Well, it has been a while, hasn't it?

Blame it on the summer, and the heat, and the holiday weekend, and on a very busy summer program. But, with Eileen being fully back my own life should settle down a bit. I'll try to fill out what's been going on in life over the next couple of days. It's always interesting.

In the meantime, I finished most of an entry on the fourth of July, then had literally no time at all to finish it. So, I'll finish it below, with additional comments appended to the end. Peace.

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In Fourteen Hundred and Ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean bl... wait, I have the wrong holiday, don't I?

It's the Fourth of July, and your intrepid reporter is typing merrily away from his semi-ancesteral home in Standish, Maine, surrounded by the whole family. Mom and Dad, of course, and Sister Kris and Power Action Nieces Hilary and Hadley, who are without a doubt the cutest nieces to ever walk this native soil. Hilary is reading this over my shoulder, so I'll try to avoid any naughty words.

Which is hard, as I've seen South Park: Extra-Long, Uncut and Uncensored. It believes in truth in advertising. In fact, I've seen it twice, which I didn't intend to do but didn't mind either. Why twice? Because my friend Jon, called Van, is the unluckiest traveler alive.

Let me fill you in on the story.

Van was supposed to fly into Manchester Airport on Wednesday, so that he could interview at Brewster Academy on Thursday, for our Web Developer/Webmaster position. Thursday afternoon, he'd drive back down and fly back out, getting home Thursday night. Simple? Simple.

Now, long time readers know that Manchester Airport hates my friends. It likes me just fine, but my friends suffer to come up here. When I drove down to pick up my friend Amy (who was interviewing at Brewster last year), she missed her flight and I ended up waiting a good nine hours in the airport for her to arrive. Folks who've been reading for a while or who look back on this can see the night I waited for Mason to fly in and interview with us as well. It's an entertaining ramble, with all the peace and love of a death watch.

Naturally, Van couldn't buck this trend.

First off, Van's luggage didn't come with him. It went off on its own holiday, which is never very fun but is worse when you're only in town for sixteen hours and you've got a job interview in the morning.

I pause here. Has anyone else noticed that a lot of these journal entries seem to be about friends of mine who are flying to the Academy to apply for jobs? Networking. It works kids. And I figure the more I do this, the more karma I build up. If Brewster ever goes south for me, I figure I'll have lined up enough possibilities for friends that my friend Russ will get me an interview at Stanford. See? I'm always thinking.

Van gave up on his luggage and went for his rental car.

Which wasn't there.

Bugger all.

No one else had cars for Van. So, he had no interview clothes and he had no vehicle, and he was a good sixty miles from his hotel and his interview.

At this point, Van called me. See, you had to know I'd enter the story somewhere in all of this, didn't you?

I hopped in the car with Action Mason, and we drove on South to rescue Van. However, it was also Banking Day, so I needed to go by way of a Key Bank teller, of which there are few at best in New Hampshire. So, we drove down, picked up Van (who was upset, and who could blame him), gave very explicit directions to the man at the luggage counter as to where to deliver Van's bag if it arrived, and headed on out to Wolfeboro, by way of Portsmouth for banking purposes.

Portsmouth, by the by, is South of Manchester. Wolfeboro is North. So it would be a late night, but what the heck? We could afford a late night, and Van was initially interviewing with me. So we went. I banked. We ate at the Olive Garden. We drove to Wolfeboro.

No luggage. Ah well.

The interview went well. He sat in on one of my classes (and therefore became a part of the class -- I use everything in the area when I teach) and we interviewed with Alan. Everyone was warned that Van's luggage never arrived, and it wasn't a big deal. Heck, we were all dressed no better than he was. I love the summer. He headed back to Eric's Flophouse (otherwise known as my apartment) and Mason took his lunch to show him the monster computer that is mine. (There's a reason it's named Egoiste.) We then drove Van back down to Manchester Airport, dropping him off with an hour to spare, and heading out.

Mason wanted to drop by the mall and buy a CD. While there, I grabbed a laser pointer (charged to the Academy), having used Mason's in class when I was giving presentations. We drove down to find bad Mexican Food (being in that sort of mood), and en route saw a movie theater playing South Park. So we went.

Hysterical movie. Very funny. If you even just like South Park, you'll like the movie just as much or more. It's probably the best TV to Movie conversion I've seen to date, as it's exactly like the show, only bigger. Contrast this with Beavis and Butthead Do America, where the very first thing they do is get them off the couch and doing stuff they didn't do on the show. This is not a good plan, though I liked the B&B movie somewhat.

Anyway, it was Darn Late by the time Mason and I rolled in, singing a very merry, very upbeat, astoundingly vulgar song about romantic inclinations towards one's Uncle that we'd had imprinted on us by that evil movie. (Remember, kids -- this was done by the people who brought you Cannibal: The Musical).

And there was a message from Van. Bad weather in Philadelphia had canceled his flight. Because it was weather related, they wouldn't put him up in a hotel. He sounded miserable.

