“You got a pair of boots?” the farmer asks me as I shake his hand. It’s early on the last day of summer, and we’re standing next to overflowing bins of apples in the brisk morning air.
“Uh, nope,” I respond.
“Go find a pair and come back. Get ready for some hard work,” he says with a hint of a smile in his eyes.
I’d always wondered if I came from a long line of stout Irish farmers, despite the milky, callus-free hands of a toddler beauty queen and the work ethic of a tree sloth with a trust fund. But getting sent home for real-man footwear pretty much ends that debate. I’m no farmer, at least not yet.
I’m spending the day with Rob Larocque, the owner and boss of Carter Hill Orchard on the outskirts of Concord. I’ve picked my fair share of apples and swilled a lot of cider in my day, so I decide it’s time to go on the other side – to live the day as worker on Rob’s farm – to see apples from the inside out.
I arrive (again), this time wearing boots; Rob’s driving a forklift, moving bins of apples in a line out front of the huge barn. He shuts the engine off and comes over. “Follow me.” We snake past a conveyor belt, a team of people grabbing, bagging, weighing and boxing apples. I follow Rob into a back room. The noise is overwhelming, and he hands me a pair of airport luggage worker headphones, muffling the sound. Rob leads me to a window in the wall where apples tumble down a steel chute, through a washer, into a hopper and up a rubber-spiked conveyor belt. Rob’s pantomiming what he needs me to do, which I’m hoping is not lose my thumbs. He wants me to keep the loose twigs, stems and leaves out of the hopper while controlling the ebb and flow of apples from behind the wall. There are men to my left, but I’m too scared I’ll miss a stick to see what they’re doing. Between the dull roar of the machines, the slippery floor and my fear these apples will never stop, I’m finding it hard to settle into a groove, and asking for a comfy bar stool seems risky. But twenty minutes later the apples stop, the twigs are clean, and I finally figure out what’s going on.
Two men are setting the presses to make cider. My cleaned apples have been pulverized into a foamy, tan-colored goo that one man hoses onto 3x3 slats while the other lays down giants cloths, covering them with wooden pallets. I watch them stack at least ten of these combinations on top of each other while cider drips down. They shift the entire tower underneath an enormous press, and the steel arm spirals downward as the cider flows into a white drum below.
After they finish pressing the cider, I meet Rick Duame. Rick co-owns the cider outfit with Rob, and he gives me a tour of the operation, explaining everything from apple types (“Macs, Galas and Elstars in today’s batch”), to the pasteurization process, and the length of the cider-making season (“twice a week from early September until late March – when the apples run out”). Rick pours me a pint of cider before it’s cooled and pasteurized. “It’s a little tart – you’re tasting the Elstar apples – that was the last kind we used. It’ll change once we blend it.” Now we wait for the 800 or so gallons to finish pasteurizing so we can bottle.
It’s then I learn the second important rule of farming – never stand around like you’re waiting for a bus because there’s always work to be done. Rob sees me loitering and yells, “Make boxes!” He grabs the guy from the cider press. “Paul’s from Jamaica. Paul, this is Tim. He works for you. Tell him to make boxes.”
“OK, mon,” Paul says, handing me a tape gun and a stack of cardboard. I work like a man possessed, determined to show these guys I can do something right. I make at least sixty boxes, Paul stacking them as I finish each one. Just as I near the end, Rob walks over, looks at the boxes and says to all within earshot, “He made them upside down!” Everyone pauses to have a nice laugh as Paul shakes his head. “It’s OK. Don’t worry about it, mon,” he says to me.
Rob stops Rick and points to me, “Upside-down boxes! And what kind of idiot comes to a farm without boots!” Another big laugh. I deserve it all and set my sights on earning back some credit as the cider bottles start rolling.
My job is to take the filled bottles - pints, quarts, half and whole gallon jugs – and pack them into my upside-down boxes. Rob tells me I’ll need to slam the caps onto the bottles, using his open palm to demonstrate. Five minutes into the parade of pints and my hand swells from slapping bottle tops. Fifteen minutes later I’m developing a case of cider shoulder from grabbing and packing, and if I don’t slip on the juice under my feet, I might throw my spine out of line by lifting the gallon jugs onto the pallet. But I keep up.
Rick and Rob yell a non-stop steady stream of menacing encouragement (“Keep it up and you’ll be picking golden delicious all afternoon!”) and selected phrases not suitable for sharing in a community-oriented newspaper. I’m holding my own, and after two straight hours of controlled chaos, we’ve bottled, packed and stored all the cider, and I’m still alive. Rick has me test the finished product, and I taste the blended cider, delicious and smoother than the Elstar-dominated gulp I’d had before.
We eat a quick lunch before Rob introduces me to Laura, another of his employees, for a tutorial in bucket wearing and apple picking. Laura grabs my bucket and shows me the right way to wear it. “Make an X with the straps, pull them over your head and across your shoulders – keep them wide or your back will hurt,” she tells me, showing me how to fold the cloth bottom across the front and fix the straps to the hooks along the sides. Minutes later we’re next to a tree of Mutsu apples – big yellow ones the size of small melons, and Laura tells me how to pick. “Don’t twist – it hurts the tree and the apple. Grab it and turn the apple up from the bottom towards the branch,” she explains.
Laura drops me off in a row of Macintosh trees, and I find Paul and two other men. Paul shows me what to pick and what to avoid. “Take only the red ones, mon,” he says. Desmond, an older man with weathered hands and a woolen cap, watches me pick a few, offering, “This is called spot picking – choose the right ones.” I’m desperate to show them I can do this as I reach up high for a few apples. Desmond adds, “Don’t stretch. This is hard work, mon.” As I fill my bucket, I drop an apple on the ground and lean down to retrieve it. “Leave it where it falls. Don’t pick it up. OK, mon?” Desmond tells me as he returns to his bucket.
I’m slow at the start, trying to remember I’m spot picking and not grabbing everything I see. But as I keep picking and moving in and out of the trees, I find my rhythm. The third man in the group, Winston, is talking in a language that sounds like English but isn’t. I give up trying to figure out what he’s saying. He’s not conversing with anyone and talking so fast it’s like background music as we work. Every once in a while, Desmond or Paul nods, but no one talks except Winston, so we keep picking.
These Jamaicans, I learn between buckets, come to Concord for four months every year. Winston’s been coming to Carter Hill for eight years, Paul for five. Some of them have farmed tobacco outside Hartford, vegetables north of Boston and sugar cane back home in Jamaica. These guys are the pros, and that realization makes me work faster.
The apples never stop - it’s like these trees sprout new fruit the second I turn my back to empty the bucket. We’re still in the same long row of Mac apple trees, our group grown by two more men, one picking and the other moving the bins back and forth with the tractor as we fill them with bucket after bucket.
It’s now after 3 PM, and I’ve been picking for almost four hours, filling and refilling my half-bushel bucket dozens of times. My shoulders and feet ache, and I ask about quitting time. Paul responds, “Six o’clock, mon.” He smiles as my eyes go wide in disbelief. Another three hours of this and I’ll need a super-sized Aleve smoothie with an ibuprofen flavor shot to recover.
On cue, Rob arrives to check on the guys and to take me away. “It looks like you’ve had enough,” he says, my sweat-drenched shirt and punchy gait undermining my confidence in my new-found farming abilities. The truth is I haven’t had enough, and apples will never taste the same to me again.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Zen and the Art of the Mini Golf Marathon
It’s time to say goodbye to summer, and I’m tired of the traditional send-offs. Enough with the melancholy moments on the beach as the late August sun sets, or wistful memories of the “last barbeque” at the neighbor’s house, wondering where all the time went, or even the persistent crawl of my kids’ summer reading tasks meandering towards a Labor Day deadline like a slow-burning fuse. I want to end it with a bang, something I’ll never forget, so I’ll say all my summer goodbyes in a single day.
