The end is near. Okay, maybe not next week but it’s coming at some point. And we all have a theory how it’ll go down. Adherents to the world’s faiths - from Catholics to Druids, from Zoroastrians to Methodists, from Jews to Muslims - everyone has a theory, and none paints a rosy picture. If it isn’t fire, then it’s brimstone. If it isn’t forty days of rain then it’s a plague of frogs. And if it isn’t Elvis on Ed Sullivan, it’s definitely Snookie on the Jersey Shore. Between bangs and whimpers, it’s tough to know what to expect. But I’m less interested in how it’ll happen – I need to know how to survive once the dust settles.
If it’s true what Steve Martin once said, that “All of life’s questions are answered in the movies,” then it’s time to turn there for some answers.
I’ve spent the last week immersed in a series of post-apocalyptic movies, learning what to expect once the end arrives, and what to eat, wear and avoid if I make it through. And based on what I’ve seen, the future’s a bummer. Expect it to be filled with desperation, danger and death as well as violence, hunger and Kevin Costner, in either a mailman outfit or with gills behind his ears.
The catalyst for this assignment was last week’s premier of the latest post-apocalypse movie – The Book of Eli. In it, Denzel Washington stares down the forces of evil and illiteracy as he does his part to save civilization.
So as you prep for surviving the end of the world and get ready to embrace whatever the future may hold, give the following some thought. And just remember no matter how bad the future may be, it’ll be lots better than Waterworld.
Revenge of the Bookworms
Film: The Book of Eli (2010)
The Gist: It’s been 30 years since nuclear war destroyed most of civilization; in the war’s aftermath, all books were burned, blamed as the source of discord; no Bibles remain except the one in Eli’s backpack, and he’s walking to the West Coast with it, on instruction from a voice from above. Eli runs into trouble along the way. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Eli, aka, “The Walker,” (Denzel Washington) interrupts his daily Bible reading to dish out doses of righteous justice against those who block his way; handy with a machete, a scatter gun and his fists.
Who to Avoid: Carnegie, a small-town boss with big dreams; he’s one of the few who can read, wants that Bible and will do whatever it takes to get it; sounds like Regis Philbin when agitated.
What We’ll Eat: Cat meat and roasted vulture
What We’ll Wear: Sunglasses and comfortable shoes
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Say goodbye to library late fees and summer reading assignments.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Gun-toting elderly cannibals can be quite hospitable.
Quote to Memorize: “You will be held to account for the things you’ve done.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tips: Bring plenty of cat oil lip balm, sunscreen and a bicycle, because it’s a long way to San Francisco Bay on foot.
Last Gas for a Thousand Miles
Film: The Road Warrior (1981)
The Gist: The world runs out of oil, leading to nuclear war. Bands of roving thugs rule the roads, looking for gasoline. One community with its own refinery is besieged by the bad guys and plans an escape to “paradise” on the coast; all they need is a big truck and a savvy driver with nothing to live for. Max, the Road Warrior, arrives to lend a hand. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Max (Mel Gibson), a former cop, drives a V8 Interceptor, carries an unloaded shotgun, loves his dog and doesn’t want any trouble unless it comes looking for him; when trouble does arrive, Max handles it with stoic aplomb and defensive driving.
Who to Avoid: The Lord Humungous, aka, “The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla,” a muscled Austrian goon who wears an iron mask and studded leather suspenders; gives lengthy speeches over a makeshift sound system while his minions pop wheelies, fornicate, pillage and destroy. Any reference to current governors of western states is purely coincidental.
What We’ll Eat: Canned dog food and snake meat
What We’ll Wear: Street hockey equipment, leather chaps and knitted scarves
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Zero peer pressure to brush our teeth
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Children will have limited verbal skills, hair like the bassist from Motley Crue and can throw boomerangs with amazing accuracy.
Quote to Memorize: “You want to get out of here, you talk to me.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Tuck your hybrid car away until the nuclear fallout subsides; you’ll be the envy of all marauding gangs of murderers until they catch up to you and kill you.
Water, Water Everywhere . . .
Film: Waterworld (1995)
The Gist: Global warming melts the polar ice caps, covering civilization in water. Hundreds of years later, a hearty band of civilized folk is attacked by the Smokers, a rampaging pack of morons who seek the secret map tattooed on a girl’s back that leads to dry land. A mysterious loner, the “Mariner,” wants to be left alone but is forced to save the child and her guardian from certain death. Chaos, bad dialogue and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: The Mariner (Kevin Costner) sails the oceans alone on a super-cool catamaran, minding his own business, until he agrees to help save the girl and her map. He can hold his breath underwater for hours on account of his gilled ears and webbed feet.
Who to Avoid: The Smokers, led by Dennis Hopper in one of the worst displays of over-acting ever captured on film. They row across the ocean in the Exxon Valdez, smoke cigarettes and look for people to kill while firing guns from their jet skis.
What We’ll Eat: Barbequed sea beast blubber, Spam and Jack Daniels
What We’ll Wear: Garbage-accented smocks and form-fitting swim trousers
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Recycling urine into drinking water
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Jet skis are finally cool.
Quote to Memorize: “I’ve sailed farther than most have dreamed.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: First learn how to swim; the gills and webbed feet come later.
Not Without That Baby!
Film: Children of Men (2008)
The Gist: It’s 2027, and not a single child’s been born for almost two decades. Between pandemics, terrorists, concentration camps and the slow but unavoidable demise of the human race, the near future is a miserable place. Theo, the protagonist, gets dragged into the middle of a plan to help the only pregnant woman in the world deliver her baby while avoiding both opportunistic and murderous home-grown terrorists and the anti-immigrant British police state. Chaos, mayhem and anxiety ensue.
The Hero: Theo (Clive Owen) works in the Ministry of Energy, living a dead-end existence, avoiding terrorist bombs and rock-throwing gangs of kids (and that’s just in the first five minutes) until he agrees to help a pregnant girl and her unborn baby escape to safety. His plan to do it for the money falls apart, and Theo finds himself in a world of trouble, armed only with flip flops and a trench coat.
Who to Avoid: You can’t trust anyone in the near future, except for Michael Caine and his catatonic wife. The government offers out at-home suicide kits (“Quietus - You’ll know when the moment is right”) while terrorists fight pitch battles in the streets. But you can still listen to rock and roll and drink wine, so it isn’t all bad.
What We’ll Eat: No one has any time to eat – too busy escaping, fighting or hiding.
What We’ll Wear: Same as today except a lot more wrinkled.
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: With no kids around, we can use foul language all the time.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: The “Pull my finger” trick still gets a laugh.
Quote to Memorize: “The last one to die, please turn out the lights.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Maintain friendship with eccentric older pal who helps you escape once the double-crossing terrorists come for you – and they will come for you.
It’s Mail Time!