It was way too late to go get Van. I'd have fallen asleep behind the wheel and we'd have died a horrible death. We talked with him on the phone for a while, but for the most part we wished him well and just hung out. He was supposed to fly out the next day at two. On the positive side, his luggage had shown up.

Two o'clock the next day, and we get another call. It was, of course, Van. There had been physical technical delays on the ground in Manchester, which would cause him to miss all connections in Philadelphia. They couldn't reroute him in any direction to get him to Jacksonville, which is where he was flying in. So, they had to cancel him again until seven-thirty the next morning. As this wasn't weather related, Van was put up in a hotel which was nicer, but he was also going out of his skull.

Now, it's a pretty long trip to Manchester -- not "way out of our way" long, but more than "casual." So we were fatigued. But, frankly, we weren't nearly as fatigued as Van was with all this, so we hitched up the wagons and went Southward Ho! We caught up with Van and drove, and it was fun. Van was a ton more relaxed (a day of nothing to do but sleep and be delayed at airports will do that for you) and could loosen up more. We went looking for movies. There wasn't anything of value except South Park, so we ate at Chili's and then went.

It was a good time. I was glad for the extra time to get to know Van, even a little.

Needless to say, on Saturday I didn't go anywhere. There's just so much driving even I like to do. I slept and didn't think and hung out with Mason. Mason is very good for hanging out with.

Oh, and Van made it home. At last. With his luggage. All is right, there.

And with that, we're off for fireworks. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow.

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Back to 7/8/99. We didn't actually make it to the fireworks. Which is technically not true. We made it. But we didn't.

Let me explain. (I'm doing that a lot this entry.)

We were going to drive up to Naples, Maine, which is a nice little resort community on Long Lake (about the fifth Long Lake in Maine, I would add.) There, surrounded by a large group of people, we would eat ice cream and see the fireworks display, my two nieces going "oooooo," and "ahhhhhh."

There isn't adequate parking, so we left with a good amount of time to spare and an expectation of Quite A Walk ahead of us. In this, we were not disappointed. We walked a few miles into town, cheerfully enough, though the two little girls weren't sure about this. The mood was festive, and if it was too darn hot, well, it was the 4th, so what's wrong with that, huh?

We got there, and got good position. Grandfather Dad, my father, got dispatched with Hilary to go and fetch ice cream for the lot of us while we waited, surrounded by thousands and thousands and thousands of people, most of whom were almost naked in the heat, several of whom smoked, and more than a few of whom were crabby, waiting.

Around nine-fifteen, the world had turned dark. Expectation and enthusiasm filled the air.

Around nine-thirty, people were beginning to fidget. It was dark enough now, anyone could see. They could start any old time. No really. The people in front of us were muttering "they never start on time here."

Nine-forty, Dad and Hilary got back, with no ice cream. The line hadn't moved for the whole time they were gone, and Dad had finally given up. Hadley was very tired and wanted very much to go home now, please. "Just a few minutes more," Kris said to them.

At five of ten, Hilary and I, now both bored out of our skulls, started playing "I Spy." She kicked my butt at it, and the sad thing was I didn't let her win. But I was very very rusty.

Ten-oh-five, and Hilary and I were sick of I Spy. Hadley was crying, Kris hugging her and rocking her. Dad was looking perturbed. Mom was outright mad.

And I noticed something. Something strange. People... were leaving.

Leaving.

I had never even considered leaving. It was the Fourth. Large booming things were a part of it, and you waited for them, damn it.

Except... I had to work the next morning, teaching. I had to be in for 8 am. No rest for me -- I had places to go. Students to teach. And it would be at least a two hour drive, which meant getting in after Midnight if I left right then.

At ten fifteen, I mentioned all of this. I met no arguments. We agreed to give them fifteen more minutes. Which was ten minutes longer than they deserved.

Ten thirty, and we started back. Those few miles seemed a lot farther after a few hours of standing. Coupled with some very tired little girls who had to be carried part of the way. Dad and I managed to exhaust ourselves doing that for a while, before the girls decided they could walk.

At quarter of eleven, far behind us, we saw the blossom of the first of the fireworks. We turned, watched it, and kept going on. Tired and annoyed, we were in no mood for a fireworks display which, after all, looked like most fireworks displays.

This was pathetic. The Fourth is a family holiday. You can't expect to have people bring their kids out and have them wait until eleven, practically ensuring folks that they wouldn't get their kids to bed before midnight. That's ridiculous. Mom announced herself "cured of Fireworks forever, like a bad habit."

And me? I began to wonder just what the fireworks were supposed to symbolize. America, I guess -- but what were we saying? That America was really loud and made up of garish colors? I could tell you that.

While we were waiting, I tried to explain the concept of freedom and the injustice of England, and how our rebellion had made us free. "Free to be bored," Hilary said, and I suppose she was right. Freedom isn't exciting to kids, because they have it. It's a part of their lives. And adults forget what it means more often than not.

I thought about freedom and what it meant to me. And then we made it to the cars, and I left the Fourth of July behind.

Tomorrow: The Women's World Cup Soccer Team, the Deluge of '99, and Driving to Rockland. Also, I'll try to update the archives page.