The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine trees crusted with snow
- Wallace Steven’s

T.S. Eliot wrote that April is the cruelest month, but I disagree. For my money, I think it is February that tortures the soul the most. It may be the shortest of months, but the toll it takes upon us is the greatest because it lacks the one thing that sustains us. Hope.

February will go as it comes; in a stinging wind.

We drove an hour North for 20 Prospect Jr.’s hockey game yesterday. Out across the flat, turf farms, and swamp land north of the city. The sunlight diffused through a gauze of clouds, not bright enough to wear sunglasses, not dark enough to open your eyes, the sky and the snow blurring into one another. Only the trees stood out against the gray light; small brown brushstrokes on a canvas of white.

It made me think of days in my youth, out walking on Dan’s farm. We’d put on our Sorrels, and parkas, and tramp back through the corn stubble to the woods, like arctic explorers. Step after step, our boots would crack through the crusted snow, as the wind cut into every sliver of exposed skin. Squinting, and stumbling, we’d reach the shelter of the woods at last. There the birches, and fir trees would break the wind, and we could once more open our eyes.

All around that gray wood, the north side of the trees were covered in a rime of ice. We’d search for the remains of an old Model T, rusting somewhere deep within the wood. I loved the woods in the winter time, it seemed so much larger than it did in the green folds of summer. With no leaves to block our view, and no swamp to wet our feet, the whole woods belonged only to us, and the few deer that watched us as we pushed silently through the thickets.

We’d walk for hours, until frozen and hungry we’d make our way back towards the old red barn in the distance. Our stomachs would groan, and ice would form around our scarves, but we knew that warmth, and home, were waiting.

Like those walks through the winter woods, these days of February seem to be an endless exploration that begins where it ends, in a chair inside the kitchen, with a hot mug to warm our hands. I could ask “what is the point?”, but I already know the answer. Some journeys exist just to test our strength.

February will winnow the strong from the weak like it always does. This is not an expedition for which we will be awarded with treasure. The only point is to finish, and live to walk through the woods again.

As I look out the window of the car on our way home, the sun has faded even more, as a froth of gray clouds descends from the north. The weatherman on the radio is warning of more snow to come. Already the first flakes have begun to fall.

Eyes half closed to keep out the wind, we search in the distance for the woods.

Local Boy Makes Good

OK, it’s more like local boy makes trouble…

A big thanks goes out to Ray Coniglio for putting one of my posts in today’s edition of the Batavia Daily News.

Click Here to Check it Out.

Thanks Ray!

And for any folks who have just made their way here from the Daily News, welcome. Please pull up a chair, while I put a fresh pot of coffee on. Help yourself to the stories along the sidebar=====>>>>>

and no matter how much the characters may resemble you, rest assured it is entirely a coincidence. Just ask my lawyer.

Descent into Keene Valley – 1990

There are times and places that float like a mist in the border country of my memory. If I try to focus my mind on them, they slip away like fog, leaving behind scraps of scenes that could be either dreams, or memory. Try to pin them down, and they disappear only to reappear later, in the periphery of my vision, when the seasons change and my senses recognize a forgotten scent. Then the mist creeps back into the corners of my consciousness, and I remember.

I had made the drive down to rural Hartford, from our apartment in the country that morning, jacked up on cheap coffee, replaying over in my mind how I would answer their questions, and sell myself. With sweaty palms the drive seemed to take forever, but I made it in time for the afternoon interview. This was my third round of interviews with ABB Combustion Engineering and it would all be made, or broken by this trip. I needed this job badly, before graduation dumped me into the back bedroom of 20 Prospect, over educated, under employed, and awash in debt.

The interviews had ended well, but late. I took my suit coat off, and loosened my tie, not wanting to let the feeling go. Alone, in a strange city, with nothing but my car, and a briefcase full of empty notebooks, and corporate brochures, I felt so grown up. No, I wanted to savor this feeling of freedom.

I climbed back into the car, and began the four hour drive back to Potsdam. It was the middle of the week, and I had blown off class to make the interview. Winter was ending in Connecticut, and already the brown grass was showing through the scraps of snow around the office parks. If all went well, I could be back in her room by 9 o’clock. She would want to know everything about the interview, what they asked me, what the position offered. I couldn’t wait to tell her.

Traffic was flowing fine all the way up I91 to Springfield, where I pulled onto the Massachusetts Turnpike and headed west. By the time I reached Albany, and turned onto the Northway, the sun had already set. Traffic thinned as I got north of Glens Falls and the highway began climbing into the edges of the Adirondacks. Just tractor-trailers, and myself, climbing and descending the hills, playing leapfrog on our way North.

Exiting the Northway, onto US 9, I left even the trucks behind, and turned up and into the mountains. When US 9 turned off towards Elizabethtown I continued on to NY 73, and the trees closed in on the sides of the road, until only a tunnel of pines remained. The banks of snow rose like hay bales along the shoulder. The road narrowed, but I only drove faster. It was past 7 o’clock, and I had the road to myself. The little 2.2 liter engine in the Plymouth strained on the climb, but I wouldn’t let up. I knew she was waiting.

Through the heart of the High Peaks and the winter desolation, I kept on the gas. Husker Du was blaring inside the car, but outside only the silent trees saw me pass. I was driving too fast, and I knew it. One patch of ice, one deer in the road, one misjudgment of a curve, and all could have been lost in darkness, and ice, but there was no thought of slowing down. I threw the car into the turns, and downshifted on the descent to save the brakes. When the road straightened I jumped back on the throttle and accelerated over the frost heaves, the car leaping forward into the small cone of light in front of me.