Film: The Postman (1997)
The Gist: It’s 2013, about 20 years since nuclear war ravaged America. A loner with a working knowledge of Shakespeare escapes the clutches of a ruthless army and is saved by the skeleton of a postal carrier and his mail truck. The loner becomes the Postman, redeeming American society from the brink of collapse through the regular delivery of the US Mail until the menacing army arrives to exact rough justice. Chaos, mayhem and tearful goodbyes ensue.
The Hero: The Postman (Kevin Costner) has no intention of helping anyone but himself as he tries to survive in the wilderness. But he becomes the center of a popular movement to throw off the yoke of tyranny. Somehow he gets all the credit when his second-in-command does all the work.
Who to Avoid: The Holnist Army with its Law of Eight, led by General Bethlehem, a former copy machine salesman turned megalomaniac, who leads his horse-riding soldiers through the northwest, taking conscripts, housewares and women while hunting down the Postman for stirring up trouble and making fun of his artistic ability.
What We’ll Eat: Vegetables, horse meat and mule stew
What We’ll Wear: What can only be described as “Distressed Comfort Chic”
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Line dancing, bodyfathers and Tom Petty
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Despite the lack of shampoo and conditioner, everyone will have great hair.
Quote to Memorize: “How much mail can a dead postman deliver?” (asked in a rhetorical manner)
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Decline any civil service job offer unless it comes with a life insurance policy and a really fast horse.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Gingerbread Dreams
It Begins
“This is the opposite of a merry Christmas,” my wife says to me as I eat another spoonful of green frosting in anger. I’m trying to build a gingerbread house, and it’s not going well.
“Yeah, dad. You’re like the Grinch,” Maisie, my 10-year old daughter adds from across the kitchen. Me? Anti-Christmas? Grinch-like? Wait a second - I’m the one who decided to make this gingerbread house from scratch in the first place – the guy who found the recipe, bought the ingredients, baked the gingerbread, made the icing, designed the scene and even agreed to listen to Christmas carols while I worked. I should get a congratulatory phone call from Pater Noel himself for this effort, but the two women in my life make it clear I’m no St. Nick. My whiny petulance isn’t helping.
“This whole this is stupid,” I mutter as I eat more frosting, my teeth now an unnatural shade of green.
It began so innocently. I accepted the challenge to build an elaborate gingerbread house as a way to embrace the holiday season- to breathe in the coconut dust, cream of tartar and ground ginger like they were gentle whispers from the North Pole, but instead I’ve got Canada mints in my teeth, red licorice in my hair and a structure in front of me that looks like it’s been sitting on the San Andreas Fault. To top it off, I’ll be judged on this effort by non-family members.
I may have made a mistake a week or so back, taking my wife’s suggestion to ask the Fru-Gals, those witty, talented recipe mavens from the Monitor’s Wednesday pages, to join forces with me in a gingerbread house building circle of columnists holiday celebration. But it quickly became a winner-take-all contest to see who could build the better gingerbread house. What started out as a “Laverne and Shirley drink milk and Pepsi with Fonzie” kind of thing devolved into a Battle of the Network Stars showdown, and I’m Gabe Kaplan running for my life from Robert Conrad because I made fun of the battery on his shoulder.
A nice, heartwarming tale of friendship and learning morphed into a ruthless competition of May the Best House Win, and I fear things won’t end well for me. But I refuse to quit. I can do this. I can build a winning gingerbread house.
The Design
For starters, I head online to find that one perfect design, perusing plans for everything from wee cottages to entire villages, from luxury homes with names like “The Winchester” and “Kensington Manor,” to rustic bird houses of more humble origins. I first settle on “Barn with Silo Gingerbread House” – an understated yet traditional plan. But I dig a little deeper and search for “gingerbread outhouse,” just for kicks. And there it is - detailed instruction for an outhouse, or what’s officially known as a “1939 US Forest Service One Hole Leaching Pit Privy.” And any set of instructions that includes the phrase, “Warm and soften one stick of gum by carrying it your pocket, or if you’re female, by placing it in your brassier” is a keeper. I’m making an outhouse.
Man vs. Mixer
My friend Kim loans me her industrial-sized mixer, and after the first of three trips to the market, I get to work on making the gingerbread dough. I choose a recipe for “construction-grade” building materials and refer often to a list of tips a local gingerbread guru shares with me (name to be revealed when I win). Sure, it’ll be edible once I’m done, but road kill is edible too, but I’m not sure I’d take a bite.
I’m learning that industrial mixers don’t care if your hand’s in the bowl – they will continue to rotate regardless. The dough isn’t cooperating, and the more I try to time the rotations and jab in a spatula to coax the dough into behaving, the more I wish I’d chosen poinsettia farming for this month’s column, my knuckles rapped in regular intervals and my blood pressure rising.
“Are you sweating?” my wife asks as she walks into the kitchen. She doesn’t wait for an answer as I mop my flour-covered brow. I finish the dough, two huge bricks of it, and put it in the fridge for a few days as I work out my design. By this point, the smell of gingerbread is vaguely nauseating, like the morning after an elfin frat house bender.
Measure Once, Cut Twice
I’ve decided to make matching his and hers outhouses, in homage to a simpler time when men were men and industrial mixers were something you wore your dancing shoes to. I’m reminded of what I’ve gotten myself into when I see my friend Steve at the gas station. He’s dressed in full camouflage, filling red gas cans for his four-wheeler. He’s spending the day in the woods building tree stands for deer hunting. “So what are you up to today?” Steve asks me.
“Um, uh, building a gingerbread house,” I respond. Steve doesn’t guffaw or slap me in the head with a deer hoof, but as he drives away, I’m sure he’s thinking, “That guy’s got rocks in his head.”
Maybe a few rocks, but definitely not much patience. Back at home I cut out patterns and bake them for my matching privy huts, learning that uneven dough, dull knives and hyperventilation are a recipe for misshapen results.
Decoration Day
It’s Decoration Day, and I’m up early, determined to start and finish planning, constructing and decorating my design. My daughter’s agreed to help. The two of us are two peas in an impatient pod, so this should be entertaining for anyone within earshot. “Maisie, wait – we’ll do the icing in a second.” “Stop – put that knife down – wait for me.” “If you keep eating the licorice, you’ll feel sick.” This one-way discussion lasts for a good hour before Maisie announces she needs a break. I’ve been getting everything ready all morning, and between making the royal icing to rolling out the fondant to debating whether marshmallows or coconut makes better snow, I haven’t figured out how to make the most of Maisie’s talents. We settle on Christmas trees – upside-down ice cream cones covered with green icing flowers. After fifteen minutes of wrestling with the decorating tip and a bag filled with half a pound of green frosting, I can feel the frustration rising. “Dad, are you done yet? I want to get started,” Maisie asks. I hand her the sugar-filled plastic bag, and she gets to work. My wife just shakes her head.
