Oh, They Say That In The Army, The Housing's Mighty Fine

I realize that rants are a lot easier to write (and can be much more entertaining to read) than happy, appreciative posts, but the more tirades I read in the paper and online, the more I feel I need to add one to the other side, to help balance the scales. And so, as I was driving back on post this morning and the gate guard told me to “Have a Happy Mother’s Day,” I thought, “This is a pretty nice place to live.” Now I will tell you all why.

The Gate Guards. Without fail the gate guards here and in Kentucky have been friendly and polite every time I have come through and shown my ID. They say nice things and wave to the kiddies, and on one occasion even began to sing along with them. For the most part they take their jobs very seriously, and always check to make sure I resemble my ID and that neither the ID nor the DOD stickers on the car are expired. Although there was one time when it seemed like Osama himself could have driven up with an ID that said “Skippy O’Connell” and been waved through with a “Have a nice day!” every other time I have felt like the guards are paying very close attention. If you don’t have a DOD sticker, you have to park and take your registration and insurance card in to the guard building for a temporary pass to drive on post, and then pull into a shelter to have your car inspected. That, my friends, is a gated community.

The Yards. While I have covered the yards and attendant yard work on post ad nauseum, over and over , in a redundant fashion , that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate having a big yard. Most people in the older housing areas have a back yard and a front yard, not just a patch of grass in front of the door, but a place where children could play if they wanted to. Everyone’s yard is well kept, and free of dog poop, since dogs are only allowed out on leashes, and the people who don’t feel like walking their dogs have fenced in areas in the back yard.

The Speed Limit. The speed limit on post is strictly observed by the residents and enforced by the MPs. I don’t mean a “speed limit” where you can go nine miles an hour over it and not worry about getting a ticket. Here, if the speed limit is 35 mph, everyone goes 35 mph, and if the speed limit drops to 25 mph, you don’t just coast along until friction brings you back down under the speed limit - you hit the breaks until their speedometer reaches 25 mph. The speed limit in the housing areas is only 15 mph, which is a hard speed to drive since it feels like you are barely moving forward. Why do I like this? Because it takes all of the tension out of driving. You are never stuck behind someone going too slow, because everyone has to go slow. You always know when it is safe to merge or make a left turn because no one speeds up just to stay ahead of you.

One afternoon when my sister and her boyfriend were here (after barely getting on post because they didn’t have an insurance card as described above) they were pulled over in the housing area and asked “Is there a reason you are driving 25 mph in a housing area?” Their first impulse was probably to say, “Because you’re supposed to drive slow in the housing areas,” not realizing that they were actually 10 mph over the speed limit. Fortunately, they did not answer with their first impulse and were able to get away with a warning (and of course the endless teasing and grief that we have heaped on them since then).

The only problem with the speed limit is that it gives children the idea that streets are safe everywhere. They don’t understand that outside the gates, people are speeding, drinking coffee, and talking on their cell phones (not allowed on post), so they don’t have time to swerve and miss the kiddies who have mistakenly chased a ball into the street. Most of the other mothers and I attempt to make the kids look both ways and cross at the corner, but there is so little traffic (and the few cars around are moving so slowly) that it seems rather ridiculous to put them through the ritual. And really, what are they learning about real world street crossing? They’ll have to see cars rolling through stop signs and speeding down side streets before they can appreciate why they must stop and look. Fortunately, most of the other places that we visit are either slow paced or equipped with cross walks and signals.

The Playgrounds. The playgrounds in our housing areas have been plentiful and well maintained. In Kentucky, we had to walk down the street and across a field to get to the playground (which was made out of wood and inhabited every spring by borer bees, but the kids never seemed to mind), but it was worth the trip because it was one of those playgrounds designed for all ages, with progressively longer slides and higher places to climb as you worked your way across the equipment. Every so often we would drive to other newer playgrounds throughout post, just to get a change of scenery and to keep the kids interested. Here in Virginia, we have a little playground right out the back door, and three others a short walk away. There are swings (although I hate swings) at three of them. If we want to take a longer walk or drive, there is a huge new playground less than a mile away that is so impressive, I’ve been tempted to climb it myself (and not just to stop Marty from falling off).