Down into Lake Placid, and on through the slow, sleepy, towns of Saranac Lake, and Tupper Lake, I caught my breath. When I turned onto 56 to follow the Racquette River out of the mountains and back across the blue line, the race resumed, but the adrenalin had faded. Around 9 o’clock I pulled into the parking lot outside her dorm. The lights from inside glowed like gold. Stepping from the humid warmth of the car, my breath billowed like fog in front of my face. I put on my coat, and stepped forward toward the lights.

To run like a deer over the frozen landscape, chased by the wolves of doubt. To step out into the clearing, with your breath billowing before you, was a primal sense of being alive. Standing outside of her dorm that night I didn’t know what stood waiting in the dark around the next bend. Looking back now through the shifting fog of memory, I realize for the first time that I didn’t care.

Bridgeport Ferry

Water churns up from behind, and the ferry hesitates for a moment, before the gap between the boat and the dock begins to widen. I climb the steps to the top deck and walk to the railing. I look out into the parking lot, and she is still standing, watching the ferry pull away with one hand shielding her eyes…

It had been 2 years since we had last seen each other. As I was walking towards the stage to graduate, I looked down, and there she was, sitting in a chair with his family. She was dressed in a short polka-dot dress, and white stockings, as she smiled, and held up the camera.

My heart burned within me, and my face went flush with anger and embarrassment. The camera flashed, and then I was on the stage, shaking hands, and being handed an empty portfolio. It was over before I knew it, and it wasn’t until hours later, after my folks had left for home, that I walked out into the field behind the house, stood beneath the gnarled old oak tree in the fading light, and cried.

Two years later I was sitting alone in a hotel room in some small Midwestern town still thinking of her. As winter rain fell outside, I wrote her a Christmas card, and wished her a Merry Christmas wherever she was, then mailed it to her parents without adding a return address.

I expected nothing, and yet I hoped that if I did not include a return address on the envelope, she would try to write back. She always enjoyed a challenge. Months passed before a letter arrived in my mail.

I had just come home to an empty apartment, in a wet and cold Minnesota spring, when I opened the mailbox, and her letter fell out. Before I had read a word, I knew the hand writing. She was living in Long Island, and working for an electronics firm, still struggling with the transition from college to the “real world.”

We corresponded for a few months, back in those days when people still sat in quiet rooms, beneath desk lamps, and composed thoughts on paper. All through the spring I traveled for work, always wondering if I would find another letter when I returned home.

The letters led to phone calls, and before summer had even arrived in full, I found myself in Hartford for work. I called her and arranged to visit her over the weekend. So when Friday arrived I drove to Bridgeport, and crossed the Sound. She met me on the dock, her eyes darker, and wider than I had even remembered them.

It felt so strange to see her again. I had spent so many nights thinking of how different our lives could have been, if she had stayed with me instead of him. Driving back to her apartment I looked across the car and realized she was a different person than the doe eyed girl that had me so twisted in knots at twenty-one; a little older, a lot more sure of herself. They had broken up not long after graduation she told me, and she had yet to start dating anyone on the Island.

Her roommates were gone, and we spent the weekend together talking non-stop, and laughing at things that we knew only each other would understand. At times she seemed so close I could have reached out and kissed her, and at others she seemed less substantial than a ghost haunting a dream. If I closed my eyes, and listened to her voice, I was right back in Potsdam feeling the stabbing pain in my gut like the night she told me she was seeing him.

I slept on the couch in her living room. Laying there in the darkness staring at the ceiling, I wondered if she was ever going to make a move, or let me know what she wanted. As close as she was, she remained a riddle whose meaning I would never understand. All I knew was that I could not bear to be rejected twice.

When Sunday came she drove me back to the dock. We sat on the curb waiting for the Bridgeport Ferry to arrive. Every moment now was precious, and seemed to be slipping from my grasp. We talked in generalities, and pretended not to wonder what we would do next.

The ferry approached like a storm cloud across the water. After the cars had loaded, I turned to her to say goodbye. We hugged, then stepped back and paused. She hesitated, and so did I. This couldn’t be goodbye. She leaned forward again, and I stepped toward her, but for reasons I will never understand I could not bring myself to kiss her. We hugged for longer this time, and I knew it was goodbye.

…now the space between us widens with each second, until the dock begins to grow small in the distance. The ferry rolls with the waves on the Sound, as I lift my arm and wave for one last time.

She stands upon the dock with one hand over her eyes. The sun glimmers on the water, and in a moment, she is gone.

Congratulations! You might already be a winner!

Ever since I won my major award, and achieved massive fame and recognition, I have been feeling guilty. You see nothing good can happen in my life without inducing an equal and opposite amount of guilt to make up for it. Don’t say the Nun’s didn’t do their job well.

So I have been thinking about various ways that I might be able to “pay it forward” and share my newfound wealth and fame with others.

So I considered signing up for one of those “adopt a highway” programs, where local groups volunteer to pick up trash alongside the road. However, I soon discovered that there is no such thing as an “Adopt the Information Superhighway Program”, so I wouldn’t be able to repay society by cleaning up a one mile stretch of the interwebz. Bummer, because I don’t know about your corner of the interwebz, but ours is just littered with trash.