Meanwhile, the royal icing’s leaking all over the floor behind me as the walls of the first outhouse dry, cans of Spam and kidney beans holding them in place. But slowly, as Maisie makes her forest, the outhouses take shape, complete with white toilet seats and rolls of cottony-looking toilet paper. Maisie adds mini stars to the trees and a snowman, and our scene comes together. As the doors go up (star for the man’s outhouse and half-moon for the woman’s), I’m starting to think I’m getting the hang of this. I add a fondant pond dyed a swirling shade of blue with a “Thin Ice” sign for good measure, surrounded by shoveled coconut snow. The ventilation pipes on the outhouse roofs add a nice touch, and Maisie’s snowman wears a Smarties fez atop his fondant head.
Drafty Dreams
But there’s still so much to do. Maisie’s wandered off, the icing continues to drip and stick to everything, and my second outhouse looks like it’s one snowman stink eye away from crashing down into a barely edible heap. And if I hear George Michael sing one more verse of “Last Christmas,” I may escape by downing the remaining pint of royal icing and lapsing into a sugar coma.
As the afternoon lingers, I try an ambitious design approach. I’ve covered one of the outhouses entirely in white fondant, that smooth, elastic coating you see on fancy cakes. I wanted to glue red licorice in a candy cane pattern to the fondant, but gravity works against me. So I use red frosting, but that looks even worse. I then paint red lines with concentrated red food dye, but my lines are less than parallel. I finally just coat the entire outhouse blood red, like something out of The Shining. I cover the rest of the scene in coconut and icing, adding a sprinkle of glittery dust for that just snowed-upon look.
It’s close to 9 PM, and I’m out of supplies, time and interest. I’ve spent more than twelve hours on this project and plan on never eating gingerbread again. My back’s killing me, and my fingers are stained blue, red and green and covered in glitter. It’s time put the icing down and go to bed where visions of drafty outhouses will dance in my head. Next year, I’m going deer hunting with Steve.
“This is the opposite of a merry Christmas,” my wife says to me as I eat another spoonful of green frosting in anger. I’m trying to build a gingerbread house, and it’s not going well.
“Yeah, dad. You’re like the Grinch,” Maisie, my 10-year old daughter adds from across the kitchen. Me? Anti-Christmas? Grinch-like? Wait a second - I’m the one who decided to make this gingerbread house from scratch in the first place – the guy who found the recipe, bought the ingredients, baked the gingerbread, made the icing, designed the scene and even agreed to listen to Christmas carols while I worked. I should get a congratulatory phone call from Pater Noel himself for this effort, but the two women in my life make it clear I’m no St. Nick. My whiny petulance isn’t helping.
“This whole this is stupid,” I mutter as I eat more frosting, my teeth now an unnatural shade of green.
It began so innocently. I accepted the challenge to build an elaborate gingerbread house as a way to embrace the holiday season- to breathe in the coconut dust, cream of tartar and ground ginger like they were gentle whispers from the North Pole, but instead I’ve got Canada mints in my teeth, red licorice in my hair and a structure in front of me that looks like it’s been sitting on the San Andreas Fault. To top it off, I’ll be judged on this effort by non-family members.
I may have made a mistake a week or so back, taking my wife’s suggestion to ask the Fru-Gals, those witty, talented recipe mavens from the Monitor’s Wednesday pages, to join forces with me in a gingerbread house building circle of columnists holiday celebration. But it quickly became a winner-take-all contest to see who could build the better gingerbread house. What started out as a “Laverne and Shirley drink milk and Pepsi with Fonzie” kind of thing devolved into a Battle of the Network Stars showdown, and I’m Gabe Kaplan running for my life from Robert Conrad because I made fun of the battery on his shoulder.
A nice, heartwarming tale of friendship and learning morphed into a ruthless competition of May the Best House Win, and I fear things won’t end well for me. But I refuse to quit. I can do this. I can build a winning gingerbread house.
The Design
For starters, I head online to find that one perfect design, perusing plans for everything from wee cottages to entire villages, from luxury homes with names like “The Winchester” and “Kensington Manor,” to rustic bird houses of more humble origins. I first settle on “Barn with Silo Gingerbread House” – an understated yet traditional plan. But I dig a little deeper and search for “gingerbread outhouse,” just for kicks. And there it is - detailed instruction for an outhouse, or what’s officially known as a “1939 US Forest Service One Hole Leaching Pit Privy.” And any set of instructions that includes the phrase, “Warm and soften one stick of gum by carrying it your pocket, or if you’re female, by placing it in your brassier” is a keeper. I’m making an outhouse.
Man vs. Mixer
My friend Kim loans me her industrial-sized mixer, and after the first of three trips to the market, I get to work on making the gingerbread dough. I choose a recipe for “construction-grade” building materials and refer often to a list of tips a local gingerbread guru shares with me (name to be revealed when I win). Sure, it’ll be edible once I’m done, but road kill is edible too, but I’m not sure I’d take a bite.
I’m learning that industrial mixers don’t care if your hand’s in the bowl – they will continue to rotate regardless. The dough isn’t cooperating, and the more I try to time the rotations and jab in a spatula to coax the dough into behaving, the more I wish I’d chosen poinsettia farming for this month’s column, my knuckles rapped in regular intervals and my blood pressure rising.
“Are you sweating?” my wife asks as she walks into the kitchen. She doesn’t wait for an answer as I mop my flour-covered brow. I finish the dough, two huge bricks of it, and put it in the fridge for a few days as I work out my design. By this point, the smell of gingerbread is vaguely nauseating, like the morning after an elfin frat house bender.
Measure Once, Cut Twice
I’ve decided to make matching his and hers outhouses, in homage to a simpler time when men were men and industrial mixers were something you wore your dancing shoes to. I’m reminded of what I’ve gotten myself into when I see my friend Steve at the gas station. He’s dressed in full camouflage, filling red gas cans for his four-wheeler. He’s spending the day in the woods building tree stands for deer hunting. “So what are you up to today?” Steve asks me.
“Um, uh, building a gingerbread house,” I respond. Steve doesn’t guffaw or slap me in the head with a deer hoof, but as he drives away, I’m sure he’s thinking, “That guy’s got rocks in his head.”
Maybe a few rocks, but definitely not much patience. Back at home I cut out patterns and bake them for my matching privy huts, learning that uneven dough, dull knives and hyperventilation are a recipe for misshapen results.
Decoration Day
It’s Decoration Day, and I’m up early, determined to start and finish planning, constructing and decorating my design. My daughter’s agreed to help. The two of us are two peas in an impatient pod, so this should be entertaining for anyone within earshot. “Maisie, wait – we’ll do the icing in a second.” “Stop – put that knife down – wait for me.” “If you keep eating the licorice, you’ll feel sick.” This one-way discussion lasts for a good hour before Maisie announces she needs a break. I’ve been getting everything ready all morning, and between making the royal icing to rolling out the fondant to debating whether marshmallows or coconut makes better snow, I haven’t figured out how to make the most of Maisie’s talents. We settle on Christmas trees – upside-down ice cream cones covered with green icing flowers. After fifteen minutes of wrestling with the decorating tip and a bag filled with half a pound of green frosting, I can feel the frustration rising. “Dad, are you done yet? I want to get started,” Maisie asks. I hand her the sugar-filled plastic bag, and she gets to work. My wife just shakes her head.