The Sidewalks. I’m sure some people who read the paragraph above about playgrounds may be thinking to themselves, “We have playgrounds within walking distance too, but there is nowhere to walk.” Every post that I have visited has wide, well-maintained sidewalks that can take you almost anywhere you care to go. I don’t know what additional expense is required to put in sidewalks in new housing developments out there in the real world, but it seems like no expense could be too much. I hate to walk in the street, and I particularly hate to walk with my kids in the street. Having grown up in a city, I am used to having sidewalks, and have a great appreciation for them.

The Maintenance Crew. When our hot water heater, or heat, or air conditioner, or plumbing is not working, we can call a work order in at any time of day (depending on how dire the situation) and expect prompt service. For free. In Kentucky we had a rather unfortunate series of plumbing disasters that would cause water from the dishwasher or washing machine (and those are the only two sources that my brain will let me consider) to back up into the house. Usually, two plumbers with a mechanical snake would arrive at our house and fix the problem. They came at night, during the day, on the weekend, and one time at midnight on the night before Thanksgiving. Finally, they decided to bring in a backhoe, dig up our sewer outlet pipe, and replace it, and it was all done for free. One Saturday morning in December we woke up without heat, and we had not one but three visits from maintenance men that day, the last one to give us a few space heaters in case the heater broke again while they were waiting to get the part they needed.

The Neighbors. I have already done a dissertation on neighbors, so I won’t flog that again, but the neighbors you get on post are usually neighborly. The family housing areas are actually full of families, so there is not the usual contingent of sketchy meth-heads, crazy curmudgeons, or partying high school drop outs that neighborhoods on the outside have. Although I have not met a lot of my neighbors, they usually will say hello when you pass them on the sidewalk, and wave when they drive by the house and see you outside. Another advantage is that the neighborhoods are, like the Army, racially mixed. I went to college with more than one person who had spoken to a black person in their high school. Although my kids will not have the experience of growing up in a multi-ethnic and multi-racial place like Washington, at least they won’t be growing up in a mini North Dakota either.

The Surrounding Community. Although most army posts are encircled by a wide variety of peep shows, check cashing vendors, and pawn shops, they also provide easy access to good Korean and German food (since soldiers keep going off to Korea and Germany and marrying the locals). Sports teams and museums in nearby cities often sponsor military specials so that you can take your kids out for fun for cheaper. Most of the people that you meet in the stores or post office are either prior service, Army brats, or have children in the military, so they treat you like one of the family.

I think I have gotten a bit spoiled by all the services and safety that come along with living on post. When we were first married we looked at the rather shabby on-post housing available in Maryland and decided to live off post, but now that we qualify for better housing, I don’t know if we’ll ever buy a house before the HP retires. So what’s the downside? I guess the only downside is that sometimes we go to war. And if we go to war, on occasion your spouse may be sent away to a place where people want to shoot at him/her. But at least it’s not so scary for me to be alone in a neighborhood like this, and it gives the HP some piece of mind that the family is looked after and safe.

Fun in the Sun, Pain in the Rain

Note to mothers of baby boomer age and older: The following post contains descriptions of an activity that may disturb you. Of course, I am referring to playing with play-doh. While I assure you that play-doh has a new formulation and no longer sticks to the rug, if you can’t believe it or the memories of trying to get play-doh out of the rug are just too raw, please stop reading where indicated.

In the springtime, when the weather dries up and warms up and we start spending every afternoon outside, I remember how easy it is to entertain the kids. While I do not consider myself a particularly “outdoorsy” girl and can’t say that camping or hunting hold any allure for me, I do make an attempt to get myself and the kiddies outside whenever it is not raining. Granted, last summer after about 21 days straight of sunshine, I declared a rainout (like in Bull Durham) and kept them indoors, but by and large, if the weather is fair, a little time outdoors does wonders for everybody’s disposition. Nearly everyone I know has a story of how a miserable, teething, colicky, sleep-deprived baby became a joy to behold the moment he/she was taken outdoors. Even as the kids grow older, something about all of the space above them and around them instantly opens their imagination, lifts some of the stress from their little shoulders, and puts a smile on a once cranky face. I have observed this phenomenon over and over again with my kids, which makes me wonder, why are we always alone outdoors?

