. Many songs over the years have told simple stories. Thinking back to my childhood, “Silhouettes,” “Leader of the Pack,” and “Society’s Child” come to mind. But I’m not talking here about songs that tell simple stories. I’m talking about songs that could qualify as bona-fide short stories. Harry Chapin was the master of this genre with songs like, “Taxi” and “A Better Place to Be,” and many others.

One of my favorite story songs is one that was a hit for the Dixie Chicks in 2003. It’s a song by Bruce Robison called “Travelin’ Soldier.” Although written in the 1990s, the song is set during the Vietnam War. It’s about a boy, “two days past eighteen,” waiting in his army uniform for a bus that will take him off to war. He walks into a café, and is waited on by, “a girl with a bow in her hair,” who takes his order, and smiles at him because she can see he’s shy and all alone. This encourages him enough to ask her to sit and talk because he’s, “feeling a little low.” She tells him that she gets off in an hour, and she knows a place where they can go and talk. So they go down, and sit on the pier. There, the young soldier asks if he can write to her because, “I got no one to send a letter to.” She agrees and the young man catches his bus. Soon the letters start to come from an army camp in California, and then from Vietnam.

The young soldier pours out his heart to the young girl. He says that he may be in love with her. He also tells her of the things that scare him. He lets her know that when things get, “kinda rough over here,” he thinks of that day sitting on the pier with her. He tells her, “Don’t worry but I won’t be able to write for awhile.”

Of course, the last verse of the song is the most poignant:

One Friday night at a football game
The Lord’s Prayer said and the Anthem sang
A man said folks would you bow your heads
For a list of local Vietnam dead
Crying all alone under the stands Was a piccolo player in the marching band
And one name read but nobody really cared
But a pretty little girl with a bow in her hair.

I have to admit that I get a tear in my eye every time I hear the song. “Travelin’ Soldier” was the last hit the Dixie Chicks had. While they were introducing the song at a concert in London on March 10, 2003, lead singer Natalie Maines said that they were ashamed that George Bush was from Texas. Country music stations immediately stopped playing the song, and it dropped from the charts. The Dixie Chicks never recovered from their shunning from the country music community. But their recording of “Travelin’ Soldier” remains a musical work of art.

Someone Left a Garden in My New Backyard (Help)

03 Tuesday Sep 2013

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The Moon 8.25.13

BY JULIE SEYLER

On Sunday, August 25, at around 6:30 a.m., the moon was still luminous. I went outside and surveyed the land in the backyard.

You see, I, through Steve, have inherited an estate – or shall we say Steve is now the proprietor of a three-story house with a deck, set upon a corner lot with a detached two-car garage. It is hardly perfect, but it is adorable. And until we walked inside with keys in hand, we had not a clue that the prior owner was an ardent and passionate gardener.

She left us ripening tomatoes and budding peppers, sprouting lettuce and a few cucumber shoots. And boundless flowers of every color, shape and form:

ripening tomatoes

peppers 231lettuce 231

purple flower

flower 231

I figure the whole garden gig is a gift. If one side of the “getting old” seesaw is dealing with illness and reading obituaries, the other side is knowing to BE HERE NOW. We are wise that this moment will be gone one day, and not easily recapturable. It is also a sign- I am supposed to develop a green thumb. After 38 years of apartment living sans a plant, it is time to start digging. I so love going to the Farmer’s Market, but now there is a mini-farm in our backyard. (Of course, the irony of it all will be that I won’t dig gardening at all.) In the meantime, Steve hooked up a sprinkler timed to go off every day at 11:00 so that the vegetables get water. What else do we do? Tips appreciated.

Remembering a Summer, and the Girl Who Had My Heart

30 Friday Aug 2013

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ronnie 3

BY ANTHONY BUCCINO

It started innocently, as all these stories do. I was on an open-ended summer vacation at Lake Erie. In September, I’d return to New Jersey and my junior year of high school. I’d count the days until I got my driver’s license, and could return to this summer place.

That day, my buddy drove us in his VW Bug to a new shopping center in Mentor where the stores were connected and under one roof. It was the biggest thing to hit northeastern Ohio in 1970 since practically ever. The Ohio kids got their license at 15 – geeze, 15! – if they wanted.

While wandering aimlessly along the cavern of shops, a frantically-waving hand on the other side of the window inside a Friendly’s Restaurant caught our eye. It was my buddy’s neighbor Cyndi, and she was so excited to run into us so far from home. I knew Cyndi, and her mom sitting there, but the new girl – let’s call her Ronnie – caught my eye.