Meanwhile, the royal icing’s leaking all over the floor behind me as the walls of the first outhouse dry, cans of Spam and kidney beans holding them in place. But slowly, as Maisie makes her forest, the outhouses take shape, complete with white toilet seats and rolls of cottony-looking toilet paper. Maisie adds mini stars to the trees and a snowman, and our scene comes together. As the doors go up (star for the man’s outhouse and half-moon for the woman’s), I’m starting to think I’m getting the hang of this. I add a fondant pond dyed a swirling shade of blue with a “Thin Ice” sign for good measure, surrounded by shoveled coconut snow. The ventilation pipes on the outhouse roofs add a nice touch, and Maisie’s snowman wears a Smarties fez atop his fondant head.
Drafty Dreams
But there’s still so much to do. Maisie’s wandered off, the icing continues to drip and stick to everything, and my second outhouse looks like it’s one snowman stink eye away from crashing down into a barely edible heap. And if I hear George Michael sing one more verse of “Last Christmas,” I may escape by downing the remaining pint of royal icing and lapsing into a sugar coma.
As the afternoon lingers, I try an ambitious design approach. I’ve covered one of the outhouses entirely in white fondant, that smooth, elastic coating you see on fancy cakes. I wanted to glue red licorice in a candy cane pattern to the fondant, but gravity works against me. So I use red frosting, but that looks even worse. I then paint red lines with concentrated red food dye, but my lines are less than parallel. I finally just coat the entire outhouse blood red, like something out of The Shining. I cover the rest of the scene in coconut and icing, adding a sprinkle of glittery dust for that just snowed-upon look.
It’s close to 9 PM, and I’m out of supplies, time and interest. I’ve spent more than twelve hours on this project and plan on never eating gingerbread again. My back’s killing me, and my fingers are stained blue, red and green and covered in glitter. It’s time put the icing down and go to bed where visions of drafty outhouses will dance in my head. Next year, I’m going deer hunting with Steve.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
I Survived Black Friday . . .
Black Friday, America’s de facto shopping holiday, falls every year on the day after Thanksgiving. I’d thought about participating but never did, held back by pride and the lack of both patience and money. But this year I couldn’t resist the lure of great deals any longer. So I joined in a strict observance of Black Friday. This is my story.
Thursday
10 AM – The morning paper arrives with thirty-plus store flyers crammed with Black Friday deals – from Bon Ton’s ruffled handbag collection to brand-name laptops at Best Buy to $49.99 quilting sets at Jo-Ann Fabric to dirt-cheap sweaters at Old Navy’s “Gobble Palooza” event. The Burlington Coat Factory offers reasonably priced “bubble jackets” for the whole family – the photo depicts a nuclear family smiling like Chinese factory workers during a party official’s visit, except for the dog, who wears a bubble jacket and a distracted frown. His jacket may say, “Black Friday savings!” but his smile says, “Looking forward to biting the animal wrangler who stapled me into this coat.”
11:30 AM – I reread the flyers, working out my strategy. I notice the fine print and see phrases like, “Five per store,” and “No rain checks.” Rain checks are for baseball games – what does this all mean?
5:30 PM – The week’s news stories are filled with warnings about Black Friday. “How to Survive Black Friday” is a popular headline (stop, drop and roll, I suspect) as is “Black Friday’s Dirty Secrets.” The unfortunate word choice of “Door Busters,” used to describe the best deals imaginable, isn’t lost on me. A Long Island Wal-Mart worker was killed on Black Friday 2008 when a crowd couldn’t wait any longer, burst past the doors and trampled the young man to death. I might pin my home address and blood type to my own bubble jacket in case things go awry.
6:00 PM - My 14-year old son Sam agrees to join me. He’s faster and stronger and pines openly for a new video game, assuming it’ll be his reward for joining me. “We’ll get it at Best Buy on sale,” he announces. We agree to start the night at the Tanger Outlet mall in Tilton, twenty minutes north and end our excursion at Best Buy in Concord.
11:20 PM – A lone spotlight scans the night sky over Tilton as we park and head towards the mall. There are so many people here that it’s unnerving. The mood isn’t what I’d call “festive,” despite the quartet playing Christmas carols on their flutes and horns. Scores of people walk the concourse, some standing in lines dozens deep, waiting for stores to open. I meet my sister and her friend, and we part ways immediately. There’s no time for family on Black Friday, unless a loan is necessary.
11:35 PM – Standing in the middle of the Nike outlet, we try on jackets, pullovers and shirts. Sam grabs a bag of socks with the word,”Irregular” on it. Pirates would have loved this place.
11:50 PM – Lines outside stores like J Crew, Ralph Lauren and The Gap are growing. The sidewalks teem with shoppers, none of whom seems to want to be here, especially the two toddlers in a dual stroller whose mom wedges them through the crowd. I’ve seen better parenting choices but keep it to myself and run to find Sam, who’s in Banana Republic, looking for a jacket for his mom. The store’s a whirlwind of frenzied shopping. Everything in the store is 50% off tonight, and you’d think a lifetime of free healthcare’s included with every flat-front khaki trouser sold because people are giddy, their arms filled. We learn the jacket (“with toggle buttons”) was gone weeks ago and leave empty-handed. Besides, how many cowl-neck safari picnic jackets with matching print scarves can one person buy in a night?
Friday
12:09 AM – Sale prices at Brooks Brothers are like cute girls at Sci Fi conventions – they exist only in rumor. You always end up alone with a $70 pink seersucker bathing suit on sale for $65.60, just like the last time. “Can we please leave this place?” Sam begs. We watch shoppers file into the Yankee Candle store. Every elementary school teacher from Meredith to Hollis must be getting one this year – people caress huge candle buckets as they lurch outside, no hint of a smile or a sense of relief on their faces. A teenage girl in her pajamas and slippers shuffles past holding her boyfriend’s hand, heading for the monster line outside Starbucks.
12:40 AM – The mood on the sidewalk isn’t improving. An angry woman cuts us off as she runs into Casual Male XL. I’d be grumpy too if my casually extra-large spouse sent me to Tilton in the middle of the night to find him a new formal muumuu and matching compression stockings.
12:48 AM - People look anxious, almost panicked, like when Gamera appeared in the night sky over Tokyo. I’d welcome an enormous prehistoric sea turtle rising up in the sky over J Crew, scattering the waiting crowds with a shriek and a blast from his fire-breathing snout. “This is kinda scary,” Sam says, and we head for the car.
12:53 AM – We reject the idea of sleep tonight and instead sit down for a hot meal. Over plates of eggs, corned beef hash, vanilla cokes and waffles, we sort the store flyers into three piles- YES (Best Buy, Dick’s, Bon Ton), NO (Kohl’s, JC Penney,) and MAYBE (Wal-Mart, Toys R Us, Sears and Michael’s Crafts). It’s barely past 1 AM, and as the diner fills to capacity, we decide to head to Concord and whatever awaits us.