Then I considered using my fame and fortune to become a super hero, and fight crime. I always wanted to wear a cape! However, when I tried on the spandex suit, I decided that the sight of me in tight fitting clothes was not really the benefit to society that I had hoped it would be.

So I went out on a walk last night here in Salt Lake City to see what kind of good deeds I could do. I found a drunk lying passed out on the sidewalk behind the State Liquor Store downtown, and considered doing the good Samaritan thing and bandaging his wounds, and nursing him back to health. But then I remembered that I am not really a big fan of people in general, and strange drunks in particular, so I chickened out and kept walking.

Finally, this morning as I woke before heading out on the next leg of my tour, inspiration struck. I would create my own award, like Alfred Nobel, to repay my debt to society by recognizing the heroic sacrifice, and efforts of a deserving individual who is trying to make the Interwebz a better place. YES! That would be my legacy! An award that raises the profile of another blogger destined for greatness!

So interwebz, I broke out my mad photoshop skills, and my shaky trigger hand, and crafted the following award;

(All graphic design inspiration goes to SubWow)

This award honors the blogger with either the sexiest legs, or the horniest unicorn on the interweb. Because if there is one thing this world needs more of, it’s horny unicorns and sexy legs. And perhaps Nutella.

So without further ado, it is my honor to award the first annual “20 Prospect – Sexiest Leg / Horniest Unicorn Award” to Miss Patricia Marie Punker, of the always funny www.pattypunker.com

*applause*

In order to accept this award the recipient must vow to grace the interwebz with either a set of sexy legs, or a horny unicorn.

20 Prospect – LIVE ON TOUR!

I never sleep well the night before a trip, but having a 6 am conference call on Monday morning did not make it any easier. Trust me, this call wasn’t my idea. I’m not a big phone call kinda guy to begin with, but holding a 4 way phone call between Belgium, Japan, Korea, and the US at six in the morning pretty much guarantees that I will not be bubbly and effervescent. God forbid the day that the company gives us video cameras, and insists we hold the calls over Skype. The world is not ready to see this face at 6 am.

So I dragged my butt out of bed at 5:40 am, and let the dogs out. Before I even had a chance to pour a cup of coffee, the Indomitable Moxie and Maggie the Wonderdog were going berserk in the backyard howling and barking. So I stumbled to the window to see what the hell their issue was. In the pre-dawn gloom I could see them standing over a dark object in the back of the yard, sniffing at it, and howling. I opened the door and yelled at them to shut up before they woke the neighborhood, but that only sent them running off in circles patrolling the perimeter for intruders. They had gone into Canine DEFCON 4;

INTRUDER ALERT! INTRUDER ALERT! FIND THE INTRUDER! CATCH THE INTRUDER!

So cussing, and swearing, I put on my snow boots and went outside in my pajama’s. It was a balmy 12 degrees out there, and the dogs were clearly not going to come when I called them. I trudged through the snow to the dark object, and discovered it was…

(WARNING – THIS POST  RATED PG-13 FOR DISTURBING SCENES – Look away Elly)

It was a partially eaten frozen rabbit. It appeared to be a foot, leg, and part of the body. I didn’t see any bunny ears, so it’s entirely possible it was a cat, or something else. If it was a rabbit, it obviously wasn’t a lucky foot, unless you were the fox. I’m sure Mr. Fox considered it very lucky. I know Maggie did, because she ran over and picked it up in her mouth and trotted off on a victory lap around the yard with it like it was the Lombardi trophy.

After 2 minutes of swearing, and chasing, I was able to recover the remains of Mr. Bunny, and corral the dogs back inside the house. My friends, this is not a good way to start the morning.

I poured some coffee, fired up the computer, and dialed into my call. The dogs however, having caught the scent of live fox, and dead rabbit, were not ready to go back to bed. So between their growling and barking, and the background noise from Europe and Asia, I had no idea what the hell anyone was talking about. Thank god for mute buttons. Now if someone could invent a rewind button for my life too, I could go back and get some more sleep.

I will be travelling for the next few days, on a whirlwind tour of Salt Lake City, and San Jose, blogging to packed houses, and sold out arenas to cash in on my new found fame. That’s what happens when you win a major award, everybody wants a piece of you. Don’t worry though. I vow not to let fame and fortune change me. I will still be the same blogger that I was before. I’ll just be able to afford to smash my laptop on the ground like Pete Townsend when I finish my posts.

Blog & Roll Baby! Blog & Roll!

If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a sharp talk with my personal assistant. I found a brown M&M in my bowl. How many times do I have to tell her that I ONLY EAT THE GREEN PEANUT M&M’s? You just can’t find good help these days.

A Major Award

Yes I feel like the “Old Man” from A Christmas Story this morning, for I have won a major award!

What is this major award you might ask. Is it a leg lamp?

No it is not a leg lamp.

Have I finally been crowned king of the internet?

No, I am not the king of the internet. Not even the court jester. I’m like the guy that cleans the stables’, second cousin Eddie. No, not that Eddie, the other Eddie. The short one with the funny nose.

Today I have been bequeathed with the “Life is Good” award by the lovely and talented Stephanie over at “Seriously??… Reeeally?….. Seriously?”

I think it could use a unicorn, but then again, couldn't we all?

Please, go on over and check her out if you haven’t already.

And by check her out I meant read her blog people. Jeez, get your minds out of the gutter.

