Some Days in the Life - May 10, 1999

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Mason and I had a moderately lazy weekend, sticking close to Wolfeboro. It was alternately grey and sunny, so we were watching for opportune photo-taking times. When the right time came, Mason grabbed his Disposable Polaroid Camera and we hit the road.

Which was hard. I've done something to my heel. I don't know what, but it hurts like sin. Especially when I wear my black leather Reebok's Mallwalkers. This is the second problem I can trace between my feet and those sneakers, so despite their advantages (they look like work shoes but they're built as sneakers) I'm thinking of retiring them from active service in the months where I might want to actually walk and do things. Last night, the pain was so bad I could barely stand to sit through dinner, and only copious ibuprofen helped take the curse off it.

We wandered to Campus, and Mason took his first picture. A beautiful shot of the blue waters, the boathouse, one of the many stone walls that line New England. Following the instructions, he pulled a ripcord to eject the picture....

No picture came out. The "Pictures left" flipped from 10 to 9. We tried again. Aside from the incremental number going down, no pictures came out. We went to another area and tried again (for no apparently good reason). 7 pictures left, no actual pictures.

At this point, we abandoned picture taking. We got lunch instead. We went to Jo Green's, where I tried to take Dominic and Annie when they were up, but it was apparently closed for the month of April.

It's open now. I had two lattes while Mason ate lunch. He says it was good. It involved hamburger and barbecue sauce.

Which is about the end of the story of Mason's trip. We went to dinner at Wolfe's Tavern -- excellent food I barely could taste because my foot hurt. And I got to watch two of our students show up very late, eat quickly and dash away before the curfew hit. I think they made it. They were talking about how much they loved the Romantic poets and how much their teacher hated them.

In my high school, no one talked about their love of the Romantic poets. These kids have it good.

We set two alarms, one for four, one for four-oh-five. We made it up. Mason hit the shower while I dozed, then I got ready. He had some soda (the man drinks Diet Doctor Pepper like a fish. A Diet Doctor Pepper drinking fish no less). I had some tea. By four-thirty, we were on the road.

The sunrise was spectacular -- shining light along lateral clouds, highlighting the green all around us. We got coffee along the way, in the name of keeping the driver awake enough to survive. We were at the airport just before six. I dropped Mason off.

It was amazingly fun having Mason here. He's a good guy. We seem to be on a wavelength. My parents think he's fun. (Though my father can't get over identifying him from the animated character The Critic -- voiced by Jon Lovitz. Sadly, I can see that. Mason could play him in the movie. With, one assumes, a more expressive vocal range.) The dog likes him.

And I like having someone I can go to bad movies with. Someone I can compare notes with. I hope he gets the job. (I have to keep out of it -- Mason's good in the ways we need, but Nepotism's an ugly word. However, Mason's very well qualified, so we'll see.) It would be really nice to have Mason up here. He seems to feel the same way.

The drive back seemed lonely. And I ran out of coffee. Then, I got home, took yet more Ibuprofen (how much of that stuff can you take before you just die or something?) and a shower, and headed into the office. Another week at the Academy.

Everyone else here partied all weekend. Marion and Eileen all hung out at one party Eileen and her fiancee held. Fran was at others -- his son graduated from college this weekend. The students are in AP exams today. So the office was appropriately quiet.

I'm tired. My foot hurts.

We're not sentimental folks, by nature. The Burns's have some sentiment -- mostly Dad -- but for the most part, we're a cross between cynical and lazy when it comes to manufactured holidays. I was reminded of this this Mother's Day past.

I called Mom, of course. She had insisted we not come for Mother's Day, as we were there the day before and that would do. Besides, going out on Mother's Day would be a mess, because everyone else would. Better to go out some weeknight this week, she figures. So I called her and we chatted.

My mother is the coolest mother on the planet. I used to feel guilty, talking about my parents to other kids, because they all seemed to have horrible, restrictive, quasi-or-really-abusive families that seemed a cross between the Mansons and a fake Cleaver household. Not us. My parents are honest and forthright, and support Kris and I in the choices we make. We communicate well and often, we like each others' company. It's amazing.

My mother isn't a wallflower. She champions causes and she doesn't play politics. One year, I got everyone in my family Far Side mugs for Christmas (as "second presents." What was really funny is my parents got me the "Genius" mug, where a gifted and talented student is pushing on a door marked 'pull,' so we all got appropriate Far Side mugs that year.) But, where my sister and brother-in-law and father all got cheerfully demeaning mugs not unlike the one my folks got me... my mother I got the Sheep mug. You remember that strip. There are a ton of sheep in a field, but one of them has stood on her hind legs and waves her forelegs, shouting "Listen to me! Listen! We don't have to be just sheep!"

That's my Mom. She's got a plan. A better way. And every time she's told me part of it, she's been right. But people don't listen to folks who are right. They listen to folks who tell them what they want to hear. So Mom gets ignored, and she gets louder as a result. Until she gets sick of them, whereupon she turns her back on them. You have to try to keep her interest. Once she's told you, she'll move on.

She's right. We don't have to just be sheep. I'm glad she's my Mom. I'm luckier than you are.