Art for Scouts

I decided to pawn off my week of leading a Cub Scout meeting by kicking off their pursuit of the Artist badge and immediately passing the baton to Jim Mott, a local "celebrity" of sorts and a friend of the hubby.

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He shared his adventures and some of his paintings with the kids. Beautiful scenes -- some painted in our own backyard. (Well, just up the street.) Unbelievable talent. And friendly to boot.

I hope to check out his show at the Mercer Gallery this weekend. Thank you Jim!

Free Range Telephone Poles

How is it possible that I'm back in this office so quickly? Why can't every weekend be filled with fun and candy? Like double cherry pie? Like disco lemonade?

First off, I read a book that the hubby borrowed from the library entitled Year of the Cock: The Remarkable True Account of a Married Man Who Left His Wife and Paid the Price. A total page turner! And by page turner, I mean that you can flip through, without reading, about 100 pages of absolute jibber jabber where this dude is pathologically obsessed with his penis. Constantly standing in front of the mirror, measuring, tugging, etc. and describing it all in exhaustive detail. Thanks but no thanks. While the "cock" reference is perfectly in sync with the Chinese zodiac, I really wish there was a Year of the Douchebag: The Lame but True Account of a Total Dip Shit Who Lost His Mind, Wife, Palms, Young/Hot Girlfriends and Any Sense of Decorum. With all that said, this tale confirms that men with small penises do, in fact, buy Porsches. Ew.

Beyond that, the weekend was filled with taking Son #1 to swimming class and sitting poolside for an additional hour while he played water polo with the other kids, creating cute little Halloween pumpkin crafts (I'm so stinkin' domestic!!), handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters as my ninja and alien boys went door-to-door collecting even more lard-ass-inducing loot, going to church and going on a hike with the Cub Scouts at the Cumming Nature Center where I felt like I was fully immersed in an Audubon painting. Specifically this Hudson River School painting that I stumbled upon but with fewer leaves and more beaver lodges.

What I learned? That prior to the obsolescence of land lines, entire forests were planted to farm telephone poles. And they're breathtaking now.

(Photo from the Finger Lakes Visitors Connection via Ontario County.)

What else I learned? That GPS is completely unreliable. (Note: I already discovered this on my way to D.C. and my way home from Saranac Lake but this time was the worst.) It told me to take a left on a non-existent street. Just trees to the left. Trees to the right. I was also guided deep into a continuous cycle/circle of U-turns. It later led me up a gravel driveway that ended at a house and proceeded to tell me to take a left. My father did that while drunk many years ago and his car wound up in our living room -- so I decided not to follow in his footsteps. I didn't know this family and they might not appreciate it as much as we did at the time.

Anyhoo, nothing says "leadership" and "parenting 101" quite like driving 700 miles an hour on winding, country roads and bellowing expletives while a little scout sits quietly in the backseat occasionally piping in with comments like, "Wow mama! That was a sharp turn!" as he slid sideways. Thank God for seat belts. And for troop meetings that start notoriously late.

All of this leads up to today: Little Monkey's eighth birthday! Stock tip of the week: before the official birthday party next weekend, buy shares of GameStop and all things Tony Hawk. If last night's family party was any indication, there's a whole lot of dollars being invested in these brands.

Once again, happiness prevails.

Ganondagan

I took my little scouts to Ganondagan last night. It's the hilltop site of a former Seneca community that once housed 150 communal longhouses and over 4K people. Today, there lies a reconstructed longhouse in the midst of beautiful, rolling hills with hiking paths through the woods.

Our guide took us into the longhouse and tried to direct our imagination back to life in the 1600s. As we were seated on the bottom bunks that lined the walls of the house and faced the firepits, she talked about how the structure was built out of elm bark, selling pelts to the traders, herbal medicines, marriage between different tribal families, hunting at the age of 12, etc.

My kids were bored, bored, bored. Much akin to our dreaded ride aboard the Sam Patch last summer, our family apparently doesn't like to learn about the area's rich history in our spare time. In retrospect, since most of my childhood was spent in abject fear of my parents foisting another achingly dull museum tour on us (with my dad eternally chiming, "some day you'll regret this," under the misguided assumption that we would one day grow up to be cultural sophisticates), I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. Like mother/like sons.

At the end, a few kids asked questions such as, "It's cold in here. Didn't they suffer from hypothermia?" but after a few minutes of Q&A, one kid finally raised his hand and asked, "Is this thing almost over?" Thankfully, he wasn't one of mine.

Unlike the scouts, I loved it. I could have stayed all night. I wanted to try on the deerskin dress with the fringe and wrap myself in a pelt. I would love to have taken off my shoes and felt the hard, cold soil against my feet. I wanted to light a fire and . . . yeah, okay, I wouldn't know how to cook anything. How did they survive without takeout?

But here's what amazed me the most: the men would walk to places as far away as the Mississippi River to hunt and gather skins to be traded. That's 1500 miles round trip, sans GPS, and they would find their way back to that same, obscure hillside in the middle of nowhere. I would get lost in the woods in two seconds flat-- nevermind trying to figure out which hill, of all the gazillion hills in upstate NY, my family lived on.

