A turning point, of sorts.

A couple of weeks ago I came across photos from summer camp (on facebook) from 1982. And rather predictably looking at these pictures has set my mind to ruminating. I'm not a sentimental person so it's not like I've grown weepy and want to reach out to everyone from camp. I still haven't been able to get in touch with 2 people from those days and I've been looking for them for 15 years. I'm sure they'll appear if/when they're supposed to.

The camp photos have brought into sharp focus the memory of an event that has caused me to reset a mental timeline.

For many, many years I have thought of a moment during the summer of 1983 as a "turning point." It was a sweltering hot night in July, in Harvard Square, and a friend of mine and I were trying to figure out how to get back to our suburban town as the last bus had left for the night. It must've been around 12:30 in the morning and S was on the pay phone making some calls. 

I stood a few feet from him and a teenage girl about my age walked up to me and started talking. While she was talking I realized that she was hitting on me and she knew I was female. This was terribly exciting as I felt that until that time I had always been pursuing someone or something and it was nice to be pursued for a change. We arranged to meet during the week. This was my first date.

All these years I have looked back on that night as the moment when things shifted. But. I was wrong. The moment when things shifted was really during the summer of 1982. We're still in New England and it's July and it's warm (but not too warm as camp was in the White Mountains of New Hampshire).

And a little context here will go a long way. I came from a horribly oppressive, totally abusive household. And while a lot of kids hated being shipped off to camp for the summer I was not one of those kids. The first summer I spent at camp was weird, I didn't make any friends, I was homesick, I was 12 years old and didn't know any better. But the following summers -- after I switched to another camp -- I figured out that being at camp meant not being around my parents, seeing friends from the previous summer, and having a lot of fun. Okay so structured activities and reveille can be a bit of a drag but a 5-day canoe trip on a remote lake in Maine, or a 3-day hike across Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Jackson; I'd do all that again tomorrow.

From time-to-time we'd be allowed an afternoon into the nearest large town where we could roam around, shop, then hop back in the van and head back to camp. In July of 1982 on the ride into town I decided that I was going to the barber to have him shave my head. I had $10.00 and at the time a haircut was $5.00. I knew I wanted a change and to make a statement. (I knew the haircut would freak the counselors out.) One of the younger campers (I forget who) tagged along with me. We walked into the barber shop and it was like stepping back in time to the 1950s -- a Norman Rockwell-esque scene. The barber was the only person in the shop and he was an older, clean shaved, no-nonsense, white man. He was wearing a white smock. His shop was immaculately clean. There were those barber chairs that look almost medieval. I took a seat on the red upholstery, resting my hands on the stainless steel armrests, planting my feet on the foot rest. The barber asked what I wanted. I said, shave it all off. In the mirror we studied at each other. There was no hesitation in my voice. He was rather stoic so there's no knowing what was going on in his head.

He flicked on the electric clippers. They hummed and within 5 minutes most of my (Jimmy Mcnichol inspired) hair was in a pile on the floor and I had a nice neat buzz cut.

At the time I wore a hooded sweatshirt and I pulled the hood over my head. Me and the junior camper roamed around until it was time to meet back at the van. We arrived at camp and as we were walking towards the cabins I pulled the hood down and one of the counselors yelled: You cut all your hair off! I turned and smiled.

Now I realize that it was that haircut that was the real turning point, not being hit on.

When I got back home at the end of the summer my parents picked me up at the Trailways bus station. We headed to lunch. Both of these events were customary.

After the waiter took our order my parents got serious. They looked concerned/upset and asked: Why did you cut your hair off?

I shrugged and said, I wanted to.

They didn't like my answer and remained silent for a while looking at me.

What I wanted to say (and it's nice to finally say it here) is: Because I hate you and the oppressive household you've created. I hate the control you exercise over my every waking minute when I'm around you. I hate that you hate each other and have remained in a marriage from Hell for 20 years. I hate being around you and I don't ever want to be small-minded and nasty like the two of you.

(Within 6 months my father would walk out abruptly on my mother (and my brother and I) and it was that wonderful, awful, liberating, intoxicating event that proved to be another turning point but one not of my making.)

When I returned to school for my junior year. There were a lot of comments. I really didn't care what my peers thought at the time. It wasn't for them, anymore than it was for my parents, to decide how I would cut my hair, who I would date etc. The distance between me and the critics widened but the distance between me and my real friends was shortened. And over the years it's been the people who have been my friends -- the one's who don't care how my hair is cut or who I'm dating/fucking -- those are the people I look on with the most fondness and have been eternally grateful that I've had friends that supported me in saying fuck you to the status quo.

