Stop Copying Me

First it was the Washington Post, now (as my sister pointed out to me) it's the AP.

Ole! Ole, Ole, Ole! Ole! Ole!

When I was in second grade, I signed up to play soccer without telling my parents. I remember going home and trying to tell my mom what I had done, but since I had never heard of soccer before, I‘m sure I wasn’t particularly clear. Nevertheless, I started playing soccer and went on to play right through high school. I ended up pulling the whole family in with me – my brothers and sisters all played, my dad was a coach and later a referee, and my mom became one of the league commissioners. I considered playing in college too, but the two practices I attended convinced me that it would be a relentlessly miserable time. Maybe some day I will write about my life as a right wing, but the reason that I have been thinking about soccer these days has nothing to do with childhood nostalgia. No my friends, I am gearing up for the 2006 World Cup. Fortunately, immigration has increased the ranks of soccer fans in America sufficiently to force coverage of the whole tournament. I don’t remember seeing games at all before 1990, and I don’t think it was just because I didn’t have cable in college, but here is what I remember:

1990 World Cup - Winner: West Germany. The first world cup I remember watching took place in Italy. I was at the beach with one of my friends, and we went to a bar because her boyfriend wanted to catch some of the games. I had been such a soccer fanatic for 10 years before college, but during college, I lost track of it all together. If he hadn’t wanted to see the games, I probably never would have known they were on. As was often the case for the Americans, they lost all three of their opening round games and were eliminated from the tournament. I did get to see my first Ireland versus Italy game, the game of the great Catholic regimes, and although I was rooting for Ireland, I must have known it was a lost cause given that they were playing the home team. I don’t remember much else about the tournament, and according to Wikipedia that is because it is considered the “least spectacular and most cynical” games ever.

1994 World Cup - Winner: Brazil. When the 1994 World Cup rolled around, I was ready. My sister and I were living in Philadelphia, and I was unemployed but I was bringing in enough on unemployment to pay my rent, car payment, insurance, and bar tab. I had to add another expense to the ledger however, because the World Cup was what prompted my sister and I to finally get cable after living without it (and being regularly mocked about that fact by friends and family) for almost a year and a half. Unfortunately for my sister, she was still working, but on the days she was off we would drive to a bar somewhere, ask the bartender to put the game on (because no one had it on in those days), and nurse a few beers while we watched the game. The US team got into the tournament on a home team bid, and were completely outclassed by their opponents, although they did manage one win. My sister and I were glad when they were eliminated, because we hated having to root for a team that was so pathetic.

The highlight of the 1994 World Cup for me was the Italy versus Ireland rematch at the Meadowlands. Thousands of New Yorkers that probably couldn’t care less about soccer packed the stadium to root for the teams of their distant ancestors. A lot of the time when I see a huge crazy crowd on TV, I am just as happy to be sitting on my own couch and in my own house where the line for the bathroom is reasonably short. However, I would have loved to have been at that game. Ireland won, which I took as a personal victory in honor of my distant ancestors.

1998 World Cup - Winner: France. The HP and I will always look back on our 4th of July weekend watching the World Cup as one of our favorite weekends of all time. We were staying at my parents’ house in DC and commuting for drinking sessions with our friends (two friends of the HPs from high school and their girlfriends) in Alexandria. We would watch a game or two with my dad, and then get on the metro and ride to Alexandria to watch a game or two with our friends. We spent the whole weekend either drinking, watching TV, riding the metro, or doing any of those three things in combination. I was glad that the HP could enjoy something that I liked so much.

By the summer of the next year, the other two couples had gotten married, and we and one of the other couples had each had a child. We would look back to that care free drunken weekend and just shake our heads that things could have changed so dramatically in such a short time. In retrospect, that crazy weekend was perfectly timed. It established a point in time that we could look back to and say “That is how we used to be. That was what we did before we had kids.” It was as much fun as we ever had together, but when we compare it to our current lives as responsible (heehee) parents we never feel regret for how things have changed.