Please don’t be intimidated by the fact she’s Canadian. We welcome all sorts of peoples here on the Front Porch. Even Canadian’s. In fact, I can speak a little Canadian so that helps.

Not only is she a talented and funny writer, she is also very easy to blackmail. She pretty much coughed up this award without so much as contacting the RCMP. (That’s Canadian for Royal Canadian Mounted Police. You know, those Dudley Do Right guys that protect the King and Queen of Canada)

(Closed circuit to Stephanie. The pictures and negatives will be arriving via UPS in the next day or two)

So this is the point in the blog where I am supposed to graciously accept the award, and blush about how I don’t deserve it. Screw that.

WHAT THE HELL TOOK YOU SO LONG INTERWEBZ?

I have been blogging my butt off for almost two years, and this is the first award I have received. Nice interwebz, real nice. You really know how to make a guy feel loved. Now if you’ll excuse me, I will continue with this post so I can get back to stalking you all. A serial killer’s work is never done.

The way that these internet award thingies work is this; To receive the award you have to answer some questions, then turn around and forward the award and the questions to another blogger.

What do you mean this sounds like a chain letter? It’s a MAJOR AWARD PEOPLE!

Ahem:

1. If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing this? If you aren’t anonymous, do you wish you started out anonymously, so that you could be anonymous now?

I find that being a 300 lb serial killer requires a certain amount of anonymity even in these permissive, immoral times in which we live. I had considered blogging under my own name but the little voices inside my head advised against it. Right after they told me that Michael J. Fox is the antichrist. He’s also Canadian. I’m not sure if the two are connected. You’ll have to ask Stephanie.

2. Describe an incident that shows your inner stubborn side.

I am proud to announce that my watch is now working again. Last month I had the battery replaced. It died in June. So for the last 6 months I have been going without a watch as I slumped through the days sagging under the burden of knowing that I had to replace my watch battery. Now that I have accomplished that feat, and freed myself from the tyranny of self doubt and anxiety, I can go back to worrying about getting my oil changed in the Mazda.

OK, re-reading that I realize that it’s probably more an example of laziness than it is stubbornness, but I wrote it and I am NOT going to go back and edit it at this point.

3. What do you see when you really look at yourself in the mirror?

Four cheeks and a couple of chins. (My six pack abs are hidden beneath several six packs at the moment. Sorry ladies.)

4. What is your favorite summer cold drink?

I hate when I have summer colds. They are the absolute worse. I think because the weather is so nice, and there you are laying on the couch in a pile of Kleenex wishing someone would just put a bullet into your head. So I guess I have to say I don’t really drink much beside water, and some warm 7-Up mixed with Pedialite. It’s good, you should try it.

5. When you take time for yourself, what do you do?

Can you elaborate on this “time for yourself” thing? I seem to recall having something similar once, but since Lil’ Miss 20 Prospect and 20 Prospect Jr. came on the scene I’ve forgotten. I also used to have a wife, but I seemed to have misplaced her at the moment. It’s entirely possible we forgot and left her at the hockey rink, or gym. Then again, maybe I should check the laundry room.

Excuse me.

Yep, she was in the Laundry Room.

6. Is there something that you still want to accomplish in your life?

Something. Anything. If you have an idea what it might be, please let me know. I tried Opera, and Interpretive Dance, before this blogging thing but I have yet to make my mark in any of them.

7. When you attended school, were you the class clown, the class overachiever, the shy person or always ditching?

I was a hormone addled, frustrated wallflower as my stories on this blog have highlighted in excruciatingly painful detail.

8. If you close your eyes and want to visualize a very poignant moment in your life, what would you see?

Did my therapist put you up to this question? Because I’ve already told her about the incident in Mexico with the maracas, and the baby goats, and I do not want to talk about it again.

9. Is it easy for you to share your true self in your blog, or are you more comfortable writing posts about other people and events?

Do my evasive answers to these questions give you any indication? No? Damn. I guess I can’t deny it. I like to open a vein from time to time, and lay it all out there. It’s a stunning act of courage to step up and take ownership of your life by sharing it with others anonymously.

10. If you had the choice to sit down and read a book or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?

Do you mean talk on the phone with another person? I mean like, a human being? Because I’m not really into that touchy, feely, communication stuff.

WHEW!!! That was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I’m exhausted from the interrogation. Was it just me or was there really a bright light shining in my face?

So, the time has come to tag another couple of people in this game of internet tag. So I have chosen to bestow this honor upon two of the funniest 300 lb Serial Killers ladies on the interweb, whose blogs don’t get anywhere near the traffic they deserve. So come on people, let’s give it up for;

Dufmanno, and Sister Merry Hellish, of Inside Out and Backwards!

Tag you’re it!

*runs away*

*shouts over shoulder*

NO GIVEBACKS!!!

Darien Lake – Summer 1987

It’s another sub-zero morning here on the Front Porch. Driving in to work the manhole covers, and every man made object was steaming like fumaroles in some alien city. It is an inhuman sight, and one that the elixir of hot black coffee alone can not wipe from my memory. So come along with me to the Summer of 1987 and let’s leave winter behind for a little while…

Darien Lake Fun Country

Here at 20 Prospect, the family love for amusement parks has been well documented. So it was no big surprise when I returned home from my first year in college in the summer of 1987, and was in need of a summer job, that I took my Mom’s advise and applied at Darien Lake Amusement Park. Not only did the 20 Prospect clan make visits to various amusements parks a staple of their summer vacations, but we also ran the games booth at the St. Joe’s lawn fete. The second weekend in June, for every year I could remember, Mom and Dad had staffed, and run the game booths at the lawn fete. So it was not a big stretch when the staff at Darien Lake reviewed my resume, took my request of working rides into consideration, and assigned me to games. Yeah, I was a bit disappointed, as my big sister had run the rides during her summer job years at the Lake, but I adjusted to the idea quickly enough.