To do this I devise an ambitious plan – an entire day devoted to miniature golf. My nine year-old daughter joins me on this farewell tour – a 200-mile odyssey taking us from the Lakes Regions to the White Mountains, from Funspot to Chichester, home of “the world’s longest mini golf hole,” to points in between.
Our day starts in Moultonborough, an hour’s drive north from Concord, at the Paradise Falls course. We’re greeted by a warm breeze, tropical music and an empty parking lot. Other than the young woman painting her nails at the counter, we’re the only signs of life here. We pay our $12 and begin.
The holes, with names like Cozumel, Aruba and Antigua, are challenging, and we weave through the course, over blue-dyed streams and gentle waterfalls. My daughter, Maisie, plays the course with concentrated fury. I fall apart at Bermuda, landing twice in the water. Maisie snags a two for par while I struggle for an eight. “Dad, that was like the Bermuda Triangle for you,” she says with a grin. We keep going. Maisie struggles a bit on the 17th, and after watching her fish her ball from the water and retaking a few putts, I ask, “So what’d you shoot?”
“How about you give me a five?” I counted at least twelve, but we’ll never make it if we let a few mulligans come between us. We compromise on a seven, finish the round and leave.
Next is the White Mountain Speedway in Tamworth. No steel drums or soft breeze here - just the relentless whine of go-carts and whirr of traffic speeding by the chain link fence. The course has real sand, real pin flags and a real attitude on a pre-teen in a muscle tee shirt with the word “Saugus” across the front. “Come ON!” he screams to his family, nudging his little brother as he yells. He’s part of a big group – I count eleven total, and we sneak in front of them on the first tee.
“I don’t like this course so far,” Maisie says under her breath, but you’d never tell by the way she’s playing. She avoids the sand, plays the curves just right, and nails birdie after birdie. The Saugus Eleven is right behind us, a mixture of boredom, competition and mediocre parenting. “Slow Down NOW!” the dad yells as the two brothers finish just behind us. Between my lousy scores, the go-carts and the threat of the Saugus Eleven inviting us home for Thanksgiving, my anxiety level’s rising. But Maisie could care less, and we zip along, finishing in a tie. Then everything falls apart. The two brothers swing golf clubs at each other’s heads while a wounded dog in a cast deposits his business in the picnic area. “This place is kind of sketchy,” my partner comments, and we run to the car as it starts raining.
Pirate’s Cove in North Conway beckons. Nestled in the parking lot of a Comfort Inn on Route 16, Pirate’s Cove boasts two eighteen-hole courses, both of them creative and impressive. We opt for the 36 Hole Challenge (a $23 bargain) and start at the Captain Kidd course. Maisie’s on fire – three holes-in-one in the first nine, and at the turn, she exclaims, “This is the best day of my summer,” ignoring the rain coming down. We finish (Maisie wins by a stroke) and move on to Blackbeard’s Challenge. The course is really something – knife-wielding life-sized pirates lurk in the lagoon as we snake through a cave hidden under the waterfall. “This is real sea water, Dad!” Maisie explains.
We spot a family ahead of us, four daughters and their parents. The dad tries to calm the youngest, who has as much interest in mini golf as she does in molecular biology. The mom has quite a tan, in stark contrast to her husband’s cubicle-white glow. She’s a walking convection oven, her salmon skin exuding a Mars-like hue, and I’m waiting for her to burst into flames. Her children are miserable, but she continues on, her carrot complexion a shining beacon for the cranky mini golf pirate in all of us. The dad works his ghostly magic, and the youngest finishes smiling, waving to her golf ball as it disappears down the 18th hole.
We’ve played four rounds, so we take a quick lunch break followed by a stop at Banana Village, North Conway’s hidden mini golf gem. We’re alone on the jungle tree house course as the rain falls in sheets. It’s fitting we’ve chosen to say goodbye to the wettest summer in recent memory during a total downpour. There’s nowhere to hide, and we keep playing, finishing all eighteen holes in minutes.
We have three courses remaining. I had five more on the list but miscalculated the drive to North Conway, and we’ll be lucky to get these in before the day’s over. Funspot’s next, the Granddaddy of them all. And by “Granddaddy,” I mean chipped paint, weathered obstacles and tattered greens. I remember this course from my childhood, and it’s sad to see it’s been frozen in time, not a drop of fresh paint or a stitch of new Astroturf since Bruce Jenner won gold in short shorts. Funspot’s scorecard still warns, “Please do not slow up game for succeeding players by foolery,” but we’re the only foolery out here in the rain. We ignore the deferred maintenance, hit holes-in-one at Waldo the Whale and both finish with a water-aided six under par!
We dry off by playing a round on Funspot’s indoor nine-hole course. Maisie, like one of Fagin’s minions, finds a free game token at the self-service kiosk, and she wins another free game at the 9th hole. I suggest maybe she leave the token for someone else, in an arcade “pay it forward” kind of way. She stares at me and just shakes her head, pocketing the token.
We drive to another Pirate’s Cove down the road by the Meredith town line, tackling the ups and downs of the course with vigor, finishing the round in record time. “I’m having so much fun today,” she says, bounding down the pirate ship planks from hole to hole.
Now south to Chichester and Chuckster’s, our last stop of the day. It’s dark outside when we arrive, and the course is soaked. A worker pushes a broom while his sidekick lugs a leaf blower, the pair doing its best to clear the standing water off the course. Nothing says “Relaxing Mini Golf Family Fun” like the eardrum-splitting sounds of a teenager cramming a leaf blower nozzle into the cup on the 11th hole as water flies skyward.
Maisie misses an ace on the mega-long hole by a quarter inch, and she grabs her ball and runs back up the hill to try it again, smiling and out of breath. Chuckster’s is crowded for a Sunday night, but we zoom along, nailing par after par.
It’s late, and we’ve been at it for almost twelve hours. Nine rounds of golf – over 300 holes at seven different locations. We can almost feel a chill in the late summer air as we turn in our putters and say goodbye. Summer’s over, and it’s time to hustle home. Besides, Maisie’s got some reading to do.
To do this I devise an ambitious plan – an entire day devoted to miniature golf. My nine year-old daughter joins me on this farewell tour – a 200-mile odyssey taking us from the Lakes Regions to the White Mountains, from Funspot to Chichester, home of “the world’s longest mini golf hole,” to points in between.
Our day starts in Moultonborough, an hour’s drive north from Concord, at the Paradise Falls course. We’re greeted by a warm breeze, tropical music and an empty parking lot. Other than the young woman painting her nails at the counter, we’re the only signs of life here. We pay our $12 and begin.
The holes, with names like Cozumel, Aruba and Antigua, are challenging, and we weave through the course, over blue-dyed streams and gentle waterfalls. My daughter, Maisie, plays the course with concentrated fury. I fall apart at Bermuda, landing twice in the water. Maisie snags a two for par while I struggle for an eight. “Dad, that was like the Bermuda Triangle for you,” she says with a grin. We keep going. Maisie struggles a bit on the 17th, and after watching her fish her ball from the water and retaking a few putts, I ask, “So what’d you shoot?”
“How about you give me a five?” I counted at least twelve, but we’ll never make it if we let a few mulligans come between us. We compromise on a seven, finish the round and leave.
Next is the White Mountain Speedway in Tamworth. No steel drums or soft breeze here - just the relentless whine of go-carts and whirr of traffic speeding by the chain link fence. The course has real sand, real pin flags and a real attitude on a pre-teen in a muscle tee shirt with the word “Saugus” across the front. “Come ON!” he screams to his family, nudging his little brother as he yells. He’s part of a big group – I count eleven total, and we sneak in front of them on the first tee.