In sporting news, the US team once again failed to win or even tie a game and scored only one goal in 3 games, I believe the worst showing by a home team in World Cup history. I actually left work early one day to catch one of their games, and they were so bad, that I considered getting my work clothes back on and heading back to the office (considered, but really, I can’t think of anything that the US team could have done to make me take such an extreme action). We threw our support behind Denmark and the Netherlands because we liked to say their players’ names and because their games must have been on in our more sober moments. When France finally won by beating Brazil, I think we were happy for them, because that was back before everyone patriotic had to hate the French.

2002 World Cup – Winner: Brazil. The 2002 World Cup took place in a completely different world, and not just because 9/11 had occurred. We had gone from zero to two kids, we had gone from Maryland to Kentucky, and we had gone from enjoying the games while getting sloshed on margaritas to rising at all hours just to get a glimpse of them. The games were hosted by South Korea and Japan (who totally hate each other so I’m not sure what the organizers were thinking – probably something along the lines of, “Well they kinda look alike, let’s have them share”).

The game I remember best was the USA versus South Korea, which was televised live at about 2:00 am Kentucky time. I had gone to sleep on the couch with the TV turned on to ESPN. I figured if I subconsciously woke myself up, at least the game would be on the TV already to remind me why I was on the couch. I did wake up during the game, and what I saw on the TV was shocking to me. Like 99.99% of other Americans, I had no idea that the South Koreans were still hopping mad over Anton Ohno winning (or stealing) the gold medal over South Korea in the Salt Lake City Olympics. Like most Americans, the moment the coverage of that race concluded, I put it out of my mind and never considered it again. I’m sure my ignorance was based on the fact that I (like most Americans) had no idea what was going on in those short track speed skating events. I don’t even know when it became an event, but I’m sure it only became a televised event because NBC thought we might win a medal. Eric Heiden and Bonnie Blair and Dan Johnson never did that sort of skating, but apparently a number of famous South Korean athletes do.

As I woke up on the couch and groggily turned toward the TV, I beheld a scene that was reminiscent of some sort of frenzied political rally. It reminded me of the descriptions of the Taliban executions that took place in stadiums during their reign of terror. Every person in the stands was wearing red and was on his/her feet screaming and waving a red flag. I was quickly jolted out of my bleary-eyed state in fear that I might witness some sort of mob violence against the USA players.

Early morning awakening is one of my least favorite activities, and when it is combined with extreme mental distress, I turn into a quivering mess, complete with heart palpitations and gasping for breath. Instead of the excitement of the game, I felt anxiety toward what might happen. The game ended up as a tie, which was probably the best possible result (although my high school soccer coach informed us that tying is like kissing your sister). I was so wound up I had trouble getting back to sleep, but of course I eventually did, and when I woke up the next morning, I knew that their probably had not been any danger at that game. What I had witnessed was simply a cultural difference: South Koreans root for their country with patriotic fervor; once they have concluded their business at the concession stand, Americans root for their country with the exact amount of fervor that will allow them to avoid spilling their beer.

2006 World Cup - Winner: ???. I eagerly await the matches of 2006, which start on my daughter’s birthday and will unfortunately wind up before the HP gets home on leave in July. Of course the US team qualified in such a manner as to wind up with the most difficult draw in the tournament. I will root for them again, since I have seen some of their games leading up to the tournament and I have seen a few hopeful signs. Unfortunately, the US team (in my mind anyway) seems to have a funk about it, like they are moving in slow motion compared to the other teams. They seem so careful, so sluggish, as if the need more time than the other teams to figure out what they are going to do next. I’m sure if soccer was a bigger sport, experts from around the world would have been hired to try to find a fix for the team. After all, if we were ever shut out in the Olympics, I can guarantee that there would be Congressional hearings on the matter.

Yet Another Boring Description of My Drive to Delaware

Although I have already sufficiently bored my few readers with a long and excessive description of the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel Bridge (a bridge, I might add, that desperately needs a catchier name), I still have more to say about my journeys up the coast from Virginia to Delaware. The bridge is a marvel, make no doubt about it, but just as interesting is the stretch of Virginia that starts at the southern end of Route 13 in Kiptopeke and ends in the north in New Church. Even if it was a road surrounded on all sides by grey dust, at least the exit signs advertising places like Pungoteague and Accomac are fun to read, and how can you frown when a place like Pocomoke City welcomes you to Maryland at the northern end of your ride.