1:40 AM – After midnight, the line between Wanting and Needing gets blurry. “You want a nice TV, and the sales are so good, so you really need it,” Sam suggests. “And I need Call of Duty, definitely.” A few days earlier, when I told my wife about Target’s Doorbuster Special – a flat screen TV for less than $300, her response was similar. “I want that TV – no, I NEED that TV.” Wanting and needing have always meant the same thing to me late in the night’s wee small hours. Tonight must be no different.
2:10 AM – The line inside Toys R Us is either free market capitalism at its best or its abject worst. It ends at the registers and snakes back and forth, down every aisle along one wall to the back, across the back wall and begins somewhere along the opposite side, heading back down towards the registers. At least 600 people stand next to shopping carts filled with games, clothes, action figures, horses and books, their eyes a mixture of despondency and gloom. One man has ten board games in his cart - on the top rests game, “Would You Rather,” as in, “Would you rather feed your pancreas to angry hamsters than be in this line much longer.” I bet a few people wish they had a Strangle Me Elmo so they could end it before reaching the checkout line.
2:35 AM – We enter Wal-Mart and wonder if this is like what Woodstock was like before the bands arrived. Groups of people sit on the ground, playing cards or reading books, closed off behind yellow rope, waiting for the 5 AM clarion call to take advantage of sale prices. I wait a half-hour to buy a camera, and we watch the crowds grow and grow. The poor woman waiting on us is in a full sweat, knows very little about these cameras, fending off line cutters and people looking for ammo and candied yams.
2:50 AM – Sam tries to ask me a question but it sounds like he’s talking in his sleep. Two women pass by, and one of them says, “You looking for Wii games? They’re in the Dairy section,” as the other woman accepts this truth without hesitation. Black Friday – a day when everyone should expect $60 video games to be sold next to unsalted butter and strawberry Go-Gurt squeeze tubes.
3:05 AM – Near the Wal-Mart exit, a woman exhales cigarette smoke in my face while yelling into her cell phone, “Seriously? She needs another microwave? That’s wicked stupid.” We keep walking. In the car, we need a moment. Wal-Mart just sucked the life from us. Sam crawls into the back and fashions a bed for himself among the coupons.
3:09 AM – Corned beef hash is never a smart choice.
3:10 AM – Our plans to shop at Best Buy need to change. Doors don’t open for almost two hours, and the line is hundreds of people long. Two tents are pitched near the entrance, and police officers chat with future customers. “I’m not waiting in that,” Sam says, his hopes for a low-priced video game dimming. I ask people how long they’ve been waiting. “Since midnight,” someone yells. “Ten o’clock tonight!” a father and son shout. “I’ve been here since two yesterday afternoon,” one guy tells me as he heads to the port-o-potty. I can’t tell if he’s proud or embarrassed.
3:55 AM – “So if Best Buy won’t work and there are only five TVs at Target - what are you gonna do?” Sam asks. He knows I want a TV – the ones I saw in the flyers – and he won’t let it go. We’re parked near Bon Ton and Sears, and they both open in five minutes. I find the Sears flyer and clarify the want versus need argument, circling the $379 32” LCD TV (only six per store – no rain checks). “Then let’s get in line,” he says, and we do.
4:01 AM – I’m trying not to run, and the woman in front of me is doing me no favors, shuffling along at a non-competitive pace. Where is Sam? I’ll never get there in time – only six per store! Would you please hurry, I want to yell. I find the line but am too far back. Want and Need have converged into “I can’t imagine life without that TV.” Just then, Sam’s head pops out of the line near the front. “We’re all set,” he smiles. He’s right. We get the TV I wanted and needed and head for the door.
4:50 AM – I’m trying to do the math, calculating the savings from my Bon Ton coupons and the offers on the down comforters I’ve been instructed to find. If I did it correctly, Bon Ton owes me $37. But on second thought, I’ve been awake for almost twenty four hours, and math’s never been my strong suit. Put them down and walk away.
5:25 AM – The traffic is so thick that we have to fight to get across the road to Dick’s Sporting Goods. The sales are mediocre at best here, unless I want cold weather hunting bib overalls. Sam’s wandering aimlessly, the energy leaving his body. I’m lost in women’s sportswear, seeking a new top for my wife. I grab one and feel it with my fingers and as I look up, a woman stares at me and walks away. Even on Black Friday, pawing women’s sportswear in public is frowned upon.
5:35 AM – One last attempt at Best Buy, but the line is even longer, and they’re managing the door like bouncers at a discotheque - two come out, two go in. Before we can park, a mom and daughter pair in matching sweat suits and perms cuts us off. They look like they power-walked from the Epsom traffic circle. I don’t have the strength to even honk.
5:45 AM – Target is complete chaos. The line stretches from the cashiers to the absolute back of the store, and we walk the length of it just to see how bad it is. The aisles are crowded, and I bet if I shouted that plastic forks were now on sale in Aisle 16, we’d have a full-scale riot. We leave and head home. We’ve had enough.
5:50 AM – The rain starts to fall. We’ve lost the ability to converse, now communicating in a series of grunts and chirps on the ride home.
5:59 AM – I pull into the driveway. Sam walks upstairs without a word. I follow and fall into a restless sleep, my mind filled with extra microwaves, the Sears 50-yard dash, and dreams of a line at Toys R Us that stretches from here to infinity and beyond.
Thursday
10 AM – The morning paper arrives with thirty-plus store flyers crammed with Black Friday deals – from Bon Ton’s ruffled handbag collection to brand-name laptops at Best Buy to $49.99 quilting sets at Jo-Ann Fabric to dirt-cheap sweaters at Old Navy’s “Gobble Palooza” event. The Burlington Coat Factory offers reasonably priced “bubble jackets” for the whole family – the photo depicts a nuclear family smiling like Chinese factory workers during a party official’s visit, except for the dog, who wears a bubble jacket and a distracted frown. His jacket may say, “Black Friday savings!” but his smile says, “Looking forward to biting the animal wrangler who stapled me into this coat.”
11:30 AM – I reread the flyers, working out my strategy. I notice the fine print and see phrases like, “Five per store,” and “No rain checks.” Rain checks are for baseball games – what does this all mean?
5:30 PM – The week’s news stories are filled with warnings about Black Friday. “How to Survive Black Friday” is a popular headline (stop, drop and roll, I suspect) as is “Black Friday’s Dirty Secrets.” The unfortunate word choice of “Door Busters,” used to describe the best deals imaginable, isn’t lost on me. A Long Island Wal-Mart worker was killed on Black Friday 2008 when a crowd couldn’t wait any longer, burst past the doors and trampled the young man to death. I might pin my home address and blood type to my own bubble jacket in case things go awry.
6:00 PM - My 14-year old son Sam agrees to join me. He’s faster and stronger and pines openly for a new video game, assuming it’ll be his reward for joining me. “We’ll get it at Best Buy on sale,” he announces. We agree to start the night at the Tanger Outlet mall in Tilton, twenty minutes north and end our excursion at Best Buy in Concord.