“I don’t like this course so far,” Maisie says under her breath, but you’d never tell by the way she’s playing. She avoids the sand, plays the curves just right, and nails birdie after birdie. The Saugus Eleven is right behind us, a mixture of boredom, competition and mediocre parenting. “Slow Down NOW!” the dad yells as the two brothers finish just behind us. Between my lousy scores, the go-carts and the threat of the Saugus Eleven inviting us home for Thanksgiving, my anxiety level’s rising. But Maisie could care less, and we zip along, finishing in a tie. Then everything falls apart. The two brothers swing golf clubs at each other’s heads while a wounded dog in a cast deposits his business in the picnic area. “This place is kind of sketchy,” my partner comments, and we run to the car as it starts raining.
Pirate’s Cove in North Conway beckons. Nestled in the parking lot of a Comfort Inn on Route 16, Pirate’s Cove boasts two eighteen-hole courses, both of them creative and impressive. We opt for the 36 Hole Challenge (a $23 bargain) and start at the Captain Kidd course. Maisie’s on fire – three holes-in-one in the first nine, and at the turn, she exclaims, “This is the best day of my summer,” ignoring the rain coming down. We finish (Maisie wins by a stroke) and move on to Blackbeard’s Challenge. The course is really something – knife-wielding life-sized pirates lurk in the lagoon as we snake through a cave hidden under the waterfall. “This is real sea water, Dad!” Maisie explains.
We spot a family ahead of us, four daughters and their parents. The dad tries to calm the youngest, who has as much interest in mini golf as she does in molecular biology. The mom has quite a tan, in stark contrast to her husband’s cubicle-white glow. She’s a walking convection oven, her salmon skin exuding a Mars-like hue, and I’m waiting for her to burst into flames. Her children are miserable, but she continues on, her carrot complexion a shining beacon for the cranky mini golf pirate in all of us. The dad works his ghostly magic, and the youngest finishes smiling, waving to her golf ball as it disappears down the 18th hole.
We’ve played four rounds, so we take a quick lunch break followed by a stop at Banana Village, North Conway’s hidden mini golf gem. We’re alone on the jungle tree house course as the rain falls in sheets. It’s fitting we’ve chosen to say goodbye to the wettest summer in recent memory during a total downpour. There’s nowhere to hide, and we keep playing, finishing all eighteen holes in minutes.
We have three courses remaining. I had five more on the list but miscalculated the drive to North Conway, and we’ll be lucky to get these in before the day’s over. Funspot’s next, the Granddaddy of them all. And by “Granddaddy,” I mean chipped paint, weathered obstacles and tattered greens. I remember this course from my childhood, and it’s sad to see it’s been frozen in time, not a drop of fresh paint or a stitch of new Astroturf since Bruce Jenner won gold in short shorts. Funspot’s scorecard still warns, “Please do not slow up game for succeeding players by foolery,” but we’re the only foolery out here in the rain. We ignore the deferred maintenance, hit holes-in-one at Waldo the Whale and both finish with a water-aided six under par!
We dry off by playing a round on Funspot’s indoor nine-hole course. Maisie, like one of Fagin’s minions, finds a free game token at the self-service kiosk, and she wins another free game at the 9th hole. I suggest maybe she leave the token for someone else, in an arcade “pay it forward” kind of way. She stares at me and just shakes her head, pocketing the token.
We drive to another Pirate’s Cove down the road by the Meredith town line, tackling the ups and downs of the course with vigor, finishing the round in record time. “I’m having so much fun today,” she says, bounding down the pirate ship planks from hole to hole.
Now south to Chichester and Chuckster’s, our last stop of the day. It’s dark outside when we arrive, and the course is soaked. A worker pushes a broom while his sidekick lugs a leaf blower, the pair doing its best to clear the standing water off the course. Nothing says “Relaxing Mini Golf Family Fun” like the eardrum-splitting sounds of a teenager cramming a leaf blower nozzle into the cup on the 11th hole as water flies skyward.
Maisie misses an ace on the mega-long hole by a quarter inch, and she grabs her ball and runs back up the hill to try it again, smiling and out of breath. Chuckster’s is crowded for a Sunday night, but we zoom along, nailing par after par.
It’s late, and we’ve been at it for almost twelve hours. Nine rounds of golf – over 300 holes at seven different locations. We can almost feel a chill in the late summer air as we turn in our putters and say goodbye. Summer’s over, and it’s time to hustle home. Besides, Maisie’s got some reading to do.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Road Trippin'
There’s no better cure for the summertime blues than a road trip - hitting the highways with a destination in mind, plenty of snacks at the ready and many, many miles between where you are and where you want to be. My summertime road trip, like any good story, has a beginning, middle, and an end.
The Beginning
It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday night in Concord. My traveling companion is Sam, my fourteen-year old son, and our destination is Charleston, West Virginia. Sam’s soccer team qualified for a three-day tournament in the Mountaineer state, a good enough reason for a road trip as any, I guess. We need to cover close to 900 miles by Thursday, but true to road trip form, we start with a detour. Tonight’s goal is Baltimore, where the Red Sox play the Orioles tomorrow afternoon. Charm City and the Camden Yards bleachers here we come!
The sun starts to set as we leave our driveway for the six-plus hour drive south. Sam’s under strict orders from his mom to engage in lively conversation to prevent me from dozing off. We chat well into southern Connecticut, covering such topics as “Hidden High School Dangers” (girls, study habits, girls) and “Celtics – Better with Rondo?” We stop for a quick stretch and a snack, and as we return to our car, a man stands by my door, clutching a cellphone, a wallet, a pen and paper. He launches into a breathless explanation about needing $38 for a fan belt, and if I’d just give him the cash, he’d take my address and mail me the money the next day! So simple! I smell a scam and slam the car door with nothing more than, “Sorry pal. Can’t help you.”
Time trickles by, and after five hours, we stop for ice cream in southern Jersey, and I eat a Nutty Buddy while running wind sprints in the parking lot to stay awake. It’s past midnight, and as we cross into Delaware, Sam is asleep. The rain is falling, and I really should stop, but Baltimore beckons. We arrive after 2 AM and head to our room. We walk in, half-asleep and behold not a hotel room, but a magnificent, sprawling suite – living room, dining room, full kitchen, two bathrooms, two bedrooms and what appears to be a room dedicated to a hot tub. We’re too tired to ask questions, and we sleep. Road trips are full of surprises, including getting the entire twenty-first floor for $87 a night! Thank you Baltimore!
Wednesday arrives, and after a lengthy exploration of our digs, we watch the Red Sox rally to tie the game in the ninth and beat the O’s in extra innings, the stands packed with vocal Boston fans. We return to our high-rise palace after dinner, resting up for more road tripping tomorrow.
The Middle
It’s Thursday morning, and we drive towards West Virginia. We listen to the radio, the Christian Ministry of Family on one channel and an expletive-filled rap song on another. We pass a reminder to, “Stay Alert for Maryland’s Wildlife,” and moments later see a five-man crew cleaning up a large dead mammal of some sort. “I think I just saw a dead mountain lion,” Sam says. Road trip irony, for sure.
We’re on Interstate 68 West, past towns like Flintstone, Wolfe Mill, and Friendsville, the landscape filled with sharp vistas and forests that stretch forever. We see a replica of Noah’s Ark (under construction) and sets of immense crosses in clearings. If this isn’t God’s country, the locals are doing their best to make a case for it, that’s for sure.