Soon I found myself spending a lot of time at Cyndi’s, and her cousin Ronnie showed up nearly all the time. Evenings, we sat on the front steps listening to the Woodstock album on the eight-track. Ronnie liked listening to the Beatles because they were banned in her house because of something John Lennon said.

As a group, we went practically everywhere. Cyndi drove, and we went here and there, to pick up pop, visit a farm stand, or hit the miniature golf links. And I tagged along with the family to the kid brother’s Little League games at Cederquist Park.

One time, we teenagers got volunteered to work at Cyndi’s church cleaning the ceiling tiles in the kitchen. As long as Ronnie was there, it didn’t matter where there was.

Ronnie and I took walks around the block where Cyndi lived. We were still too shy to hold hands, but we were hanging on every word the other said. We were looking for clues that this summer thing would be a forever thing. Walking and talking with the pretty girl lifted the veil of shyness.

A long distance relationship is fine for a shy guy. At home, you could always defer to your girlfriend hundreds of miles away, and say things like, “Gee, I have to run. I owe her a letter.” And, “I can’t wait until I get back to Ohio to see my girl again.” No one would be the wiser.

But a gal wants someone who’s there. Who can take her to the school dance. Someone she can see in the hallways at school. A guy who’s not too far away to do things with. Long distance phone calls and weekly letters in the mail won’t carry that weight.

It’s been more than forty years since we parted. I’ve had other heartbreaks, but none as permanent as the first. Perhaps our story will become a Lifetime channel movie. We met, lost contact, lived our lives and then one day we each look up at the random table at the random nursing home and see each other again. Of course, I’m wondering if she remembers me, or am I a long-forgotten minor distraction? The music over the closing film credits will be that ’60s Four Seasons song, “I’ll go on living and keep on forgiving, because …” Well, you know the rest.

Is it Ronnie I want to meet in that senior citizens home, or am I deep-down longing to meet myself? Although I’m pushing sixty, inside, much of the time I’m still that sixteen-year-old, wide-eyed, innocent – amazed that a beautiful girl would speak with me. Or leave a burning torch in my soul.

Yep, You Can Start Calling Me Grandpa

29 Thursday Aug 2013

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Frank sonogram

Too soon to spoil?

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

My son told me recently that his new bride is pregnant, and that I was going to be a grandfather for the first time early next year. My reaction was pure joy. It was surreal. And then when I saw the first sonogram picture of my grandchild, it all became real.

Bill Cosby used to say that no one is a real adult until they’ve become a parent. Well, I think no one is a real senior citizen until they’ve become a grandparent. And at age 60, I am now ready to be a grandparent.

Grandparenthood, from all reports, is one of the most marvelous things we over-50s can experience. Our friends who already have grandchildren say that it’s the best of parenthood, with none of the downside. You can leave all the unpleasant things for their parents to take care, and you can spoil them by letting them do all things they can’t get away with at home.

I know this from personal experience as a parent. When we had our children, my wife would often watch her mother’s interaction with our kids and say, “Who is this woman? This can’t be the strict parent I grew up with.” Things that were inviolate rules when they were parents, now become mere guidelines when acting as grandparents. In fact, grandparents sometimes seem to conspire with grandchildren against their parents. It’s like they have a common enemy – that mean parent who says the kids can’t have a pet.

From my standpoint, grandparenthood is really a do-over. You get another chance to be a parent, and correct all the mistakes you made. It’s like a parenting mulligan. Now that I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t, I’m ready to do it right this time. But more to the point, I won’t be phoning it in this time, which looking back, I fear I may have done the first time more that I’d like to admit.

I think most over-50 parents feel as I do that our children’s childhoods flew by too fast. I know that at the time it felt like an ordeal to get through. I used to joke about how on their 18th birthday my kids would get a birthday card from me with a notice that the lease on their bedrooms was up, and they were now financially independent. Of course, that didn’t happen. Our daughter still lives with us, and I’m glad of it. She and her boyfriend provide invaluable assistance to her aging parents.

But I do think there’s something about being a grandparent that gives those of us on the right side of 50 a feeling of a chance at redemption. Sure, I may have delivered a mediocre performance as a parent, but I’m going to blow them away in the second act as a grandparent.

Now, how old do my grandchildren have to be before I can introduce them to the joys of licorice and pretzel sticks?