11:20 PM – A lone spotlight scans the night sky over Tilton as we park and head towards the mall. There are so many people here that it’s unnerving. The mood isn’t what I’d call “festive,” despite the quartet playing Christmas carols on their flutes and horns. Scores of people walk the concourse, some standing in lines dozens deep, waiting for stores to open. I meet my sister and her friend, and we part ways immediately. There’s no time for family on Black Friday, unless a loan is necessary.
11:35 PM – Standing in the middle of the Nike outlet, we try on jackets, pullovers and shirts. Sam grabs a bag of socks with the word,”Irregular” on it. Pirates would have loved this place.
11:50 PM – Lines outside stores like J Crew, Ralph Lauren and The Gap are growing. The sidewalks teem with shoppers, none of whom seems to want to be here, especially the two toddlers in a dual stroller whose mom wedges them through the crowd. I’ve seen better parenting choices but keep it to myself and run to find Sam, who’s in Banana Republic, looking for a jacket for his mom. The store’s a whirlwind of frenzied shopping. Everything in the store is 50% off tonight, and you’d think a lifetime of free healthcare’s included with every flat-front khaki trouser sold because people are giddy, their arms filled. We learn the jacket (“with toggle buttons”) was gone weeks ago and leave empty-handed. Besides, how many cowl-neck safari picnic jackets with matching print scarves can one person buy in a night?
Friday
12:09 AM – Sale prices at Brooks Brothers are like cute girls at Sci Fi conventions – they exist only in rumor. You always end up alone with a $70 pink seersucker bathing suit on sale for $65.60, just like the last time. “Can we please leave this place?” Sam begs. We watch shoppers file into the Yankee Candle store. Every elementary school teacher from Meredith to Hollis must be getting one this year – people caress huge candle buckets as they lurch outside, no hint of a smile or a sense of relief on their faces. A teenage girl in her pajamas and slippers shuffles past holding her boyfriend’s hand, heading for the monster line outside Starbucks.
12:40 AM – The mood on the sidewalk isn’t improving. An angry woman cuts us off as she runs into Casual Male XL. I’d be grumpy too if my casually extra-large spouse sent me to Tilton in the middle of the night to find him a new formal muumuu and matching compression stockings.
12:48 AM - People look anxious, almost panicked, like when Gamera appeared in the night sky over Tokyo. I’d welcome an enormous prehistoric sea turtle rising up in the sky over J Crew, scattering the waiting crowds with a shriek and a blast from his fire-breathing snout. “This is kinda scary,” Sam says, and we head for the car.
12:53 AM – We reject the idea of sleep tonight and instead sit down for a hot meal. Over plates of eggs, corned beef hash, vanilla cokes and waffles, we sort the store flyers into three piles- YES (Best Buy, Dick’s, Bon Ton), NO (Kohl’s, JC Penney,) and MAYBE (Wal-Mart, Toys R Us, Sears and Michael’s Crafts). It’s barely past 1 AM, and as the diner fills to capacity, we decide to head to Concord and whatever awaits us.
1:40 AM – After midnight, the line between Wanting and Needing gets blurry. “You want a nice TV, and the sales are so good, so you really need it,” Sam suggests. “And I need Call of Duty, definitely.” A few days earlier, when I told my wife about Target’s Doorbuster Special – a flat screen TV for less than $300, her response was similar. “I want that TV – no, I NEED that TV.” Wanting and needing have always meant the same thing to me late in the night’s wee small hours. Tonight must be no different.
2:10 AM – The line inside Toys R Us is either free market capitalism at its best or its abject worst. It ends at the registers and snakes back and forth, down every aisle along one wall to the back, across the back wall and begins somewhere along the opposite side, heading back down towards the registers. At least 600 people stand next to shopping carts filled with games, clothes, action figures, horses and books, their eyes a mixture of despondency and gloom. One man has ten board games in his cart - on the top rests game, “Would You Rather,” as in, “Would you rather feed your pancreas to angry hamsters than be in this line much longer.” I bet a few people wish they had a Strangle Me Elmo so they could end it before reaching the checkout line.
2:35 AM – We enter Wal-Mart and wonder if this is like what Woodstock was like before the bands arrived. Groups of people sit on the ground, playing cards or reading books, closed off behind yellow rope, waiting for the 5 AM clarion call to take advantage of sale prices. I wait a half-hour to buy a camera, and we watch the crowds grow and grow. The poor woman waiting on us is in a full sweat, knows very little about these cameras, fending off line cutters and people looking for ammo and candied yams.
2:50 AM – Sam tries to ask me a question but it sounds like he’s talking in his sleep. Two women pass by, and one of them says, “You looking for Wii games? They’re in the Dairy section,” as the other woman accepts this truth without hesitation. Black Friday – a day when everyone should expect $60 video games to be sold next to unsalted butter and strawberry Go-Gurt squeeze tubes.
3:05 AM – Near the Wal-Mart exit, a woman exhales cigarette smoke in my face while yelling into her cell phone, “Seriously? She needs another microwave? That’s wicked stupid.” We keep walking. In the car, we need a moment. Wal-Mart just sucked the life from us. Sam crawls into the back and fashions a bed for himself among the coupons.
3:09 AM – Corned beef hash is never a smart choice.
3:10 AM – Our plans to shop at Best Buy need to change. Doors don’t open for almost two hours, and the line is hundreds of people long. Two tents are pitched near the entrance, and police officers chat with future customers. “I’m not waiting in that,” Sam says, his hopes for a low-priced video game dimming. I ask people how long they’ve been waiting. “Since midnight,” someone yells. “Ten o’clock tonight!” a father and son shout. “I’ve been here since two yesterday afternoon,” one guy tells me as he heads to the port-o-potty. I can’t tell if he’s proud or embarrassed.
3:55 AM – “So if Best Buy won’t work and there are only five TVs at Target - what are you gonna do?” Sam asks. He knows I want a TV – the ones I saw in the flyers – and he won’t let it go. We’re parked near Bon Ton and Sears, and they both open in five minutes. I find the Sears flyer and clarify the want versus need argument, circling the $379 32” LCD TV (only six per store – no rain checks). “Then let’s get in line,” he says, and we do.
4:01 AM – I’m trying not to run, and the woman in front of me is doing me no favors, shuffling along at a non-competitive pace. Where is Sam? I’ll never get there in time – only six per store! Would you please hurry, I want to yell. I find the line but am too far back. Want and Need have converged into “I can’t imagine life without that TV.” Just then, Sam’s head pops out of the line near the front. “We’re all set,” he smiles. He’s right. We get the TV I wanted and needed and head for the door.
4:50 AM – I’m trying to do the math, calculating the savings from my Bon Ton coupons and the offers on the down comforters I’ve been instructed to find. If I did it correctly, Bon Ton owes me $37. But on second thought, I’ve been awake for almost twenty four hours, and math’s never been my strong suit. Put them down and walk away.