As we head south on Interstate 79 into West Virginia, Sam is engrossed in a movie, and I listen to music. I pass a rusty pickup truck carrying a dozen old washing machines, and as I speed ahead, one of the washers falls into the road and bounds down the highway, cars swerving to avoid it. Sam doesn’t see a thing and my retelling gets a tepid, “Wow, cool.” It’s sad when runaway lethal appliances elicit no emotion from teenagers.
Billboards now line the highway. We see signs for casinos and gambling addictions; we see advertisements extolling the merits of cash for gold, litigation, coal mining and Tudor’s Biscuit World, and we see lots and lots of billboards for virtuous and not-so virtuous living, the church billboards locked in a one-to-one battle with signs for adult entertainment establishments.
We fly past Morgantown, Big Chimney, Big Otter, and Mink Shoals, the highway cutting right through mountainside after mountainside, until we arrive in Charleston. From here, we’ll spend the next four days shuttling between the soccer fields and the hotel, passing towns with riveting names like Hurricane and Nitro. Imagine having the confidence to name a town after an American Gladiator from the ‘80s? Kudos, West Virginia!
During these hour-long drives to and from the fields, I conclude that for every church-related sign and cross cluster I see, I spy another for a strip club, my favorite a Barboursville establishment enticing drivers to stop in for “Amature Night.” Something tells me they’re looking for dancers when they really need someone who can spell.
We celebrate the 4th of July, our fifth day on the road, at a minor league baseball park in downtown Charleston. The game’s rained out, but we’re the lucky recipients of a Senator Robert Byrd statuette, his enlarged head casting an august visage on the soaked field. Back at the hotel, I find myself alone, outside in the pouring rain, watching a soggy fireworks show in the skies above Charleston. I’m ready to go home, taking Sam and Senator Byrd with me.
The End
My wish is granted, and the steady downpour cancels Sunday’s games, so we leave for Concord, driving straight home. Before we leave West Virginia for good, we stop for gas and snacks. I also snag a case of Yuengling beer, not sold in New England (for reasons I cannot fathom), and as we stand in line, the young man behind the counter says, “Sir? Sir! It’s not 1:00 PM yet. Sir, it’s not 1:00 PM!” I nod, thinking maybe the fella’s bragging about his newfound skill at clock reading, but it turns out no one, no matter how condescending, can purchase alcohol before 1:00 PM on Sundays. I return the beer to the cooler, and Sam gives me a look that says, “Where’s my ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirt when I really need it?”
Our route home takes us through Maryland, up Pennsylvania to New Jersey, then through the Bronx, into Connecticut, Massachusetts, and home to Concord. I think we’ve run out of things to talk about, having covered O’Shea family history, the sinking of the Lusitania and why Plankton is funnier than SpongeBob before we even make it to the outskirts of Harrisburg.
It’s now been almost twelve hours, and we’re punchy. We cram fistfuls of Doritos and Cheetos into our mouths, our fingers and faces stained with the sheen of pretend cheese as we imagine sleeping in our own beds. We barely speak for the last hour, the both of us staring at the road ahead, content in the silence.
We arrive home exhausted, this last leg more than thirteen hours of steady driving. We’ve covered over 2,000 miles, visited nine states, ate more fast food than recommended, snagged a mini senator, and tried to break local Blue Laws. It’s been worth it, but we’re more than happy to be back in Concord. Road tripping is fun, but there’s no place like home.
The Beginning
It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday night in Concord. My traveling companion is Sam, my fourteen-year old son, and our destination is Charleston, West Virginia. Sam’s soccer team qualified for a three-day tournament in the Mountaineer state, a good enough reason for a road trip as any, I guess. We need to cover close to 900 miles by Thursday, but true to road trip form, we start with a detour. Tonight’s goal is Baltimore, where the Red Sox play the Orioles tomorrow afternoon. Charm City and the Camden Yards bleachers here we come!
The sun starts to set as we leave our driveway for the six-plus hour drive south. Sam’s under strict orders from his mom to engage in lively conversation to prevent me from dozing off. We chat well into southern Connecticut, covering such topics as “Hidden High School Dangers” (girls, study habits, girls) and “Celtics – Better with Rondo?” We stop for a quick stretch and a snack, and as we return to our car, a man stands by my door, clutching a cellphone, a wallet, a pen and paper. He launches into a breathless explanation about needing $38 for a fan belt, and if I’d just give him the cash, he’d take my address and mail me the money the next day! So simple! I smell a scam and slam the car door with nothing more than, “Sorry pal. Can’t help you.”
Time trickles by, and after five hours, we stop for ice cream in southern Jersey, and I eat a Nutty Buddy while running wind sprints in the parking lot to stay awake. It’s past midnight, and as we cross into Delaware, Sam is asleep. The rain is falling, and I really should stop, but Baltimore beckons. We arrive after 2 AM and head to our room. We walk in, half-asleep and behold not a hotel room, but a magnificent, sprawling suite – living room, dining room, full kitchen, two bathrooms, two bedrooms and what appears to be a room dedicated to a hot tub. We’re too tired to ask questions, and we sleep. Road trips are full of surprises, including getting the entire twenty-first floor for $87 a night! Thank you Baltimore!
Wednesday arrives, and after a lengthy exploration of our digs, we watch the Red Sox rally to tie the game in the ninth and beat the O’s in extra innings, the stands packed with vocal Boston fans. We return to our high-rise palace after dinner, resting up for more road tripping tomorrow.
The Middle
It’s Thursday morning, and we drive towards West Virginia. We listen to the radio, the Christian Ministry of Family on one channel and an expletive-filled rap song on another. We pass a reminder to, “Stay Alert for Maryland’s Wildlife,” and moments later see a five-man crew cleaning up a large dead mammal of some sort. “I think I just saw a dead mountain lion,” Sam says. Road trip irony, for sure.
We’re on Interstate 68 West, past towns like Flintstone, Wolfe Mill, and Friendsville, the landscape filled with sharp vistas and forests that stretch forever. We see a replica of Noah’s Ark (under construction) and sets of immense crosses in clearings. If this isn’t God’s country, the locals are doing their best to make a case for it, that’s for sure.
As we head south on Interstate 79 into West Virginia, Sam is engrossed in a movie, and I listen to music. I pass a rusty pickup truck carrying a dozen old washing machines, and as I speed ahead, one of the washers falls into the road and bounds down the highway, cars swerving to avoid it. Sam doesn’t see a thing and my retelling gets a tepid, “Wow, cool.” It’s sad when runaway lethal appliances elicit no emotion from teenagers.
Billboards now line the highway. We see signs for casinos and gambling addictions; we see advertisements extolling the merits of cash for gold, litigation, coal mining and Tudor’s Biscuit World, and we see lots and lots of billboards for virtuous and not-so virtuous living, the church billboards locked in a one-to-one battle with signs for adult entertainment establishments.
We fly past Morgantown, Big Chimney, Big Otter, and Mink Shoals, the highway cutting right through mountainside after mountainside, until we arrive in Charleston. From here, we’ll spend the next four days shuttling between the soccer fields and the hotel, passing towns with riveting names like Hurricane and Nitro. Imagine having the confidence to name a town after an American Gladiator from the ‘80s? Kudos, West Virginia!
During these hour-long drives to and from the fields, I conclude that for every church-related sign and cross cluster I see, I spy another for a strip club, my favorite a Barboursville establishment enticing drivers to stop in for “Amature Night.” Something tells me they’re looking for dancers when they really need someone who can spell.
We celebrate the 4th of July, our fifth day on the road, at a minor league baseball park in downtown Charleston. The game’s rained out, but we’re the lucky recipients of a Senator Robert Byrd statuette, his enlarged head casting an august visage on the soaked field. Back at the hotel, I find myself alone, outside in the pouring rain, watching a soggy fireworks show in the skies above Charleston. I’m ready to go home, taking Sam and Senator Byrd with me.