The night before my first day on the job I went out with a friend of mine who had just returned from college. We spent the night catching up by drinking a six pack a piece, and downing a good portion of a bottle of gin. Apparently, one year of college had not raised our IQ level high enough to figure out that might not be the best idea. I can remember Mom pounding on the bathroom door, around 2 am, as I lay face down over the toilet, yelling “Your not planning on doing this all summer are you?!?” Oddly, enough, the thought had not occurred to me before that, but to be completely honest, yes. Yes I was.

On the drive to work for my first day on the job, I had to pull over along the side of Route 33 to throw up again. My eyes would not focus, and for the first 6 hours I could not have even told you what my co-workers looked like. I had been assigned to the Balloon Dart game, at the end of the games building, facing out at the midway. The game consisted of popping three balloons, with three darts, and winning a piece of crap. OK, not a real piece of crap, just a faux-mirror, or poster mounted behind glass. It was 1987, and we had all the cutting edge posters a Western New York kid could want. Motley Crue, Led Zeppelin, Harley Davidson, kittens hanging from a branch “Hang in There!”, and the ubiquitous Spud’s McKenzie. Work amounted to filling balloons with an air compressor, tying them to a nail on the cork board, and calling in the rubes. “Hey! How ‘bout it now! Bust 3 Get yer Choice!” etc.

how 'bout it, bust three, get yer choice!

The booth supervisor, Donna, a 20 year old veteran of 3 summers, showed me the ropes, while my other co-worker, Lori, a high school senior from Alden added color commentary. The games booths were all attached, in one long building. We had a small doorway  way between our booth, and the Peach Basket game next door. In the back, behind the booths, was a long warehouse room, with bins full of cheap stuffed animals, and other assorted inventory fresh off the boat from Asian sweatshops. As the afternoon progressed, we began alternating breaks, and spelling the folks in the other games, that had only 2 kids working. 2 workers per booth was the norm. We were only flying with 3 because it was my first day on the job.

When Donna was on break I confessed to Lori, that I was so hung over I couldn’t see straight, and apologized for being so catatonic. I shared the story of pulling over to throw up on the way to work, and by the time I had returned from break everyone in the games section knew the story. I was welcomed into the games family quickly. It was a tight knit group of kids ranging in age from 17 to 21. Donna and Lori spent the rest of the day filling me in on all the dirty secrets. Who was sleeping with who, and who had gotten caught the previous summer with their pants down going at it in a bin of stuffed animals. (I have to admit, it seemed like a logical place) Donna, being a whole year older, and in a steady relationship with the assistant games manager, took me under her wing in a motherly fashion. She warned me to be careful of the two blonds in the peach basket game next door. They were notorious party girls, who liked to make the rounds of all the new boys in the games department. It was at that point that it began to occur to me that this might be a good summer job after all.

The work was slow before Memorial Day, but once the schools began to let out, the hours picked up. Weekend work was required, and we typically had just one day off a week. But pulling in less than 8 hours a day, it was good to pick up the extra shifts. I needed the money to last me the whole way through the school year. I quickly found the rhythm of working the games, calling in the drunk concert goers, and obnoxious Canadian’s who were camping at the park, and separating them from their money. A $1 per chance, it added up quickly. I figure the prizes cost the park less than a buck a piece, and usually only one out of every ten people won. Not a bad profit margin. On a busy day things could get crazy, especially on the night of a concert. I always worked concerts. They had a rule not to leave two girls working alone with the drunk and stoned concert goers. On the night of a metal concert, or say, George Thorouhgood & the Destroyers, or any act that brought out the white trash, and degenerates from under their rocks, the park could get a little crazy. The manager was always close by, with cops to back him up, to get the cash out of the booths before someone tried to pull a knife on us. Some nights when the State Police were being called in to break up fights they closed us down early and sent us home. I was always thankful for that.

But mostly the days were long, interspersed between periods of busyness, and long slow hours with nothing to do but talk. For anyone who has ever worked a job like this, those are the moments you prize most. Dull, and boring, but with a ratio of 4 girls to every guy working games, I really didn’t mind. At college, the ratio was the opposite, and a guy literally had to wait in line to talk to a good looking girl at a party. But here at the lake, I felt like a sultan with his harem. They came in all shapes, and sizes, and colors, and all a guy had to have was the courage to talk, and a sense of humor to entertain them. But that is not to say I was promiscuous. Far from it. I had always been more comfortable talking with girls than boys. For some reason, they could sense that I was a “nice guy” (i.e. harmless) and felt comfortable around me. The park wasn’t a bad place to be. At night, with the lights of the rides and the midway lighting up the sky, and the noise from the games, it felt like I was working inside of a pinball machine.

Life from the perspective of a pinball

Two weeks after I started, one of my friends from high school applied. She too was home from her first year of college. I was glad to have her close, but it was complicated. I had a crush on her for 2 years running, but had been in a steady relationship, and had never acted on it. At first the attraction had been mutual, but eventually she had come to the conclusion that nothing would ever happen between us. I had broken off my relationship during freshman year, and now I hoped would be my chance to win her over. The only problem, I had begun to fall for the doe eyed, 18 year old Lori.