5:25 AM – The traffic is so thick that we have to fight to get across the road to Dick’s Sporting Goods. The sales are mediocre at best here, unless I want cold weather hunting bib overalls. Sam’s wandering aimlessly, the energy leaving his body. I’m lost in women’s sportswear, seeking a new top for my wife. I grab one and feel it with my fingers and as I look up, a woman stares at me and walks away. Even on Black Friday, pawing women’s sportswear in public is frowned upon.
5:35 AM – One last attempt at Best Buy, but the line is even longer, and they’re managing the door like bouncers at a discotheque - two come out, two go in. Before we can park, a mom and daughter pair in matching sweat suits and perms cuts us off. They look like they power-walked from the Epsom traffic circle. I don’t have the strength to even honk.
5:45 AM – Target is complete chaos. The line stretches from the cashiers to the absolute back of the store, and we walk the length of it just to see how bad it is. The aisles are crowded, and I bet if I shouted that plastic forks were now on sale in Aisle 16, we’d have a full-scale riot. We leave and head home. We’ve had enough.
5:50 AM – The rain starts to fall. We’ve lost the ability to converse, now communicating in a series of grunts and chirps on the ride home.
5:59 AM – I pull into the driveway. Sam walks upstairs without a word. I follow and fall into a restless sleep, my mind filled with extra microwaves, the Sears 50-yard dash, and dreams of a line at Toys R Us that stretches from here to infinity and beyond.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Llama Time!
Of all the things I’d hoped to accomplish by the time I turned 42, placing my hands on the buttocks of a stubborn llama and trying to push it across a babbling brook wasn’t high on the list. But until today, I’d no idea what I was missing. Hamilton, the recalcitrant llama, is no fan of water, and this is the second stream he’s refused to cross. We changed direction about an hour ago at the lip of a shallow pool of marshy grass, and Deanna, my guide, isn’t happy. “This is the only way home, Hamilton,” Deanna says, gesturing me towards Hamilton’s hind quarters and taking my own llama’s lead from me. Dizzy, my llama, is too busy eating to worry about wet feet. He’s like a chubby kid in an éclair factory – the Augustus Gloop of the even-toed ungulate family – wolfing down everything he sees – oak leaves, wet grass, and pine needles. Dizzy’s also kept up a steady hum the entire hike, and it’s either nerves at my novice llama leading skills, or he’s just naturally musical. Either way, his humming gets louder as Hamilton digs his hooves into the mud.
My pushing gets us nowhere, so Deanna switches places. I’m now tugging on the halter while Deanna pushes. I’m half-expecting Rex Harrison to emerge from the brush and break into song about the Push Me Pull Me, but the only sounds are Dizzy’s humming and Deanna’s gentle chiding. For a large beast getting shoved and yanked in a direction he has no interest in heading, Hamilton’s silent, save for his heavy breathing.
Just as Deanna’s about to give up and return the way we came, Hamilton’s hoof slips in the mud, and in an instant, he’s airborne, all four legs a foot off the ground as he leaps past me onto the trail. I almost drop the lead at the shock of it but hold on as Hamilton stops. We keep moving along the trail, Dizzy humming a tune only he knows.
Deanna Morrison is my guide and host today at Cicely Farm, tucked in the northeast corner of Concord on the Canterbury line. Deanna and her husband have lived at Cicely Farm since the mid ‘90s, and Deanna’s llama habit didn’t start until a few years later. “My husband bought me two in ’99, and I’ve just kept going,” she tells me as we stand in her barn. The farm’s a sprawling expanse of pasture, hay fields, thick woods, white farm house, stables and this barn that’s more than 150 years old. What I notice most are the llamas. There are lots of them. They stopped and stared from the fields as I drove in, and now as I walk into Deanna’s barn, the llamas approach from behind the gate. At least a dozen fill the stalls - big brown ones, multi-colored ones and a spotted, light gray one with droopy, hairy ears that make him look like Cyndi Lauper, if she were a large ruminant who spits at strangers.
Since starting with two, Deanna’s grown her collection to twenty five llamas and three alpacas. The alpacas stick out, smaller with different ears and cream-colored coats that look recently shorn. Deanna talks while she works, a whirlwind of activity and enthusiasm. I learn that llamas can live to be twenty-five years old, are pregnant for almost twelve months, have sharp “fighting teeth,” and are originally from South America. “It’s time to feed these fellas,” she tells me, directing me to the bucket of pellets. Deanna herds in Hamilton, Dizzy, Spotty, Tatonka and Woody, to name a few. Notorious, aka, “Tory,” sees me, pins his ears back, wags his tail and clucks at me with his tongue. Just before I can say something stupid like, “He likes me! He really likes me!” Deanna scolds Tory to back away and warns me to keep my distance. “He’s clucking because he’s threatened, and llamas only wag their tails when they’re not happy.” So much for first impressions.
“Where’s your bucket?” Deanna holds the cup of pellets out near the feed bucket and repeats, “Where’s your bucket?” The llamas dip their noses down to the bucket, and she pours in the food. She lets them finish, shuttling them out and the others in, her and their movements a gentle, silent dance, the only noise the clanging of the gates and the steady munching of food.
After an hour or so of watching, listening and learning, I have to ask. “Why llamas?” Based on what I’ve seen, you can’t ride, hug or eat them, so why own a llama farm? Deanna explains the many reasons to own llamas but doesn’t do it for any of the ones she mentions. She doesn’t breed her llamas or enter them into performance or “beauty events.” She doesn’t train them as guards for sheep farmers, and she thinks shearing and selling the fiber is a waste of time (“I’ve got plenty of it tucked away and if you want some, you’re welcome to it.”) “My llamas are pet-quality llamas. I have my llamas for the llamas,” she explains as we spread hay out for llama lunchtime. Some llama owners grow bored or tired of the routine, and they seek Deanna out to take the creatures off their hands. “Most of my llamas are rescue llamas – I took them because their owners were done with them.” Based on the attention and care she gives them, these llamas have “llucked” out, you might say.
But Deanna’s explanation begs another question. Why would anyone breed llamas? There can’t be many llama obstacle courses in the world, and ESPN has yet to broadcast the Miss Llama Universe competition. I wonder if somewhere the Bernie Madoff of the Camelid class sits in his llama-fiber and jewel-encrusted Snuggie, counting his loot while the market collapses, exposing the llama breeding industry for the Ponzi scheme it just might be.
But I’ve got manure to shovel and hay to spread, and as Deanna leads me down towards the females’ enclosure, it’s easy to see why she loves this so much. The eight females surround me, quiet and calm as they nibble at the hay bale I’m carting. Deanna shoos them away as we make our way across the field, but as we stop, one llama stands in my way. Every step I take she takes one to block me. “That’s Fiona,” Deanna says. “She does not play well with people.”