The End
My wish is granted, and the steady downpour cancels Sunday’s games, so we leave for Concord, driving straight home. Before we leave West Virginia for good, we stop for gas and snacks. I also snag a case of Yuengling beer, not sold in New England (for reasons I cannot fathom), and as we stand in line, the young man behind the counter says, “Sir? Sir! It’s not 1:00 PM yet. Sir, it’s not 1:00 PM!” I nod, thinking maybe the fella’s bragging about his newfound skill at clock reading, but it turns out no one, no matter how condescending, can purchase alcohol before 1:00 PM on Sundays. I return the beer to the cooler, and Sam gives me a look that says, “Where’s my ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirt when I really need it?”
Our route home takes us through Maryland, up Pennsylvania to New Jersey, then through the Bronx, into Connecticut, Massachusetts, and home to Concord. I think we’ve run out of things to talk about, having covered O’Shea family history, the sinking of the Lusitania and why Plankton is funnier than SpongeBob before we even make it to the outskirts of Harrisburg.
It’s now been almost twelve hours, and we’re punchy. We cram fistfuls of Doritos and Cheetos into our mouths, our fingers and faces stained with the sheen of pretend cheese as we imagine sleeping in our own beds. We barely speak for the last hour, the both of us staring at the road ahead, content in the silence.
We arrive home exhausted, this last leg more than thirteen hours of steady driving. We’ve covered over 2,000 miles, visited nine states, ate more fast food than recommended, snagged a mini senator, and tried to break local Blue Laws. It’s been worth it, but we’re more than happy to be back in Concord. Road tripping is fun, but there’s no place like home.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I Scream for Ice Cream
Everybody smiles for the Ice Cream Lady. After spending an early summer day riding with Concord’s Ice Cream Lady, I can attest that everyone’s happy to see her – grandparents, babysitters, moms, dads, construction workers, guys in sports cars and on Harleys, cops, crossing guards, and of course kids – lots and lots of kids of every stripe. Gap-toothed, shirtless, wild-eyed, well-dressed, sprinkler-dashing, whiffle ball-playing, timid, bold, polite, rude, skinny, portly and even a little nutty – all of them love the Ice Cream Lady.
Susan Prowell drives a white 1973 Chevy truck outfitted with an enormous freezer, a tinny speaker mounted on the front and, I soon realize, minimal rear suspension. This last part I learn as we pull away from the front of Concord High School to begin our route. This is Susan’s fourth season selling ice cream. “I spent the last three seasons in Londonderry, but this summer, I’m here in Concord,” she explains as we head to White’s Park for our first stop. “We start when the weather gets warm, and we close up around Columbus Day,” Susan tells me, adding, “And I’m out in the truck every day it’s sunny. When the sun shines, I’m selling ice cream.”
After a quick peek in the massive silver freezer – two rows of four hatches each – I figure Susan must sell lots of ice cream. There’s every kind you’d ever want - ice cream sandwiches, bomb pops and bomb pop juniors, chocolate éclairs, strawberry shortcake (bar or sandwich), chipwiches, toasted almond treats, sundaes on a stick, snow cones, ice cream cones and a wide variety of misshapen non-dairy treats vaguely representing cartoon characters if their heads were on sticks and they had bulbous gumballs for eyes.
Ice cream trucks are heard before they’re seen, and as we roll into the new lot at White’s Park, a handful of customers heads towards us, the steady refrain of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” drawing them to the truck like a sugary siren’s seductive song. Susan can play four songs on her speaker, but she’s partial to “The Entertainer.” “‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ drives me crazy!” she tells me as we park the truck.
A teenager in a Weezer tee shirt buys a chocolate éclair for himself and a Tearjerker Bomb Pop for his date. A little boy in a green striped shirt and an intense look in his eyes runs up with his mom. He looks like he’s been waiting since mid October for this moment. Susan asks, “What do you want?” “I want Batman.” Susan explains that it’s the only one she’s out of. “OK, what other one do you want instead of the Batman?” “I want Batman,” he repeats, and he’s staring so hard at the picture menu on the side of the truck that I’m wondering if he’s trying to use his X-ray vision to scan the freezer’s contents for himself. His mom intervenes, and he settles for Spongebob Squarepants for him and his toddler sister.
An older woman – maybe a grandma – approaches with a young girl. The grandma asks for something Susan doesn’t have, and they walk away empty-handed. The little girl looks back over her shoulder, either ready to cry or to find a new, better grandma who knows that a chipwich is just as good as Grammy’s frozen bread pudding any day.
We make a left turn into a cul de sac, and two grown men approach. They’ve covered in sweat, and we can see the building materials in the background, a new home awaiting its finishing touches. The older man – the foreman, I think, saunters up and in a wide grin asks for more details about the Cherry Chill. “Can I drink it? Do I need a spoon? How long will it take to melt?” he wants to know. He buys it and three sodas and heads back to work. You’re really never too old to enjoy a Cherry Chill. Which reminds me - it’s been over an hour and I’ve yet to sample the goods.
Susan motions to the freezer – “Take what you want,” she tells me. I choose a Blue Bunny Vanilla Big Dipper, a pre-scooped ice cream cone lined with chocolate, stuffed with creamy vanilla ice cream and topped with nuts. Every bite is Heaven, pure Heaven. I’m lost in the moment, and when I come around, we’re in a new neighborhood, parked at the corner with a line five people deep. A little boy brandishes a plastic sword and yells “Hi!” to Susan. “He’s not buying any today,” she says, the boy motionless on his lawn, the sword dangling at his side. I watch him as others approach, some with their moms or big sisters, but Susan’s right – no ice cream for the South End Gladiator today. A young mom approaches with her toddler son on her hip. “This is his first time getting ice cream from an ice cream truck,” the mom announces with pride. The boy points to a foot-long ice pop, but his mom selects something more manageable, pays a dollar, and we head off. “Some days I don’t want it to end,” Susan says, and I believe her.
Susan is part saleswoman (“For an extra quarter, you can get two.”), part flavor consultant (“Well, the Two Ball Screwball’s gonna have sort of a sour taste.”) and part debt counselor (“OK, you can pay me what you have there, but next time, ask your mom for another fifty cents, alright?”).
On we go, now towards Fisherville Road. We pull into a side neighborhood and as we slow down, a pack of children and moms approaches, a six year-old boy leading the way. He’s shouting at Susan, pointing down the street. We can’t hear anything, Scott Joplin drowning out the boy’s voice. But Susan follows him in the truck. The boy keeps turning around, pointing at us and then in front of him. We finally catch up at the corner where the boy’s mom tells us he wants us to follow him to his house, so across Fisherville Road we go. This Pint-Sized Moses has led his people to the Promised Land, and others emerge to partake in the fruitful bounty that he’s delivered to their doorsteps, his driveway now the land of frozen milk and honey. Mini Moses bounces back and forth as others choose their ice cream. “Be patient,” his mom says, but he’s full of questions. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Can we still get the Batman? Do you have any Batmans left?” The boy points to another choice. “What’s that taste like? What’s it like?” He settles on a Spiderman, walks away, reemerging a minute later. “Are these Spiderman eyes gum? Are the eyes gum?” Susan assures him they are, and he takes a lick, looks over the dissipating crowd and yells to us, “We’re here every day! Come back!” Susan makes a note of it, and we drive on. As I look through the back window, I see my Pint-sized Ice Cream Prophet wedging the left side of Spiderman’s frozen head into his mouth, doing a little jig of honest joy.