Can you hear me now?

Hey Mambo

When I was little, I was into all sorts of performance arts-related stuff that has since fallen by the wayside. I took summer acting classes at Nazareth College, performed in all of our school plays (including an ill-fated production of Gilbert & Sullivan's The Mikado which may explain why I hate musicals today) and took modern dance at the University of Rochester. My first dance classes, however, took place in our town's original, one-room, school house. At the end of one session, we painted sheets and put on an eclectic show for our parents. Our "art work" was later hung in a now-defunct gallery that sat alongside the canal next to the Del Monte Lodge.

Even though it is located less than a mile from our house, I was in the Mile Post School House last night for the first time in over 30 years for a cub scout meeting. It definitely took me back in time. I wanted to clear out the tables, chairs and chalk board and start dancing wildly. Thankfully, my professional sensibility and wraparound, black dress kept me in line.

At the end of the night, we learned that each parent has to conduct one cub scout meeting per year. People were stating their preferences such as, "I'll lead the Webelos Outdoorsman activity." I remained silent knowing that I have pretty much nothing to offer the group until Tommy's dad chimed in, "Hey Mrs. R., you gonna get these kids their M&A badges?"

I drove home while thinking: how did my life come to this?

I just wanna dance.

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da

I sent emails to everyone I know with kids in the Cub Scouts to see if any of the wives were going camping this past weekend. Responses ranged from "you couldn't pay my wife to sleep in a tent" to "no way, I use that night to celebrate the quiet house and drink wine with the other women." But every answer, bar none, said that lots of women go. It's just that no one could name any names.

Sure enough, there were a few women at the campfire -- namely the few that were with me to sign our kids up last week (i.e., all newbies). But alas, in the morning, there were none. They all friggin' left. All but me, that is. Was it because it was less than 40 degrees Faherenheit outside? So cold that it was impossible to sleep? Or was it because men can easily pee on trees and women have to go into a filthy, feces encrusted, stink-hole of a wooden shelter to go to the bathroom? Maybe it was because even after the kids went to bed, a few of the men stayed by the fire and sang campfire songs thereby rendering sleep impossible. Perhaps it was the thousands of geese that, unbeknown(st) to me beforehand, squawk all night long. Apparently it's just roosters and other little birds that awaken at dawn. Geese are partiers man.

The whole scene was surreal. Our tents were pitched in the forest. With the darkness and smoke, the experience took on a bit of a Lord of the Rings mystic quality. Missing: One Viggo Mortensen.

Dinner, on the other hand, was a culinary smackdown. Each kid placed whatever he wanted in a tinfoil pouch (e.g., hamburger, potatoes, mushrooms, corn, onions, taco seasoning), folded the ends and placed the pouch on the fire. Voila! A fully cooked meal with a minimal effort and a whole lotta fun.

I think the best part for the kids, in addition to being with their friends, was playing on a giant tree that had fallen in a storm. Its upended roots alone stretched a good 12' in the air so there was plenty of climbing to be done.

Ah well. Chalk the weekend up to yet another new, kid-related experience. Happy ever after in the marketplace . . . la la how the life goes on.

Under where?

Along with traditional necessities (e.g., sleeping bag, insect repellent), the list of items to pack for this weekend's Cub Scout camp out includes "Spair Socks & Underware." One item missing from the list: a tent. Hmmm.

My favorite part, however, is the list of what NOT to bring:
• Bows & Arrows
• Sheath Knives
• Axes, Hatchets or Mauls
• Stoves or Liquid Fuel
• Fireworks
• Drugs or Alcohol

Oh well. I guess I'll have to wait until next weekend for the crystal meth-meets-hatchet celebration. Darn 'dem strate laiced skoutz.

Hay-ulp! Hay-ulp!

I brought my two, new, manly recruits to the Cub Scouts meeting last night. Whereas I was expecting order, there was chaos.

Parents: What nights are the meetings for the fourth grade den?
Scout dude: You would have to check with Dave.
Parents: Who is Dave?
Scout dude: He's the den master for fourth grade. He's not here tonight.

Parents: Is there any concern about kids with food allergies during cookouts?
Scout dude: I'm not sure . . . if you let us know ahead of time, I'm sure we could accommodate them with some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Scout dude (reiterating throughout the night): It is strictly prohibited that a scout sleep with any adults other than his parents.
Me (silently after the first utterance): I get it. My kids can't sleep in Tommy's tent regardless of how well we know and trust his dad.
Me (silently after the second): Okay, maybe someone missed the first statement.
Me (silently after the third): Uh, yeah, I think we got it.
Me (silently after the fourth): Dude, you're starting to freak me out . . .

Me: If my husband isn't into this, would it be strange for a mother to join the scouts on the camp out?
Scout dude: Not at all! Just raise your hand when you get there and say, "help!" Somebody will lend you a hand to put up the tent.
Me: You're telling me to play the "chick card"?

Onward to important business. Say, who wants to buy some popcorn??