The stretch of Route 13 though this part of Virginia is basically unmodernized, with good old-fashioned Americana lining both sides as far as the eye can see. Although there are a few spots where you drive past a McDonalds or Food Lion, for most of the drive, new gas stations seem to be the only update to the landscape in the past 25 years. The towns that I drive through alternate between what must have been Native American names, and what the settlers must have decided were appropriate European names. For every Washapreague there is a Cape Charles, for every Nassawadox there is a Temperanceville. I know that these sorts of names can be found all around the country, but on Route 13 the names seem to originate from colonial times, either Native American or British, nothing modern or exotic in between.

While the town markers are interesting, I find the buildings and businesses along the way to be even more intriguing. I pass a broad range of living quarters, churches, restaurants and other businesses, some of which are unchanged by time, and many of which are begging for a change.

When I was working for a company that did environmental assessments of property in preparation for sale (due diligence as they say) I would often be sent to vacant fields or corn fields that would seem to be straightforward cases. It seemed that if I noted the acreage and what was around it, the survey would be pretty much done, except it never was. Usually, when doing a quick inspection of a bunch of trees that seemed rather out of place in the middle of a field, I would find the remains of a house or a barn. For one reason or another, the building had been abandoned and over time the landscape had surrounded it, hugged it and finally consumed it. I always wondered how a building that had once housed a family had been allowed to be swallowed up by the ground it was built on. However, when you drive down Route 13, you can see the process in action.

Most of the houses along Route 13 are old, dating to an era when kelly green asbestos shingles were considered a good idea. Few of the houses have been updated or improved, and while many are well tended, most seem to be getting tired. Some of the houses are completely surrounded by their landscaping. Bushes and trees that might have been decorative when they were planted are now dominating the lot, leaning up against the house and perhaps pushing ever so gently against the walls. I often try to determine (while paying close attention to the road and traveling at the posted speed limit) whether these houses are still occupied, and I often wonder which is worse – to leave your house when the greenery starts to take over, or to continue to live there when you are too old, or too tired, or too poor, or too drug-addled to take some landscaping equipment and reclaim an area for your house.

Besides the homes, there is another grouping of abodes that always catches my eye: the homes for immigrant workers who man the farm fields and chicken processing plants along the way. The buildings look like teeny motels, with a row of windows along the back and a row of doors along the front, where hopefully single men and women spend small amounts of time sleeping between shifts. I hope they are single and sleeping, because to think that a small family is occupying one of those cells, or that someone is spending a great deal of time in one is rather depressing. Once daylight savings time ended and I had a chance to see these buildings up close in the light, I noticed that some of them have Direct TV satellite dishes attached to poles outside the back doors. Maybe in my mind I am over dramatizing the plight of the inhabitants. Maybe these buildings are full of single people who view them as hotel rooms – places to stay while they save money to bring their families to this country or go back to their own and live comfortably. I like to think that when they each workers has save enough, he or she moves on to a better job and a better home and leaves the little room to the next hopeful.

There are two chicken processing plants along Route 13, one in Temperanceville and one in Accomac, and two tomato processing plants. However, I never see much action outside these plants, which I’m sure are manned around the clock. Probably people who are dependent on jobs in these plants (dependent in a way that I have never been) don’t ever think of arriving late or leaving early or lingering outside to smoke a cigarette. I have read stories about chicken chasers and chicken pluckers and other chicken factory workers in the Washington Post. In Delaware, many of the people who work in chicken plants are from Guatemala, and apparently these are examples of jobs that Americans do not want to do, and jobs for which companies recruit immigrants. Between what I imagine to be the harshness of their jobs and the bleakness of their homes, I wonder if they really feel like they have found a piece of the American dream.