I believe one major reason that we don’t see more people outside is parental fear. A sunburn 20 years ago was an unfortunate and painful experience, but if you let your child get sunburned now, you are responsible for setting him up to an almost certain bout with skin cancer. A mosquito bite 20 years ago was an itchy annoyance, but now it is a gateway to a potentially fatal disease. Ticks 20 years ago were a disgusting badge of honor for kids who spent too much time searching for baseballs under the hedges, now one bite may sentence a kid to devastating neurological trauma. But sunshine and bugs are not, in general, consciously out to get your kids, the way sexual predators, kidnappers, and other mayhem-inclined individuals are. The media coverage of victimized children would lead even the most level-headed parent to believe that every unfamiliar car passing through the neighborhood has come to snatch the children (but considering our neighborhood is protected by armed guards, this doesn’t seem like it should be as scary as it might be in other places). All of the potential harm that can come to our children now and in the future has been identified and itemized for us, so if we fall down on the job and let them get a sunburn or a bug bite, we have only ourselves to blame (and we definitely need more occasions for guilt).

I am afraid for my kids too, and I don’t want them to get sunburns or bug bites, and I certainly don’t want them in the same zip code with anyone who might hurt their feelings let alone their very lives. But I can use sunscreen to prevent the sunburn, bug spray to prevent the bug bites, and easiest of all, myself to keep them safe from everything else. But where is every one else? What does every one do inside all the time? I’m not asking because I feel superior, I’m asking because I’m desperate to know.

On a day like today, when the rain starts at breakfast and pours all day long, I find myself unable to come up with things that the kids can do that will take up a big chunk of time. I have been spoiled by the neighbor’s trampoline, which can entertain the kiddies for hours, until their little legs are shaking with exhaustion. I even let them play in the disgusting sand under the swings behind our house, because they are willing to sit there and play from after school until dinner time. For a while the playground was the site of a new imagination game every day, and I could just sit on the bench and hold the tissues while the kids entertained themselves. We’ve got t-ball, a basketball hoop, soccer balls, bean bags, horseshoes, golf clubs, jumpropes, sidewalk chalk – everything you might need to play outside. But inside…

Inside there is nowhere to jump, since the girls have bunkbeds and our bed is always covered with stuff (and since jumping is not encouraged). There is nowhere to dig, nothing to climb, and they are not allowed to take chalk and color everything in sight. We’ve got board games, we’ve got puzzles, we’ve got toys, but in the end, we’ve got lots of time to fill. We bake together, we do art projects, we read books, but I was not trained in childhood education, so I quickly run out of ideas. Even stretching (at times to the point of no return) the guidelines for TV and computer screen time, I am still left with a good part of the day with kids teetering on the brink of boredom and all the attendant whining and annoying behavior.

I have come up with exactly one activity that is special enough that the kiddies know if they walk away, it will be weeks or even months before they get another chance at it. One activity that takes up big chunks of time and never ends in tears: playing with play-doh.

Note to Grandmothers: stop reading here.

When we moved from Kentucky, I threw out all of our play-doh. Most of it was a rather spooky grey color, and I didn’t think it would fare too well sitting in storage during the heat of the summer. I didn’t replace the play-doh and thought that maybe the kids had forgotten about it. Then one afternoon Lauren brought home a goodie bag with a little tub of about a quarter of a cup of fake play-doh. That little tub of yellow play-doh was gold in our house, each kid patiently waiting for a turn to squish it and roll it on the table. The whole spectacle became rather pathetic, so when my brother called to see what he should get the kids for Christmas, I told him to get them all play-doh. Since my brother (who has no children) specifically chooses toys that either make a huge mess or a huge amount of noise, play-doh was his kind of present. He did not disappoint them. Between the three kids we got so much play-doh that we had to leave some behind at my parents’ house because I didn’t think I had a place to store it all. I had kept all of the play-doh toys that we had accumulated in Kentucky, so now we have a storage bin of play-doh and play-doh paraphernalia that would satisfy a small preschool.

The kids love to play play-doh, and sometimes after spending an hour playing, they will stop and have lunch and then go back to it for another hour. I used to be a little stressed out when the kids would start smushing all of the different playdoh colors together. How could you make a pink pig if the pink play-doh is streaked with green, purple, and orange? Then I finally realized that kids think the more colors something has, the prettier it is, so now I just open all the little containers and walk away. I don’t go too far though, because they always want to show me what they’ve made, and I don’t want them to have to carry the play-doh all over the house looking for me. Although the play-doh comes out of the rugs now, I hate spotting it weeks after it was dropped, because then I can’t immediately identify what it is (candy? crayon? bug?).