It’s been over four hours since Susan began her shift, and we’re somewhere near Shaker Road in a neighborhood packed with kids and parents. It’s past dinner time and everyone’s outside enjoying the early summer air, this one of the few nights it hasn’t rained in weeks. Kids approach on every corner. “Give me a drumstick with the chocolate chips!” “Yeah! I got a Sour Wower!” “I’ll have two Bomb Pops and a Tongue Splasher!”
A dad, his two kids feasting their eyes on the exhaustive menu, proclaims, “We’re just looking tonight,” and asks Susan a series of questions about the ingredients and whether the ice creams are individually wrapped. I’m tempted to tell him that window shopping at an ice cream truck is like eating a meatless hot dog at Fenway Park. What in God’s name is the point? But Susan is the model of customer service, answering all his inane queries with grace, ending with a smile and a promise to stop here again tomorrow.
I’ve been in the truck for almost five hours and am getting a little punchy. Susan lets me take over the sales pitch, and as a group of kids approaches, I announce, “We just ran out of ice cream, but we have lots of broccoli and yams.” Not a single smile. Susan jumps in and reassures the kids we’re flush with treats, and as they reach the front of the line, each kid gives me the stink eye. Ice cream is no joking matter. Just before we hit the highway to head back home, I reflect on what I’ve seen - dozens and dozens of smiling, happy kids and parents, every one of them thrilled the Ice Cream Lady stopped by for a visit. So next time you hear “The Entertainer,” keep an eye out for Susan and her white Chevy. Have your money ready because it’s worth every penny. Just remember to smile.
Susan Prowell drives a white 1973 Chevy truck outfitted with an enormous freezer, a tinny speaker mounted on the front and, I soon realize, minimal rear suspension. This last part I learn as we pull away from the front of Concord High School to begin our route. This is Susan’s fourth season selling ice cream. “I spent the last three seasons in Londonderry, but this summer, I’m here in Concord,” she explains as we head to White’s Park for our first stop. “We start when the weather gets warm, and we close up around Columbus Day,” Susan tells me, adding, “And I’m out in the truck every day it’s sunny. When the sun shines, I’m selling ice cream.”
After a quick peek in the massive silver freezer – two rows of four hatches each – I figure Susan must sell lots of ice cream. There’s every kind you’d ever want - ice cream sandwiches, bomb pops and bomb pop juniors, chocolate éclairs, strawberry shortcake (bar or sandwich), chipwiches, toasted almond treats, sundaes on a stick, snow cones, ice cream cones and a wide variety of misshapen non-dairy treats vaguely representing cartoon characters if their heads were on sticks and they had bulbous gumballs for eyes.
Ice cream trucks are heard before they’re seen, and as we roll into the new lot at White’s Park, a handful of customers heads towards us, the steady refrain of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” drawing them to the truck like a sugary siren’s seductive song. Susan can play four songs on her speaker, but she’s partial to “The Entertainer.” “‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ drives me crazy!” she tells me as we park the truck.
A teenager in a Weezer tee shirt buys a chocolate éclair for himself and a Tearjerker Bomb Pop for his date. A little boy in a green striped shirt and an intense look in his eyes runs up with his mom. He looks like he’s been waiting since mid October for this moment. Susan asks, “What do you want?” “I want Batman.” Susan explains that it’s the only one she’s out of. “OK, what other one do you want instead of the Batman?” “I want Batman,” he repeats, and he’s staring so hard at the picture menu on the side of the truck that I’m wondering if he’s trying to use his X-ray vision to scan the freezer’s contents for himself. His mom intervenes, and he settles for Spongebob Squarepants for him and his toddler sister.
An older woman – maybe a grandma – approaches with a young girl. The grandma asks for something Susan doesn’t have, and they walk away empty-handed. The little girl looks back over her shoulder, either ready to cry or to find a new, better grandma who knows that a chipwich is just as good as Grammy’s frozen bread pudding any day.
We make a left turn into a cul de sac, and two grown men approach. They’ve covered in sweat, and we can see the building materials in the background, a new home awaiting its finishing touches. The older man – the foreman, I think, saunters up and in a wide grin asks for more details about the Cherry Chill. “Can I drink it? Do I need a spoon? How long will it take to melt?” he wants to know. He buys it and three sodas and heads back to work. You’re really never too old to enjoy a Cherry Chill. Which reminds me - it’s been over an hour and I’ve yet to sample the goods.
Susan motions to the freezer – “Take what you want,” she tells me. I choose a Blue Bunny Vanilla Big Dipper, a pre-scooped ice cream cone lined with chocolate, stuffed with creamy vanilla ice cream and topped with nuts. Every bite is Heaven, pure Heaven. I’m lost in the moment, and when I come around, we’re in a new neighborhood, parked at the corner with a line five people deep. A little boy brandishes a plastic sword and yells “Hi!” to Susan. “He’s not buying any today,” she says, the boy motionless on his lawn, the sword dangling at his side. I watch him as others approach, some with their moms or big sisters, but Susan’s right – no ice cream for the South End Gladiator today. A young mom approaches with her toddler son on her hip. “This is his first time getting ice cream from an ice cream truck,” the mom announces with pride. The boy points to a foot-long ice pop, but his mom selects something more manageable, pays a dollar, and we head off. “Some days I don’t want it to end,” Susan says, and I believe her.
Susan is part saleswoman (“For an extra quarter, you can get two.”), part flavor consultant (“Well, the Two Ball Screwball’s gonna have sort of a sour taste.”) and part debt counselor (“OK, you can pay me what you have there, but next time, ask your mom for another fifty cents, alright?”).
On we go, now towards Fisherville Road. We pull into a side neighborhood and as we slow down, a pack of children and moms approaches, a six year-old boy leading the way. He’s shouting at Susan, pointing down the street. We can’t hear anything, Scott Joplin drowning out the boy’s voice. But Susan follows him in the truck. The boy keeps turning around, pointing at us and then in front of him. We finally catch up at the corner where the boy’s mom tells us he wants us to follow him to his house, so across Fisherville Road we go. This Pint-Sized Moses has led his people to the Promised Land, and others emerge to partake in the fruitful bounty that he’s delivered to their doorsteps, his driveway now the land of frozen milk and honey. Mini Moses bounces back and forth as others choose their ice cream. “Be patient,” his mom says, but he’s full of questions. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Can we still get the Batman? Do you have any Batmans left?” The boy points to another choice. “What’s that taste like? What’s it like?” He settles on a Spiderman, walks away, reemerging a minute later. “Are these Spiderman eyes gum? Are the eyes gum?” Susan assures him they are, and he takes a lick, looks over the dissipating crowd and yells to us, “We’re here every day! Come back!” Susan makes a note of it, and we drive on. As I look through the back window, I see my Pint-sized Ice Cream Prophet wedging the left side of Spiderman’s frozen head into his mouth, doing a little jig of honest joy.
It’s been over four hours since Susan began her shift, and we’re somewhere near Shaker Road in a neighborhood packed with kids and parents. It’s past dinner time and everyone’s outside enjoying the early summer air, this one of the few nights it hasn’t rained in weeks. Kids approach on every corner. “Give me a drumstick with the chocolate chips!” “Yeah! I got a Sour Wower!” “I’ll have two Bomb Pops and a Tongue Splasher!”
A dad, his two kids feasting their eyes on the exhaustive menu, proclaims, “We’re just looking tonight,” and asks Susan a series of questions about the ingredients and whether the ice creams are individually wrapped. I’m tempted to tell him that window shopping at an ice cream truck is like eating a meatless hot dog at Fenway Park. What in God’s name is the point? But Susan is the model of customer service, answering all his inane queries with grace, ending with a smile and a promise to stop here again tomorrow.