There was no way I could have them both, and in the end I would get neither. But that didn’t stop me from trying. Lori was due to graduate early, and her steady boyfriend was away in Ohio, attending Ohio Diesel Tech, to become a diesel mechanic. Lori and I had hit it off since the first day. She had a dry sense of humor, and a quick wit. She could crack me up, and she enjoyed that I appreciated her on a different level. I think she was used to guys who came on strong, and being a “nice college boy” I took my time.

Fate took a strange turn when my friend was placed in the same games booth as Lori and I. My friend very quickly picked up on the attraction between Lori and I, and she encouraged it, I think half out of friendship, and half out of a desire to see me pre-occupied with someone other than herself. Yes, I will admit it. I was a bit of a puppy dog, and would follow a girl around wagging my tail until they hit me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

One night every two weeks, they kept the park open after hours, and let the employees ride the rides. These nights just about made the job worthwhile. Imagine an amusement park over run with hormone addled teenagers, and no one to supervise. It could get a little crazy. Following one of those nights, the blonde’s from the peach basket game invited me out to an after party. They definitely were true to Donna’s word, and it was quite the party, but they had little interest in me. I was far too safe for their tastes, and they had other more exotic men in mind. Crisis hit in July, when Donna announced she was pregnant. Her boyfriend the assistant manager, followed up by proposing to her, but her parents threw her out of the house anyway. They moved into a little motel room, on Route 5 outside of Batavia and made plans for what to do when summer ended.

Summer rolled along, and the shifts with Lori became fewer and farther between. With 4 of us in the booth, Donna preferred to keep Lori working opposite shifts from her, as she had the most street smarts at handling the customers. Finally, I had to fess up to Donna and tell her I wanted more shifts with Lori. Like a Mother Hen, she thought it was so cute, she obliged and began winking at me whenever Lori wasn’t looking. In her break time she had taken up knitting, and talked constantly about the morning sickness, and how the smell of the cotton candy made her want to puke.

We worked so many nights it was almost impossible to have a date with Lori, but finally our schedules coincided, and I drove up to Alden to take her out. Her Mom met me at the door, clucking away, and positively tickled pink to have a college boy calling on her girl. Lori was working class, as we all were, but college was something her Mom wanted her to pursue more than anything. Lori was pretty ambivalent towards it, and her Mom rightly saw that she was headed for marriage and pregnancy with the Diesel Tech guy by age 20. I had wandered right into this little family squabble in my puppy dog naiveté.

I took her to a movie, and out to eat afterwards. She picked a sub shop in Alden, where she had friends. Standing at the counter ordering, I could see one of the guys behind the counter pointing and me, and making a slashing motion across his throat. I asked her what that was all about, and she shrugged it off, saying “Oh, he thinks my boyfriend is going to kill you when he finds out.” Well, that was a first for me. I had never been in a situation like that before, and I have to say it gave me a bit of a rush to think of me fighting over a girl, but only because I knew he was in Ohio. Honestly, he was studying to be a diesel mechanic, and I was reading Faulkner and Thomas Wolfe on my break time. He would have killed me. We kissed a little in the driveway when I dropped her off, before her Mom peering through the curtains prompted her to say goodnight. There was no doubt about it, I had fallen for her.

Driving home late that night in the fog along Route 33, I was lost in reverie, with the windows down and the radio blaring tuned to CFNY out of Toronto, when suddenly something appeared in the road right in front of me. I swerved to avoid it, and lost control of the car. Back and forth across the highway, the car lurched, and I wrestled with the wheel before I finally spun out, clipped the guardrail, and ended up on the shoulder of the road in the opposite lane, facing back in the direction from where I had come. My hands were shaking, and sweat was pouring out of me. I got out and walked around the car to check the damage, but other than a slight crack in the bumper, there was none. I never knew what had been in the road, a possum probably. When I got home I lay awake thinking.

Summer had been passing quickly. My nights at the Lake, were interspersed with hanging out with my buddies in Batavia. They were washing dishes at the Engine House, and had ready access to sassy 20 something waitresses, and stoner cooks, who would willingly buy them beer when we needed it, which was always. A night out amounted to drinking at the end of a deserted road in the countryside outside of town. Our favorite spot was out past the county dump. There was a dead end on the dirt road about a quarter mile past the dump, and an overgrown driveway that led down into an old sand quarry, where we could park the car, and sit out on the hood, drinking, talking and watching the swallows dart through the evening sky.

Where was this relationship with Lori going? Summer would be ending for me in just a few more weeks. She would continue on working through September with Donna, while the college kids went back to school. Would she write to me? Would she visit? Clarkson was a 5 hours drive away, and neither of us had a car. What would happen between her and the Diesel Tech Guy once he was back in Alden. And what about my “friend”? I still had feelings for her, but it was clear she had none for me. Would she ever? And would I ever find a girlfriend to keep me warm those long winter nights in the frozen North Country? I sought relief from these thoughts in the bottom of whatever bottle or cans I could get my hands on that summer.

As summer came to an end my friend surprised me by inviting Lori to spend the night at her house, around the corner from 20 Prospect. She would be here in town, within my reach. That answered some of my questions, clearly my friend was desperate to have me seeing another girl so I would leave her alone. And clearly, Lori must want this “thing” to continue.