One big reason the kids love play-doh is the play-doh scissors and knives. I hover over them when they use the regular scissors, but they can be as destructive as they want with the playdoh scissors. Usually they work in teams, with one person making shapes and the other chopping them up. They also enjoy pretending that they are making cookies, since the opportunity to use cookie cutters generally only presents itself at Christmas time in our house. The only downside to play-doh is that all of the contraptions that are too hard for a small child to operate. The play-doh “fun factory” which makes spaghetti and other long shapes, has not changed since I was little, and you do need to put some weight on that handle to get the spaghetti out. The fun factory is also hard to clean out, so the kiddies usually need a grown up to pry the moving parts loose from the layer of solidified play-doh. But I’m willing to stop by the play-doh jobsite occasionally and put in a few minutes at the fun factory, because I get a little stretch of quiet time in exchange.

Yes, play-doh is a fine way to pass the time every now and again. But although I’ve made peace with the play-doh, I’d still rather take the kids outside. I’ve got my fingers crossed that no new menaces or pests or diseases pop up (I’m talking to you, bird flu). Once the play-doh becomes old hat, I’m done for.

Fires

Note: This post was originally entitled "Light 'Em Up, Boys", until I realized that it was popping up on searches about the recent shooting. The search results that included that title plus information about the shooting might have given a fringe element the idea that the title referred to a post encouraging people to shoot policemen. Obviously it does not, but I'm changing it anyway.

Behind our house is an outdoor fireplace that I gave to the HP for his birthday a couple of years ago. This fireplace is currently filled to capacity with sticks and logs, and every time I find a stick in the yard, I usually stash it in the fireplace (or attempt to balance it on the overflowing pile of firewood next to the fireplace). The funny thing about that fireplace is that I will probably never light it, and not just because its springtime. I think the main thing that keeps me from taking a match to the pile is: I’m not a boy.

In conjunction with the HP's fireplace, I asked for a fleece blanket and some comfortable outdoor chairs for my birthday (8 days later) so that I could happily accompany him outside on the nights when he decided to sit by the fire. The first winter was windy and bitterly cold, so we did not go out often to sit by the fire. However, don’t take that to mean the fireplace was not used during that first winter. The HP would load it up with wood (or more often a Duraflame and a lot of sticks), light it up, and sit on the couch with one eye on the fire out the window, and the other on the TV. Every so often he would go out and poke at the fire or add wood too it, until he was either out of things to burn or ready for bed, and then he would let it burn out. Each spring he would drag it over to the side of the house and lovingly cover it with a tarp until the next fall. However, whenever we had a gathering with more than one or two male guests, the fireplace was always dragged back onto the porch and put into service.

I briefly wondered why the HP bothered with these fires that we were not going to sit by. However, I did not waste much time wondering, since everyone knows that all men are obsessed with fire, and no man has ever been able to give me a reason other than “I just like it.”

The Encarta Dictionary gives lots of definitions for fire (and I realize that this is a cheesy way to fill my 1500 words, but Wednesday is the one night of the week when I actually watch TV. I’m only doing the noun definitions here, just think how long this thing could be):

1. destructive burning of something: a situation in which something such as a building or an area of land is destroyed or damaged by burning.

Could it be that men are intrigued by fire because they are fascinated by destruction? I’ll leave aside the obvious remarks I could make about the current male leadership around the world and what has occurred at their hands. Instead I’ll focus on the one little man I see on a daily basis, the little Marty Boy. One of his new pastimes is to cheerfully announce “I’m going to make a big mess!” and start clearing table tops and throwing pillows off the couch. He’s not angry, and he’ll stop if I ask him to. But sometimes I just sit by and watch him, and he is having an absolute blast. How about it boys? Is it the thrill of destruction?

2. pile of burning fuel: a collection of material such as logs or coal that is set alight and used as fuel for heating, cooking, or burning something
3. blaze: the light, heat, and flames caused by something that is burning
4. process of burning: the rapid production of light, heat, and flames from something that is burning, e.g. in the combustion of wood, coal, or petroleum

These definitions obviously could describe what happens in a fireplace, but they also apply to the other great friend of all men – the grill. The grill is the one place that all men, anywhere, under any circumstance can find common ground. One guy may prefer a gas grill, another a charcoal one, but they are all going to stand around and stare at it and swap stories every time its lit up. I realize that the “men standing around the grill” scenario is one that has been overworked in TV shows and commercials over the years, but just because it’s a cliché doesn’t mean it’s not an apt reflection of reality. I have used charcoal grills before at drunken barbecues, but I did not attempt the gas grill until recently. The ironic thing about grilling is, you are supposed to put the meat on there and then leave it alone. No man is able to do this, and yet men are usually the grillers in the family.