I’ve been in the truck for almost five hours and am getting a little punchy. Susan lets me take over the sales pitch, and as a group of kids approaches, I announce, “We just ran out of ice cream, but we have lots of broccoli and yams.” Not a single smile. Susan jumps in and reassures the kids we’re flush with treats, and as they reach the front of the line, each kid gives me the stink eye. Ice cream is no joking matter. Just before we hit the highway to head back home, I reflect on what I’ve seen - dozens and dozens of smiling, happy kids and parents, every one of them thrilled the Ice Cream Lady stopped by for a visit. So next time you hear “The Entertainer,” keep an eye out for Susan and her white Chevy. Have your money ready because it’s worth every penny. Just remember to smile.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Final Vinyl
This is the last place I’d ever expected to be. I’m standing at the counter of Pitchfork Records, a music store in downtown Concord, with a stack of record albums in my arms. The owner, Michael Cohen, motions for me to set them down, and he starts flipping through my collection. He’s chatting with another customer as he examines each one, tilting the album and sliding it out just so, keeping his hand on the sleeve and off the record’s surface.
It’s taken a lot for me to get here. I’m selling my records for the simple reason that I almost never listen to them anymore. I’ve been carting them around for over twenty five years, and even though my collection’s been thinned over the past two decades through loaning, poaching and subtle family pressure, I still own enough to make me wonder why I cling to stacks of unused vinyl as they gather dust. If someone else will listen, then why not sell what I can?
Still, these records have been a big part of my life, and as I watch Michael scrutinize each one, I feel like the pig farmer taking his beloved pet hogs to the bacon factory. “Be gentle,” I almost whisper, but I remind myself that my thirty-year-old copy of a mediocre Doors album can withstand a scan of its vitals, so I take a deep breath and let the man do his job.
I don’t have to do this – I could hide the records somewhere, stash them away in a trunk or maybe even use one of those services that turns them into bowls and ashtrays. But watching greasy-fingered guests scoop store-bought bean dip from the vinyl grooves of London Calling is like laying down pages from the Book of Psalms in a hamster cage. No – the right thing to do is sell them.
I start by dragging all my albums into the living room. I once had close to 400 records but own less than half that number, all of them now spread out on the rug, couch and table. My plan is simple – keep no more than twenty records and sell the rest. To do this, I start making two piles –Sell and Save.
Immediately, I take my eight Doors albums and place them in the Sell pile. This will be painful, but it needs to be done. Three Grateful Dead records join the Doors. Next is Joe Cocker, with his pugnacious mug screaming out from the album cover. Scream for someone else, Joe - into the Sell pile you go. A moment later, I realize this may get harder as I find Hot Rocks, the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits collection from the ‘60s and early ‘70s. My middle school friends and I would sit for hours listening to this record, and I can’t say goodbye just yet. Hot Rocks is the first record in my Save pile.
I spot Surrealistic Pillow, my lone Jefferson Airplane album. Grace Slick’s friendly smile from the cover makes me pause and consider saving this record from the Sell pile, but I’m quickly reminded of her future complicity in such ghastly efforts as “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and “Sara.” It’s like looking at the Unabomber’s high school graduation photo (cue the narration: “No one knew the terror Slick and her musical goons would inflict on American society years later . . .”). For this reason, Jefferson Airplane goes into the Sell pile. Granted, one fan’s “White Rabbit” is another’s “We Built this City on Rock and Roll,” but not in my record collection.
This is easier than I thought. Creedence Clearwater Revival? Into the Sell pile. Cat Stevens, early U2 and Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell? Sell. I’m now putting handfuls at a time in the Sell stack, and my Save pile is still just one record high. Stevie Wonder? Sell. The Byrds and Steppenwolf? Sell. My three Pretenders albums – sell, sell and sell.
Then I find Billy Joel. Growing up near Billy’s hometown and having an older brother who played the piano meant we listened to a lot of Billy Joel, and, technically, these are my brother’s records, but when Billy married Christy Brinkley and released “Uptown Girl,” my brother’s interest evaporated, and the records stayed with me. Billy goes into the Sell pile. Besides, there’s room for only one marginally talented short guy from Long Island in my house, so he really had to leave.
I make a run through my soul and R&B records – they all go into the Sell pile. Even the promise of James Brown’s “Hot Pants” and “Sex Machine” doesn’t sway me. James joins Jackie Wilson, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, the Four Tops and Sam and Dave. We had a nice run, but it’s time to move on.
But then I stop. I find my Clash albums, and even though I own multiple copies in all other formats (including cassette!), there’s no reason to be rash. Does a ferry boat captain leave extra life preservers on shore because they take up too much space? Never. The Clash goes into the Save pile, joined quickly by the Ramones, Elvis Costello and one of my four Joe Jackson records. And then I hit the mother lode – the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Who and Led Zeppelin. That’s more than twenty five albums right there. Without hesitation, I put them all into the Save pile. And with that gesture, I’m done. Sell outdoes Save by about three to one, and I get ready for tomorrow.
For old time’s sake, I give a few records one last spin, grabbing a George Thorogood record from 1978 to start. By the time “Move it Over” slides into “Who Do You Love” I realize I’ve been too hasty. When George rips into his cover of the Chuck Berry tune, “It Wasn’t Me,” I move George and his Delaware Destroyers into the Save pile. For kicks I put on some Wilson Pickett – ooh, that’s good. “Mustang Sally” is too groovy to sell, and after two songs from the Pretenders, I take all three of their albums and move them, with Wilson Pickett, into the Save pile. That leads me to the Bob Seger album I bought in 1981 at Record World in the Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. As Bob sings about feeling like a number (“I’m not a number – dammit I’m a man!”), I’m almost in tears. When he hits the chorus in “Fire Lake,” I want the charade to end – this hurts too much. Bob Seger is rescued from Sell to Save. The Animals, Bob Marley, Traffic and James Brown are saved as well, and the piles are now even.
But I need to finish this task, and as the morning arrives, just before I head out to Pitchfork to see this through, I take one last record from the Sell pile and put it on. It’s the Best of the Doors. I know every word on this entire album – from “Moonlight Ride” to “Soul Kitchen,” and “Break On Through” to “People are Strange,” and when “Light My Fire” starts, I’m sad – sad about saying goodbye, but to what I’m not sure. I can replace every song with the click of a mouse, but getting rid of these feels like I’m tossing old family photos in the trash. I sit in silence for a few minutes as the song ends, pack up the records and head downtown to Main Street.
About a third of the way through my Sell pile, Michael stops examining the records and looks up at me, oblivious to the somersaults my belly’s turning. “So what do you want for them?” he asks. I have no answer, half-expecting him to scold me with The Byrds Greatest Hits or smack me over the head with the Sam Cooke LP for my careless hocking of quality music, so I just stare back at him.
“How about $18 cash or $22 in store credit?” he says. I take the credit and spend these guilt-laden gains right here at Pitchfork, taking the next fifteen minutes looking for the right addition to my CD collection. I find it and leave, never looking back.
What’s left of my record collection now fits into a single crate, and I’ve accomplished the task of purging myself of things that sat unused. But something’s changed. Just today I pulled out an old Bob Dylan record and listened to it all the way through. If I can find the time, I’m gonna dive into the Beatles albums over the weekend. Who knows? I hear Pitchfork just got a great set of used records – maybe I’ll take a quick trip down there just to check it out – you never know when you might run into old friends.
What to Do with Your Records
1. Sell – Pitchfork Records will give you a dime or two per record, depending on the condition; but leave the Milli Vanilli records at home - reselling lousy music is the definition of bad karma.
2. Burn – options abound to transfer your vinyl collection to digital formats; check out www.teac.com for a host of turntable-to-digital audio possibilities.