The night was uneventful. Lori had baked a going away cake for me and my friend, and they brought it over to my parents after dinner. We sat on the porch talking and goofing around. Eventually my friend wandered off so Lori and I could be alone, and we went for a long walk in the darkness. I pressed her with questions about if we could still see each other, but it was clear, the holiday break seemed like a lifetime to wait for her. She told me she would write. We spent the rest of our time together kissing and holding hands, before I walked her back to my friends house.

Her first letter arrived about the 3^rd week of school. I was deep into my studies by then, and the first exams were already looming. My work habits had become positively monastic that fall. I had little interest in beer, and parties, and spent most of my free time in my room studying, or listening to music with the lights off. In her letter, she told me that Donna’s parents had let her move back in with them, but she had lost the baby. She had a “miscarriage” while mowing her Mom’s lawn. I wondered about the truth of that story, and decided it was better not to know.

Lori had decided to graduate in January since she had enough credits, but had no plans to go to college. Her Mom was pushing her to apply to Geneseo State, but she hadn’t yet. The Diesel Tech boyfriend was back in town, and wanted her to move to Ohio with him. I wrote her back, immediately, and waited for another reply. I called, and left messages, but she never returned them. The weeks passed. When I finally did receive a letter it was from her Mom. She begged, and pleaded with me to keep writing and calling Lori. She told me that Lori was seeing the Diesel Tech guy, and saying no to college, and if only I would write her more, and encourage her she would come to her senses. Sigh… the picture was clear. As my roommate summed it up succinctly, “what girl our age is going to go out with a guy her Mom likes?” What girl indeed.

Winter had begun. I tried a few more times to get in touch with Lori, before I gave up. I felt like such a sap. The story of losing out to a guy from Ohio Diesel Tech was a source of amusement for many in my dorm. In the end, I just studied harder. Hours turned to days, and weeks to months, and my GPA creeped higher. My one outlet, besides the occasional binge drunk with friends, was a weekly 11-2 am shift at the college radio station. I would send music out in waves into the sub zero darkness of the North Country, and then crunch my way back to the dorm over the fresh fallen snow, wondering if anyone was listening. My GPA the second semester topped out at 3.8. It would never be that high again. Spring came, and when finals were done I knew what I wanted. I took a job with the Power Company mowing lawns for more money than I could make working at the Lake. I began to look ahead to finding an Engineering job after graduation, and getting out. I didn’t know where I would end up, but I knew it would not be Batavia. I never knew what became of Lori. I forgot her soon enough, and chased after other similarly unattainable girls. I don’t even remember her last name anymore, and I am sure she doesn’t remember mine.

I could say that life is a roller coaster, full of ups and downs, but that wouldn’t tell the story.

I could say that life is a Ferris Wheel, spinning us round and around, but that too would fall short of the truth.

So instead, I will say that life is a carousel. We spin around in circles, always alternating between ups and downs. The lights flash, and the calliope plays, and we are lost in the moment. Anything seems possible, but life does not offer golden rings easily grasped from a wooden horse. Life requires real work, and real sweat, and sooner or later the ride ends, and the park closes for the season. It was a lovely summer in 1987, and I have fond memories of working at the Lake. I like to think those days made a difference, but they seem to me now to be oh so many trips around on the carousel. Real love, and real loss were waiting for me outside the gates. When the ride ended and the music stopped, I knew it was time to go in search of something more. To get back in line for another ride was just postponing the inevitable.

Summer love is always stillborn…

Photo Images for most, but not all photos Copyright dalboz17 @ http://www.flickr.com/photos/dalboz17/32615760/
The rest I downloaded from a few different places on the intertubes but lost the reference links. Mea culpa

Bummin’

The original Mr. 20 Prospect was a hard working man. He had little time for hobbies, and when he wasn’t at work, or leaning under the hood of one of our Chrysler’s trying to get it started, he spent his free time watching TV, and reading the newspaper. Usually both at the same time, while holding conversations with Mom who was in the kitchen.

 

I was the tag along kid in our family, a full 7 years younger than my nearest sibling. So by the time I came on the scene Dad was already in his late 30’s, and wasn’t the “have a game of catch” kind of Dad that some kids had. Maybe it was a generational thing, but it just never occurred to me to ask him to hang out in the backyard tossing a football around with me, or get down on the floor and wrestle. Like most of the parents “his age” on Prospect Avenue, he wore slippers around the house, drank coffee with his dinner, and told stories on the front porch. It’s just the way the grown up world seemed to work back then.

 

Now before you start thinking this post is going to turn all Harry Chapin  “The Cat’s in the Cradle” and bring a tear to your eye, let me clarify something.

 

It never bothered me.

 

Like I said, none of my friends Dads were the play football in the back yard kind of Dads. In fact, it always struck me as weird when I did encounter a kid with a younger, “more hip”, Dad who wanted to be their buddy. Something just seemed wrong about that.

 

The world isn’t like that anymore, all of my friends who are Dad’s play with their kids. It’s their primary parenting function. Mom get’s to be the grown up, and Dad is the other child in the family. I’m as guilty of it as anyone. Perhaps it’s the fact that our cars are more reliable that we seem to be able to make time to play catch in the yard, or Xbox, or chase them around the house with a Nerf Gun. Or maybe it’s just the “Harry Chapin” effect that song had on our collective psyche. Digressing…

 

 

Even though we didn’t play catch in the yard, Dad and I still found ways to connect with each other. Watching sports, and documentaries on TV were two passions we shared. The other was the art of bummin’.