5. arms discharge from guns: a discharge of ammunition from one or more guns
6. arms launch of projectile: the process or timing of sending off a missile or rocket

Oh you boys and your guns. I am not about to launch into an anti-gun tirade here, as I sit in Army housing. I’m not stupid enough to think that we don’t need a military or police and that every one would blow kisses as they walked down the street if it wasn’t for guns. I don’t think hunters should be harassed (or shot by the Vice President, but that’s another story). I’ll just add this little quote from a story I read today in the Washington Post, and let you decide whether guns are properly regulated in this country (and if you are a responsible gun owner, I am not lumping you in with this guy, but I have to think things aren’t working the way they should be right now):

“When Fairfax County police entered the townhouse where Michael Kennedy lived with his family, just hours after the 18-year-old had engaged in a fierce gun battle with police, they found a loaded 12-gauge shotgun leaning in a corner. Standing in another hallway, a .30-caliber rifle. In another corner was a .22-caliber hunting rifle.

In all, police found nine guns strewed about the empty Centreville home, unlocked, along with boxes and satchels of ammunition, six pellet guns, several hunting knives and a bayonet on a bedroom nightstand, according to a search warrant unsealed yesterday. Investigators have not traced the ownership of the seven guns Kennedy brought with him to the Sully District police station parking lot, including an AK-47-style assault rifle and a high-powered hunting rifle.

Investigators believe Kennedy fired more than 70 rounds from his two rifles and possibly from one of the five handguns he brought to the police station, which has been closed while officers grieve.”

The HP is not a big lover of guns, and although he can easily qualify with his weapons for work, we don’t keep one in the house (we have other defenses, like sending Lauren out to argue with intruders until they leave in frustration). However, when I read the “missile or rocket” part, I could only think of one thing – fireworks. My brothers were obsessed with fireworks when we were younger. Not the kind that you sit in a stadium and watch, but the kind that you buy at the store. You ignite them and enjoy them, and then take a moment to count your fingers and toes and eyes to make sure you did it correctly. I imagine my brothers were inspired by our older male cousins who used to put on quite an alcohol soaked fireworks display at our annual 4th of July family reunion. The spinners that were supposed to be attached to a stationary object usually ended up spinning and sparking across the yard. Whenever one of the roman candles came up a few fireballs short, one of my cousins would run to go check it before one of the grown-ups, in a passing moment of sobriety, would tell them to leave it alone.

7. continuous attack: a series of things that follow each other quickly and relentlessly, especially if hostile or intimidating

I don’t have much to say about this one, but any of you that have been on the receiving end of one of my husband’s inquiries, I think you will agree that he is familiar with this type of fire. He can launch a series of questions with such rapidity that I rarely have time to complete my answer to one when the next question is coming at me. There are times when I have attempted to end one of these episodes with “That’s it; that’s all I know; I don’t know anything else; we have exhausted my knowledge on this topic.” And still the questions continue.

8. gem's brilliance: the shine and sparkle of a gemstone
9. passion: energy, spirit, or intensity of feeling

I guess these two describe why the boys are attracted to us girls. Lucky for us, a little sparkle can bring out the “energy, spirit, or intensity of feeling” for us. Of course, we need a lot more than sparkle if we want to be noticed when there is a fireplace around. Or a grill. Or a sparkler. Or a candle. Or even a match.

Rock On

When I stopped working and moved to Kentucky, I became disconnected from the world of music, because I was no longer spending every morning in the car listening to the radio. I’m sure that if I had moved to Kentucky as a country music fan, I would be about as hip and up to date as they come. Since I am not a country music fan, I spent most of my time in the car in Kentucky listening to an 80s station. When that went off the air, I would listen to the same CD over and over, because I never remembered to bring an alternative into the car. I’m sure it didn’t help that while we were in Kentucky we eventually had three children who could speak and thus voice their preferences as to what entertainment was provided in the car and in the house. The HP was no help, since he disconnected from music sometime in the 70s, and has clung to the hits of that era as long as I have known him. He occasionally will toss out some mangled version of a line from a song that is currently on the radio (which is more than I can do), but he likes his music old. When he is not listening to music from the 70s (or 60s or 50s), he listens to Frank Sinatra (or Frank Sinali as the children call him).