3. Scratch – mix your old LPs, two turntables, a microphone and a nickname (“DJ Short Stack”), and you’re an instant DJ! Your old school cuttin’ and scratchin’ will impress family and friends. You might also win a date with Lindsey Lohan.
4. Frame –visit www.albumframes.com and learn how to frame those Journey albums for posterity. Don’t stop believin’ your spouse won’t care when you hang them on the living room wall.
5. Toss – put your old records on the side of the road and hope that lady in the blue minivan will drive by on trash day before the garbage men arrive. If you’re lucky, she may even take the Milli Vanilli box set.
It’s taken a lot for me to get here. I’m selling my records for the simple reason that I almost never listen to them anymore. I’ve been carting them around for over twenty five years, and even though my collection’s been thinned over the past two decades through loaning, poaching and subtle family pressure, I still own enough to make me wonder why I cling to stacks of unused vinyl as they gather dust. If someone else will listen, then why not sell what I can?
Still, these records have been a big part of my life, and as I watch Michael scrutinize each one, I feel like the pig farmer taking his beloved pet hogs to the bacon factory. “Be gentle,” I almost whisper, but I remind myself that my thirty-year-old copy of a mediocre Doors album can withstand a scan of its vitals, so I take a deep breath and let the man do his job.
I don’t have to do this – I could hide the records somewhere, stash them away in a trunk or maybe even use one of those services that turns them into bowls and ashtrays. But watching greasy-fingered guests scoop store-bought bean dip from the vinyl grooves of London Calling is like laying down pages from the Book of Psalms in a hamster cage. No – the right thing to do is sell them.
I start by dragging all my albums into the living room. I once had close to 400 records but own less than half that number, all of them now spread out on the rug, couch and table. My plan is simple – keep no more than twenty records and sell the rest. To do this, I start making two piles –Sell and Save.
Immediately, I take my eight Doors albums and place them in the Sell pile. This will be painful, but it needs to be done. Three Grateful Dead records join the Doors. Next is Joe Cocker, with his pugnacious mug screaming out from the album cover. Scream for someone else, Joe - into the Sell pile you go. A moment later, I realize this may get harder as I find Hot Rocks, the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits collection from the ‘60s and early ‘70s. My middle school friends and I would sit for hours listening to this record, and I can’t say goodbye just yet. Hot Rocks is the first record in my Save pile.
I spot Surrealistic Pillow, my lone Jefferson Airplane album. Grace Slick’s friendly smile from the cover makes me pause and consider saving this record from the Sell pile, but I’m quickly reminded of her future complicity in such ghastly efforts as “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and “Sara.” It’s like looking at the Unabomber’s high school graduation photo (cue the narration: “No one knew the terror Slick and her musical goons would inflict on American society years later . . .”). For this reason, Jefferson Airplane goes into the Sell pile. Granted, one fan’s “White Rabbit” is another’s “We Built this City on Rock and Roll,” but not in my record collection.
This is easier than I thought. Creedence Clearwater Revival? Into the Sell pile. Cat Stevens, early U2 and Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell? Sell. I’m now putting handfuls at a time in the Sell stack, and my Save pile is still just one record high. Stevie Wonder? Sell. The Byrds and Steppenwolf? Sell. My three Pretenders albums – sell, sell and sell.
Then I find Billy Joel. Growing up near Billy’s hometown and having an older brother who played the piano meant we listened to a lot of Billy Joel, and, technically, these are my brother’s records, but when Billy married Christy Brinkley and released “Uptown Girl,” my brother’s interest evaporated, and the records stayed with me. Billy goes into the Sell pile. Besides, there’s room for only one marginally talented short guy from Long Island in my house, so he really had to leave.
I make a run through my soul and R&B records – they all go into the Sell pile. Even the promise of James Brown’s “Hot Pants” and “Sex Machine” doesn’t sway me. James joins Jackie Wilson, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, the Four Tops and Sam and Dave. We had a nice run, but it’s time to move on.
But then I stop. I find my Clash albums, and even though I own multiple copies in all other formats (including cassette!), there’s no reason to be rash. Does a ferry boat captain leave extra life preservers on shore because they take up too much space? Never. The Clash goes into the Save pile, joined quickly by the Ramones, Elvis Costello and one of my four Joe Jackson records. And then I hit the mother lode – the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Who and Led Zeppelin. That’s more than twenty five albums right there. Without hesitation, I put them all into the Save pile. And with that gesture, I’m done. Sell outdoes Save by about three to one, and I get ready for tomorrow.
For old time’s sake, I give a few records one last spin, grabbing a George Thorogood record from 1978 to start. By the time “Move it Over” slides into “Who Do You Love” I realize I’ve been too hasty. When George rips into his cover of the Chuck Berry tune, “It Wasn’t Me,” I move George and his Delaware Destroyers into the Save pile. For kicks I put on some Wilson Pickett – ooh, that’s good. “Mustang Sally” is too groovy to sell, and after two songs from the Pretenders, I take all three of their albums and move them, with Wilson Pickett, into the Save pile. That leads me to the Bob Seger album I bought in 1981 at Record World in the Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. As Bob sings about feeling like a number (“I’m not a number – dammit I’m a man!”), I’m almost in tears. When he hits the chorus in “Fire Lake,” I want the charade to end – this hurts too much. Bob Seger is rescued from Sell to Save. The Animals, Bob Marley, Traffic and James Brown are saved as well, and the piles are now even.
But I need to finish this task, and as the morning arrives, just before I head out to Pitchfork to see this through, I take one last record from the Sell pile and put it on. It’s the Best of the Doors. I know every word on this entire album – from “Moonlight Ride” to “Soul Kitchen,” and “Break On Through” to “People are Strange,” and when “Light My Fire” starts, I’m sad – sad about saying goodbye, but to what I’m not sure. I can replace every song with the click of a mouse, but getting rid of these feels like I’m tossing old family photos in the trash. I sit in silence for a few minutes as the song ends, pack up the records and head downtown to Main Street.
About a third of the way through my Sell pile, Michael stops examining the records and looks up at me, oblivious to the somersaults my belly’s turning. “So what do you want for them?” he asks. I have no answer, half-expecting him to scold me with The Byrds Greatest Hits or smack me over the head with the Sam Cooke LP for my careless hocking of quality music, so I just stare back at him.
“How about $18 cash or $22 in store credit?” he says. I take the credit and spend these guilt-laden gains right here at Pitchfork, taking the next fifteen minutes looking for the right addition to my CD collection. I find it and leave, never looking back.
What’s left of my record collection now fits into a single crate, and I’ve accomplished the task of purging myself of things that sat unused. But something’s changed. Just today I pulled out an old Bob Dylan record and listened to it all the way through. If I can find the time, I’m gonna dive into the Beatles albums over the weekend. Who knows? I hear Pitchfork just got a great set of used records – maybe I’ll take a quick trip down there just to check it out – you never know when you might run into old friends.
What to Do with Your Records
1. Sell – Pitchfork Records will give you a dime or two per record, depending on the condition; but leave the Milli Vanilli records at home - reselling lousy music is the definition of bad karma.
2. Burn – options abound to transfer your vinyl collection to digital formats; check out www.teac.com for a host of turntable-to-digital audio possibilities.
3. Scratch – mix your old LPs, two turntables, a microphone and a nickname (“DJ Short Stack”), and you’re an instant DJ! Your old school cuttin’ and scratchin’ will impress family and friends. You might also win a date with Lindsey Lohan.
4. Frame –visit www.albumframes.com and learn how to frame those Journey albums for posterity. Don’t stop believin’ your spouse won’t care when you hang them on the living room wall.
5. Toss – put your old records on the side of the road and hope that lady in the blue minivan will drive by on trash day before the garbage men arrive. If you’re lucky, she may even take the Milli Vanilli box set.
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