As Deanna tells me this, Fiona approaches from behind, smelling my hair and breathing in my ears from her massive nostrils, walking around me, her hot breath covering my face. Now, my experience with the ladies has been that whispers of sweet nothings from a whiskered muzzle in my ear usually means good times ahead, but Deanna’s seen enough, and she pens off Fiona until I can finish spreading hay, filling water and shoveling manure. Fiona stands behind the gate, staring at me with her deep, dark glassy eyes. “She’s trying to assert her dominance over you,” Deanna explains. Considering she’s watching me shovel her poop into a large bucket, I’d say Fiona’s won this round.
I bid goodbye to Fiona and her friends as Deanna and I prepare for our walk with Dizzy and Hamilton. Deanna runs a small business here - “Cicely Farm Llama Adventures,” where you can “Hike with the llamas on our wooded trails.” Deanna’s chosen Dizzy for me because he’s one of the original two llamas and is comfortable on the trails. Hamilton’s a wild card, as we later realize, but Deanna’s the kind of farmer who’s willing to give every llama the benefit of the doubt.
The walk in the woods is worth it – we cover acres and acres of winding trails across Cicely Farm’s property, and the llamas, except for the water hazard hesitations, were exemplary. There’s something very relaxing about taking a hike with a llama, and I’m going back for seconds. But if you get there before me, tell Fiona I said hi.
(Learn more about Cicely Farm by emailing cicely.farmer@comcast.net.)
My pushing gets us nowhere, so Deanna switches places. I’m now tugging on the halter while Deanna pushes. I’m half-expecting Rex Harrison to emerge from the brush and break into song about the Push Me Pull Me, but the only sounds are Dizzy’s humming and Deanna’s gentle chiding. For a large beast getting shoved and yanked in a direction he has no interest in heading, Hamilton’s silent, save for his heavy breathing.
Just as Deanna’s about to give up and return the way we came, Hamilton’s hoof slips in the mud, and in an instant, he’s airborne, all four legs a foot off the ground as he leaps past me onto the trail. I almost drop the lead at the shock of it but hold on as Hamilton stops. We keep moving along the trail, Dizzy humming a tune only he knows.
Deanna Morrison is my guide and host today at Cicely Farm, tucked in the northeast corner of Concord on the Canterbury line. Deanna and her husband have lived at Cicely Farm since the mid ‘90s, and Deanna’s llama habit didn’t start until a few years later. “My husband bought me two in ’99, and I’ve just kept going,” she tells me as we stand in her barn. The farm’s a sprawling expanse of pasture, hay fields, thick woods, white farm house, stables and this barn that’s more than 150 years old. What I notice most are the llamas. There are lots of them. They stopped and stared from the fields as I drove in, and now as I walk into Deanna’s barn, the llamas approach from behind the gate. At least a dozen fill the stalls - big brown ones, multi-colored ones and a spotted, light gray one with droopy, hairy ears that make him look like Cyndi Lauper, if she were a large ruminant who spits at strangers.
Since starting with two, Deanna’s grown her collection to twenty five llamas and three alpacas. The alpacas stick out, smaller with different ears and cream-colored coats that look recently shorn. Deanna talks while she works, a whirlwind of activity and enthusiasm. I learn that llamas can live to be twenty-five years old, are pregnant for almost twelve months, have sharp “fighting teeth,” and are originally from South America. “It’s time to feed these fellas,” she tells me, directing me to the bucket of pellets. Deanna herds in Hamilton, Dizzy, Spotty, Tatonka and Woody, to name a few. Notorious, aka, “Tory,” sees me, pins his ears back, wags his tail and clucks at me with his tongue. Just before I can say something stupid like, “He likes me! He really likes me!” Deanna scolds Tory to back away and warns me to keep my distance. “He’s clucking because he’s threatened, and llamas only wag their tails when they’re not happy.” So much for first impressions.
“Where’s your bucket?” Deanna holds the cup of pellets out near the feed bucket and repeats, “Where’s your bucket?” The llamas dip their noses down to the bucket, and she pours in the food. She lets them finish, shuttling them out and the others in, her and their movements a gentle, silent dance, the only noise the clanging of the gates and the steady munching of food.
After an hour or so of watching, listening and learning, I have to ask. “Why llamas?” Based on what I’ve seen, you can’t ride, hug or eat them, so why own a llama farm? Deanna explains the many reasons to own llamas but doesn’t do it for any of the ones she mentions. She doesn’t breed her llamas or enter them into performance or “beauty events.” She doesn’t train them as guards for sheep farmers, and she thinks shearing and selling the fiber is a waste of time (“I’ve got plenty of it tucked away and if you want some, you’re welcome to it.”) “My llamas are pet-quality llamas. I have my llamas for the llamas,” she explains as we spread hay out for llama lunchtime. Some llama owners grow bored or tired of the routine, and they seek Deanna out to take the creatures off their hands. “Most of my llamas are rescue llamas – I took them because their owners were done with them.” Based on the attention and care she gives them, these llamas have “llucked” out, you might say.
But Deanna’s explanation begs another question. Why would anyone breed llamas? There can’t be many llama obstacle courses in the world, and ESPN has yet to broadcast the Miss Llama Universe competition. I wonder if somewhere the Bernie Madoff of the Camelid class sits in his llama-fiber and jewel-encrusted Snuggie, counting his loot while the market collapses, exposing the llama breeding industry for the Ponzi scheme it just might be.
But I’ve got manure to shovel and hay to spread, and as Deanna leads me down towards the females’ enclosure, it’s easy to see why she loves this so much. The eight females surround me, quiet and calm as they nibble at the hay bale I’m carting. Deanna shoos them away as we make our way across the field, but as we stop, one llama stands in my way. Every step I take she takes one to block me. “That’s Fiona,” Deanna says. “She does not play well with people.”
As Deanna tells me this, Fiona approaches from behind, smelling my hair and breathing in my ears from her massive nostrils, walking around me, her hot breath covering my face. Now, my experience with the ladies has been that whispers of sweet nothings from a whiskered muzzle in my ear usually means good times ahead, but Deanna’s seen enough, and she pens off Fiona until I can finish spreading hay, filling water and shoveling manure. Fiona stands behind the gate, staring at me with her deep, dark glassy eyes. “She’s trying to assert her dominance over you,” Deanna explains. Considering she’s watching me shovel her poop into a large bucket, I’d say Fiona’s won this round.
I bid goodbye to Fiona and her friends as Deanna and I prepare for our walk with Dizzy and Hamilton. Deanna runs a small business here - “Cicely Farm Llama Adventures,” where you can “Hike with the llamas on our wooded trails.” Deanna’s chosen Dizzy for me because he’s one of the original two llamas and is comfortable on the trails. Hamilton’s a wild card, as we later realize, but Deanna’s the kind of farmer who’s willing to give every llama the benefit of the doubt.
The walk in the woods is worth it – we cover acres and acres of winding trails across Cicely Farm’s property, and the llamas, except for the water hazard hesitations, were exemplary. There’s something very relaxing about taking a hike with a llama, and I’m going back for seconds. But if you get there before me, tell Fiona I said hi.
(Learn more about Cicely Farm by emailing cicely.farmer@comcast.net.)
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Cider House Fool
“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.
“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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