 

Let me explain bummin’.

 

Bummin’ as an art form consists of spending a day out and about together with no particular destination, or plan in mind. It was an activity usually reserved for weekend afternoons during mud time, when there were no decent sports on TV, and it was too cruddy outside to play. It was also our favorite thing to do when I had a day off from school. Since Dad was in the Electrician’s Union, he always had more vacation time than my office working Mother, so when we had a religious school holiday at St. Joe’s, he was the parent who took the day off to stay with me.

 

He’d rise at his usual time, and make coffee and breakfast as Mom got ready for work. WBTA, our local Am radio station would be playing in the kitchen, as he listened to the news, interspersed with the commodity reports. (Pork bellies are up 15 cents!) I’d make my way downstairs in my PJ’s, and eat a nice big bowl of sugary cereal, and watch the morning cartoons. Once Mom had left for work, Dad would wash the dishes in the sink, and then turning to me while he was drying his hands he’d ask “You want to go bumming?” That was my signal to run upstairs, and get dressed.

 

Our destinations always varied, and he never would tell them to me until we were in the car. Then he’d say “Let’s go get apples and see the geese”,  or “Let’s visit Ma”, or “Let’s drive over to the lake”.  Sitting on the front seat of the big boat Chrysler, as we headed out of town always made me feel like a big kid, even if I needed Mom’s cushion to see out the window.

 

The fields and farms of Western New York would roll by outside the window, for Dad always took the scenic route. The direct road anywhere was for people lacking time and imagination. Instead he’d take every “short cut” he knew, driving up to Lyndonville on back roads, so we could go through the tunnel under the Erie Canal, or taking a route past the Salt Mine in Retsof, so he could tell me the story of how deep, and far the mines tunnels stretched underneath the ground.

 

He knew the history of every place we passed. What the significance of the place names meant, which roads were located along the path of old Indian trails, which hill once had a runaway Semi-truck carrying gasoline crash into a house. Dad’s stories always tickled my imagination, until eventually the whole of Western New York was like a story book I could read by looking out the window of the car.

 

Whether in the country, or up in the old neighborhood in Buffalo, we’d stop for lunch at some little Mom and Pop diner. He’d order an open faced turkey sandwich covered in gravy, and I’d have a Grilled Cheese sandwich, with potato chips, and an ice cold Coke. My folks were never too hung up about kids drinking caffeine. Given the fact that they drank coffee with breakfast lunch and dinner, it only seemed natural to let the kids get wired too.

 

After lunch we’d head back out to the car, and see where the road took us all afternoon. Maybe we’d drive out to one of the Finger Lakes, or up along Lake Ontario looking out at the wide blue expanse of water, squinting to see if we could spot the tip of the CN tower. It didn’t matter where we went we always found something interesting to look at.

 

When the light began to fade we’d turn for home, and get supper started. Maybe we’d have picked up some Polish Sausage at the Broadway market, or some other delicacy that could only be found in the stores of the big city. When Mom got home from work she’d ask “What did you guys do today, go bummin’?” and I’d fill her in on our adventures.

 

Not surprisingly, those are among my favorite memories of my youth. Even today I could drive those back roads, and tell those stories as if they were my own. And even though I’m a 21^st Century Dad, that coaches my kids sports, and spends most of my free time playing with them, I still make time to take them bummin’. I hope someday they have the same fond memories of mornings spent driving around town, or parking to watch the trains go by, or sitting at the counter in the donut shop. These are the treasured moments that I wish I could hoard away in the bank. Instead they slip by like scenes outside the car window; a flickering home movie of memories that will be passed on to another generation.

Smells like Teen Spirit

20 Prospect has never been a very topical blog, unless you count stories of my adolescent crushes as being topical. (I know I do). But today I can’t help but to pause from my nostalgic navel gazing to tackle a subject torn from today’s headlines.

namely, “The Power of Smell in Picking Sexual Partners”

(Why do I suddenly feel like a copy of Cosmo?)

As I have said before, science has proven that the sense of smell is among the most powerful of human senses. (IT’S SCIENCE PEOPLE!!!!) So it would just stand to reason that a person’s “scent” would play a part in attraction. (I prefer the term “scent” to “odor”, which most certainly plays a part)

Dr. Alan Hirsch, director of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation, conducted research … to determine women’s scent preferences in 10 different cities. “In each city we tested, women reported different scent preferences,” he says, “indicating that geography has a direct correlation to what scents women find attractive.”

Here are the scents that women found most preferable by region:

1. New York – coffee

2. Los Angeles – lavender

3. Chicago – vanilla

4. Houston – barbeque

5. Atlanta – cherry

6. Phoenix – eucalyptus

7. Philadelphia – clean laundry

8. Dallas – smoke/fireplace

9. San Diego – suntan lotion/ocean

10. Minneapolis-St. Paul – cut grass

For the full article, go here: Paging Dr. Gupta @ CNN (hat tip Bella)

Since the readership at 20 Prospect has been scientifically proven to be a statistically valid sample of women in the 30 – 40 year old early 20 something swimsuit model demographic, please weigh in with your opinions to help us confirm or deny the research. What scents do you find to be the most sexually appealing? Is it shellfish in Hoboken, or chicken dinners in Frankenmuth, MI? Is it Basil Hayden’s in Louisville, or Rock Star Sweat in D.C.? Inquiring minds want to know…