My very first concert (that was not the Beach Boys or Wayne Newton on the 4th of July in Washington) was that hot, groundbreaking band from Down Under. AC/DC? No. INXS? No. Midnight Oil? No. Of course I am talking about Men at Work. Who else could it be now? When I was a freshman in high school, my good friend Trudy arranged for about 13 girls to see the concert at Merriweather Post Pavillion in Maryland and then come over to her house for a sleepover. I suppose this was a good concert to start with, since it gave me a chance to learn right from the get-go about bands that only have one hit. Without exception they are going to make you beg to hear it as an encore. This concert also gives me the winning answer when people are comparing stories of the first concert that they went to - few people (and those people are described in the next paragraph) can claim a worse show as their first concert.

Did I learn my lesson about going to the concerts of one-hit-wonders? No, I did not. When I was a freshman in college, my first friend Christina invited me to spend Columbus Day weekend at her house, since I couldn’t travel from Massachusetts to DC for a long weekend. The only plans that she had committed to that weekend were to attend a concert with her sister who had graduated from college the year before. I am not sure what exactly transpired between those two sisters, but I guess it can stand as a testament to the bond between siblings and what you are willing to do with them. In the first few weeks of college, Christina had tutored me in the music of OMD, Erasure, Depeche Mode, and all sorts of other New Wave bands. The concert that she and I attended with her sister did not involve any of these bands. No, the concert I saw on Columbus Day weekend 1986 was a one-hit-wonder even worse than Men At Work. If you were alive during the 1980s and you wrack your brain long enough, you can probably come up with it. Give up? It was Aha (or A-Ha or AHa, I’m not sure what the proper spelling is). Take on me (Take on me) Take me on (Take on me)...

That concert was a horror show. The entire theater (somewhere in Hartford, Connecticut, but I don’t care to ever revisit it) shook from the time we arrived until the time we left with the screams of 14 year old girls. Christina and I just looked at each other and at the screaming teenies around us and wondered why her sister had thought this was a good idea. I believe Aha was a Norwegian band that didn’t speak any English, but they didn’t need to speak English. If they had stood on stage filing their nails and whistling, the screaming would not have diminished. Just when we thought our evening couldn’t get any stranger, two screaming girls in wheelchairs fled the handicapped section in front of us and rushed the stage. We were briefly worried for their safety, but in the end worried for our own, since if any of the frenzied fans had seen the look of confusion and disinterest on our faces, they likely would have rushed us too. I don’t remember if Aha saved their hit for the encore (they did not have any equipment that could amplify noise louder than the screaming girls), but I think they sang it at least twice.

The other concerts that I attended in college were not much better. The Spring Weekend committee that was in charge of booking the big campus concert was apparently composed of students who hated music and wanted to save money. For the first three years they decided that the most economical choice was a band that clung to the following career trajectory: Each one had: 1) peaked in the early 80s; 2) gotten used to fame and spending lots of money; 3) plummeted in popularity; and 4)was thus desperate for a gig to pay the bills. Freshman year it was Squeeze, sophomore year it was Kool and the Gang, junior year it was The Hooters. Senior year we had Ziggy Marley who followed a slightly different trajectory – never peaking, never caring about money, and thus willing to play for peanuts at a small school in New England. College was also my first introduction to the mania of U2 fans (much like Bare Naked Ladies fans and Dave Matthews Band fans), how they continually one up each other (I liked them from their first album. Well, I liked them from a concert they did while they were still in high school. Well I liked them from when they were singing nursery rhymes in kindergarten), and how they become slightly nutty in their quest for concert tickets. I did not get to see U2 in concert in college, mainly because I was unable to spend a week sleeping outside the Worcester Spectrum, and thus was branded as a fair weather fan.