Right now I'm loving that crotchety barber in New Hampshire. Big time. "Dude. Thank you."

baking muffins on a canoe trip 1982

Feeling inexplicably Boston rock, circa 1979.

stop watch + pedometer + running shoes = ?

Two weeks ago I had a hot flash. I worried that I had started to menopause and decided that I wasn’t ready for that. Instead I took up running. A couple of days later I realized I had a fever and was in the depths and throes of a common cold. The thing is I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell whether or not I’m in menopause but I do know that I’m coming up on the halfway mark of life so I might as well keep running.


Bear in mind. I hate running and for 40+ years I have sworn that I would never engage in long-distance running. When I think of runners I think of people in brightly colored, skimpy outfits running along a marathon route in packs. (Blecch.) But a couple of years ago I started to dream about running and I put it on the list of things to contemplate.

My first run was in a pair of Vans skateboard shoes along an undisclosed tree-lined hiking trail. If you’re thinking: “Mosquitoes,” “Ouch,” and “Shin splints,” you’re right on the money. I knew better than to actually run the first mile. Instead I ran for as long as I could (I counted to around 100 seconds) and then walked quickly until I felt I should run again. I knew that I didn’t want to create resentment towards running. Based on trail markers the first run was probably about a mile and a half.

A couple of days after that I read an article about beginning runners and learned that I had taken almost the perfect approach. Now I’m running for 2 minutes, walking for 4 minutes for 5 sets. I purchased a pair of trail running shoes and a pedometer. Thirty minutes of “running” on a trail = (roughly) 1.08 miles.

The next time I went for a “run” on a country road, I took my roommate’s kitchen timer. (& I think I broke it. Oops.) My most recent purchase: a stop watch.

Probability indicates that I will run that first mile in about a month.

What I like about running is that I have absolutely no idea where it’s taking me. I want to eat and drink like a 25 year old and this is the only way I can maintain that lifestyle. I want to stay off meds and out of the doctor’s office.

The one thing I’m struggling with is pace and form. There was this 23 year old dude (already blessed with a decent physique) who trotted past me the other day (on the street) and he had the best running form I have ever seen. You could tell by looking at him that he wasn’t struggling in the slightest. And (I'm surmising here)he could easily polish off (in one sitting by himself) a pint of ice cream, several drinks, and a large steak without gaining an ounce. I want all of that.

The Agawam Diner. "Their pie will make you cry."

Each year my roommate wants to do something fun for her birthday. This usually involves a road-trip of some sort and as I’m always down for that sort of thing I’m happy to drive her to any far-flung corner of the Northeast.


Two years ago we headed here.

This year C wants to head here.

In much the same way that a marathoner trains for an upcoming race, we had to prep for the long-ass trip to Georgetown with a smaller, seafood oriented drive. We headed here.
I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I heard this place had good pies and that’s all I went for. I didn’t want to seem like too much of a freak so I ordered dinner to mask my craving for pie.

The fried clams were the best I’ve ever eaten. (The waitress assured us they buy theirs from the same folks who supply the Clam Box.)

But let’s talk pie. I’ve got my own personal bias around cakes. I don’t want to see or hear about anyone else’s cake. Ever. Seriously. I’m really picky and I’ve set a certain standard and that’s that. When it comes to pie I’m as openminded as the Dalai Lama. And let me tell you, the pies at the Agawam Diner just plain f*cking rock. We had the coconut, strawberry-rhubarb, apple, and blueberry and we grabbed a couple of raspberry turnovers to go. The pies I didn’t sample: lemon, chocolate, and chocolate mousse. (Those three flavors are not my thing.) I hear tell that folks eat pie for breakfast at the Agawam Diner and I can see why. After a slice of their blueberry pie I was ready to meet my maker with a smile on my face.

The waitress had a way of bringing everyone into the conversation, the chefs, her mother, and lard. The waitress surmised there was lard in the crust which made it flaky. I thought, so much for being a vegetarian. (More on why I'm abandoning that at a later date.)

But let’s talk dinner for two secs. I went with the clam chowder and C went with the fish chowder. Was the chowder worth writing home about? Nope. But it wasn’t bad either.

The fried clams however. Battered whole, fried, served up with lemon and tartar (tahtah) sauce. Dee-lish. Polish those bad boys off with a side of mac ‘n’ cheese and you’re all set.

But don’t take my word for it. The next time you’re in Rowley at the intersection of Rt. 1 and 133 stop in for nothing but the pie. You will not regret it.