If I tire of pondering the immigration dilemma, Route 13 has its share of small local restaurants, some obviously seasonal, some with signs all in Spanish, and some obviously old time local favorites. The most interesting spots though are the “seafood shacks” which are literally seafood shacks. Each has hand-lettered plywood signs advertising fresh crabs, shrimp, and other creatures taken daily from the bay or the ocean. I often try to peer into these shacks to see if someone really is selling seafood, or if the shack has been abandoned and no one had the energy to take down all the signs. More often than not, the seafood shack is in business. One evening as I was driving past one of these establishments, I noticed a man standing at the side of the road who looked like he was hitchhiking. As I got closer I noticed that although he had the hitchhiker stance – shoulder to the road, arm in the air- he was not facing the oncoming traffic. I am not an experienced hitchhiker, but from what I’ve seen on TV, facing the oncoming traffic is an important part of the posture. When I got closer I realized that he was not hitchhiking, he was holding up a shrimp, attempting to draw customers in by showing them the fine product he was selling. I never took marketing in college, but considering how long it took me to figure out what the guy was doing and how far down the road I had traveled before I realized what he had been holding, I think he should consider investing in a big stuffed animal shrimp and holding that up by the side of the road.

The buildings and businesses are not the only attractions to ponder on the trip. In the summertime, I realized that the sides of the roads are lined by crape myrtles and in more than one spot I pass a crape myrtle farm. Some of the fields look cultivated, and some of them look like they have never had a use. I find it strange to come from an area of nonstop development (while on my way to an area of nonstop development) to an area where fields sit overgrown and unused, without a “for sale” sign or zoning notice anywhere.

I am sure that if I turned off Route 13 in either direction at any of the major intersections, I would probably find quaint summer villages and thriving seaside communities - big homes along the water and summer cottages along the bay. However, as with the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, I am always forging ahead, attempting to reach my destination before the natives in the backseat get restless and start complaining about their accommodations. But someday when the HP returns and we are making our way north in a more leisurely fashion, maybe we will stop to see what is happening down the road in Cape Charles or Kiptopeke. We’ll stop and enjoy a meal from the “Healthy Lunch Menu” at the Great Machipongo Clam Shack in Nassawadox. And we’ll get to meet one or two of the people who live in the houses or work in the establishments along sleepy Route 13.

The Kids Are In Love, with The Sound of Music

I know you are supposed to try to expose your children to the arts. If I were a better parent I would take them to museums (and not just the kind where you play with all the stuff). I’d track down a performance of Peter and the Wolf or the concert of some children’s musician. I’d read them classic fairy tales and poetry. But sometimes all that stuff seems like a lot of work and a lot of stress for very little payoff. If you arrive at a concert hall only to discover that your kiddie cannot stand the noise of an orchestra, then you have not only thrown away your ticket money, but also annoyed countless people all in a misguided attempt to introduce him to culture that he probably couldn’t care less about yet. Is it like vegetables, where if you keep pushing it on them they will eventually start to like it? Or is it like touching the stove, where the burn keeps them from ever going near it again?

Now that our three are a bit older and wiser, I decided that maybe we would venture out into the art world and see what happened. Today the kiddies and I attended an on post performance of The Sound of Music. The “on post” part was attractive to me because it meant the tickets would not be too expensive. The proximity of the theater to our house was also important because none of the kids could fall asleep in the 3 minutes it took to drive there.

I had been debating about whether or not to take them from the time I saw the announcement in the local paper. I knew that the girls would love the show, that they would be well-behaved, and that it would likely hold their attention because there were actual children playing the children. What I was not so sure of was how Marty would take the whole experience, and more importantly, what caliber of performer lurks in the on post play house. I also didn’t know how the kiddies would react to the whole fleeing Austria part of the play since as far as they know, the movie ends with Maria and the Captain getting married. I have kept them in the dark partly because I shelter them and partly because the movie is so stinking long just to get to the wedding, I feel it is a good breaking point.

However, since we didn’t have anyone lined up to visit this weekend and since yesterday I exhausted the time consuming running errands and gardening portions of the weekend, I figured I’d better line something up for this afternoon or the kids and I would likely find ourselves at odds. Learning from my past mistakes, I did some extremely careful planning. First, I didn’t tell the kids where we were going until 30 minutes before we were leaving. Second, I didn’t put Marty down for a nap, because I figured if he was tired enough, he could sleep through the first act of the play. After all, he slept through a good deal of the circus a few months ago. Third, I remembered to have the girls go to the bathroom seconds before we left so that they would not have to leave our seats during the show.