In the early 1990s, my concert going luck turned around. My sister and I saw every show that came through Philadelphia, and as a result had a chance to rate the tours of many, many, long forgotten bands, including: Ziggy Marley, Gin Blossoms, Cracker, Ned's Atomic Dustbin, Stereo MCs, Belly, Matthew Sweet, The Posies, X, Velocity Girl, Screaming Trees, Soul Asylum, Spin Doctors, Smashing Pumpkins, George Clinton & the P.Funk All-Stars, The Breeders, A Tribe Called Quest, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, L7, Boredoms, Courtney Love, Lemonheads, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Midnight Oil, Grant Lee Buffalo. We also got to see some people who did find fame and success, including: INXS, Iggy Pop, The Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, The Who, Eric Clapton, Elvis Costello, Tom Petty, Beastie Boys, and REM. We spent all of our extra money on concert tickets, and had a blast every time, even in the pouring rain.

These days, I don’t think I’d go to a concert unless it was in a bar or I was taken there by limo and deposited in a sky box with a bar included – I just feel like I’m too old and too disconnected. I also feel like I’m too poor. Although the WHFStival still seems to be a bargain, all of the geezers that I would go see are charging so much money that I can’t go just on principle. Why do they need so much money? I thought they were all off the drugs. Sadly the next concert I attend will probably be as a chaperone for my girls who want to go see some horrific boy band in six or seven years (wait a minute, note to self: make cool Aunt Kate or cool Aunt Erin take them). At least when they are older, I won’t feel too afraid to let them go to concerts on their own (although the HP will likely need sedation). I saw pretty much everything that can happen at a concert during my concert going days (well, no shootings) and while the media may emphasize the craziness, even the drunkest, most drugged out attendee is usually there for the music and unlikely to bother other people who came for the music too.

Clearly my pop culture lapse happened at exactly the wrong time, when the world of MP3 players and IPods was just around the corner. I actually have an MP3 player and it is full of songs from the last century. I don’t know how I could ever catch up on the five years of music I missed. I continue to follow the bands I knew from my younger days, but all of the CDs that have come into my possession in the past five years (with the exception of Christmas music and children’s music) were purchased by the HP as gifts for me. Then again, my parents went with us to concerts (Bruce Springsteen, Eric Clapton) when they were in their 50s, and really enjoyed them (even more on the occasions that they had hearing protection). Maybe 20 years from now my kids will convince me to head out to the arenas once again.

Insert Bridge Cliche Here

Since my husband left the country, I have made several trips to my parents’ house in Delaware. This is a five hour drive with three restless but generally cooperative kids in the back seat, and it includes a trip across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. Until last summer, I had never been across that bridge and didn’t know anything about it. Now, my husband jokes, I am likely to pay enough in tolls on the bridge this year to sponsor a repaving project next year. The toll in each direction is $12, and the bridge does not offer any frequent traveler discount book or EZPass reduction. If you are going back and forth in 24 hours, you can cross for $5, but I can’t imagine any circumstances that will cause me to take two 5 hour trips in 24 hours. So every time I go off to visit someone coastal, I will be dropping $24 right off the top. The strangest thing about this exorbitant toll is that I am happy to pay it, because the trip across that bridge is worth every penny.

When I am traveling across the Bridge Tunnel, and the water is as blue as the sky, and the waves are sparkling in the sun as they slowly roll onto the sandy dunes, the urge to pull over just to spend some time staring is almost irresistible (but less appealing when I’m traveling with my three favorite companions). In fact, the bridge has several scenic lookouts for people who are overcome by the urge to stop. And the scenery is impressive in every sort of weather. The kids always check the water when we head out across the Bridge Tunnel, because it never looks the same way twice. Sometimes it is completely flat, sometimes it has small waves, sometimes there are breakers right in the middle of the bay. On Friday, the weather was hazy, and the sky and water were almost the same color of grey when I looked to the east. When I looked out to the west however, the other span of the bridge was blocking the horizon, making it impossible to tell where the water stopped and the sky began, making me feel like I was traveling along the edge of the earth. On Sunday, when the weather was worse, every aspect of the scenery was its own shade of grey - the road, the sky, the street lamps, the ships - and in the long stretches where there are no signs or other cars, I felt like I was traveling in a black and white photograph. The sunsets are amazing, and I imagine the sunrises are too, although I am sure I will never witness one myself.