Everything on our end went rather smoothly, and we ended up with seats on the aisle, so I knew we could make a hasty exit if we needed to. Unfortunately, the man who took my ticket reservation gave me bad advice and said the theater was going to be so packed I should get there 45 minutes before showtime. Clearly that was not going to happen, but we did get there 25 minutes early, and then the show started at least 15 minutes late. Every time I thought things were about to get underway, another little old lady would shuffle off to the bathroom, and the curtain would be held for another few minutes. The girls were treated to 40 minutes of all the kids around them eating popcorn. I promised them we could get some at halftime (they have seen a lot of sporting events and not so many plays – they weren’t familiar with the word intermission) in another bid to secure their good behavior. Since the room was dim and noisy, Marty immediately went into a defensive slouch and fell asleep on my lap (and turned into a human fireball) 20 minutes before the show started.

But once the show started, everything was great. The performers were shockingly good, professional quality singers (I later had a chance to look at the program and a bunch of the performers were from the nearby Governor’s School for the Arts). Although the play is really long and the theater was sweltering, the girls soldiered through the first act without any complaining or major fidgeting. Marty woke up with about 15 minutes to go in the first act, but he didn’t cry or get noisy. (For a report on intermission, click here). They were much less enthused at the start of the second act, since most of their favorite songs had been sung in the first act, but they eventually got caught up in the action again, probably because most of what goes on in the second act is the stuff from the movie that they’ve never seen.

I have seen many musicals in my life, but most of them were in the theater of my brothers’ high school. When I was in grade school, my aunt took us to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at Ford’s Theater in Washington (which was a bonus because we got to go across the street into the house where they took Lincoln after he was shot). I’m pretty sure the next professional production I saw was Phantom of the Opera in Philadelphia after I was married. While we were in Kentucky, the HP and I saw a few shows in Louisville, one of which was a retrospective of Frank Sinatra songs. I think all the rest were straight plays.

As I look back on that short list of musicals, I feel a little sad, because I love musicals. I love show tunes. Why don’t I go out and see musicals more often? Oh yeah, I have kids now. The HP and I choose our entertainment based on the calendar, not based on what we would really like to see or do. If a babysitter is available, we see what’s playing and pick from those options rather than buying tickets for something we’d love to see and then trying in vain to pin down a babysitter. This sad situation is the reason we saw Road to Perdition in a movie theater even though it violated ever criteria I have for paying to see a movie (including it has to have at least a few lighthearted moments and it has to have a happy ending).

But we should make more of an effort to get to the theater and see plays with the kids and without them. I know lots of people that go to New York to see a show every year, but that never really appealed to me (I love New York as much as the next girl, but I don’t want to go there on a bus). But now that I’ve seen that even a small theater in Virginia can put on a musical with talented singers and musicians (who are working for free) maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the thought of attending a musical in other local venues. Maybe I should check the schedule of that Governor’s High School - I bet they put on musicals too. Even with the human radiator on my lap this afternoon and two other kiddies to keep an eye on, I was still at times transported out of the everyday and into somebody else’s world. I could do with a little transporting now and then, especially after spending so much time worrying about the current events in my world.

The Sound of Music did some time as the girls’ favorite movie, and in fact in inspired Lauren to carry around and talk to an imaginary set of seven children for almost a year. She was always giving us updates on Gretl’s bad behavior, and how the Captain was 100 years old, and how Liesl always eats brownies for breakfast because that’s what Maria told her to do. She hardly ever mentions the seven children anymore, which makes me a little sad to think she is growing up so quickly. However, at one point during the show, Lauren put her hand on my arm and whispered, “Mommy, I was so busy watching the show, I forgot that Aislinn was with us.” I’m sure for a moment she had forgotten that anyone was with her, because she was transported to Austria, and she was marching and singing with the Von Trapp family.