Although the Bridge Tunnel extends over a 20 mile stretch of water, it is a lot less scary than other roads that do not even cross over water. For one thing it is low and flat, unlike the other Chesapeake Bay Bridge in Annapolis which provides drivers to acrophobics who are afraid to cross the bridge. In fact the Bridge Tunnel is so low and flat, that it gives you the reassuring feeling that the impact wouldn’t kill you if you were for some reason forced off the bridge and into the water. Another huge advantage to the Bridge Tunnel is that the odds of being forced off the road and into the water are rather low, since the traffic is sparse and the bridge is wide – the southbound span has a breakdown lane for its entire length. The Bridge Tunnel is also extremely well lit, with street lights every 20 yards or so for its entire length. The disconcerting part of its architecture is the tunnels, where the traffic from both spans comes together to pass through a tunnel that is one lane in each direction. The tunnels are short and bright, but rather tight, particularly when an 18-wheeler is barreling toward you just inches from the center line. Another problem with the tunnels is that as you come around a curve on the bridge, you can sometimes see the missing bridge sections where the road travels through the tunnels. It looks as if the bridge you are driving on is about to come to an abrupt end, which always gives me a quick uneasy feeling, even though I know (for the most part) that I’m not about to drive off the end of the bridge.

So what is there to look at besides the architecture? How about birds? On calm days, you can often see a sea gull perched on top of every street light. On windy days, you can often see the remains of unlucky sea gulls splattered beneath every street light. While I find both live and dead sea gulls rather disgusting on the beach, I can appreciate them from the confines of my car. According to the Bridge Tunnel website, the wetlands leading up to the bridge on the north side have all kinds of birds in them, like pelicans, ducks, herons, and peregrine falcons (which I may have seen the other day, I saw some big hulking bird that looked like a hawk – my dad suggested that it may have been an osprey – in this instance, I wish I knew more about birds). Often you can see groups of birds circling and diving in the same part of the water, probably to the dismay of the fishies underneath.

But the fishies have other things to worry about. In every sort of weather you can always see a number of guys fishing from small motor boats near the bridge. The Navy and Coast Guard train in the bay, so on most trips across the bridge you can see boats and ships of all sizes, some of them moving at shocking speeds, up and down the bay. The tunnels were obviously built to accommodate them as well as the wide variety of cargo ships and barges that travel through the bay. Things are usually so hopping on the water, that I can point out enough boats that every kid manages to spot one, alleviating the sort of extended crying jag that can erupt when two of them see a cow and one misses it. With the Navy and the Coast Guard close at hand (and the small amount of traffic) I don’t eye the boats up for potential terrorists the way I do on some other bridges. However, on Friday, a day when the water was perfectly still, we saw a guy on a small motorboat that was rocking so violently I wondered if his companions were having a Sopranos’ style tussle below deck.

In the middle of the bridge is a rest stop with a fishing pier, restaurant, and gift shop, but I have never stopped there, because while I think the bridge is perfectly safe, I don’t really feel the need to linger out there, particularly since I know I couldn’t singlehandedly save the kids if the fishing pier fell into the water. Other people stop though, because sometimes with your $12 toll you get a coupon for a free soda at the restaurant. The rest stop is probably very safe too, since the Bridge Tunnel has its own police force to scare everyone into driving the speed limit. According to their web page, the Bridge Tunnel employs 165 people, including, I’m sure, a few full time bird carcass removers. I’d be very interested to see if they scoop the birds into a bag, or over the side into the water, which I guess would be one way to attract bigger sporting fish.

I don’t just enjoy the Bridge Tunnel, I enjoy the fact that when I travel the Bridge Tunnel route, I do not have to drive on I-95, the capital beltway, Route 50, and Route 404 (the main roads that make up the alternate route for traveling from our part of the world to the Delaware shore). Although the roads we travel to and from the Bridge Tunnel are small and run through many small towns where the speed limit drops to 35 mph, they are stress-free for the most part. I have yet to see any road rage by the occupants of the few other cars and trucks traveling along with us. Anyone who has lost huge chunks of their life in traffic around Washington, DC, (or huge parts of their weekend to the lines at the tolls for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in Annapolis) would likely agree with me that if the Bridge Tunnel toll was changed one finger rather than $12, there would be a huge increase in the hook-wearing population.



I was surprised to read that the first span of the Bridge Tunnel was built in 1965 (when it was voted One of Seven Engineering Wonders of the Modern World), and the second was not finished until 1999. I don’t think I would have traveled across it when it was only one span, because it would have been a little claustrophobic. But now it has two spans and so I highly recommend the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel to everyone. However, given the amount of traffic I’ve seen on it, few people have business that takes them out that way. So for everyone who has no business at the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, I highly recommend the Bridge Tunnel web page, which is quite informative and has lots of pretty pictures.