Column: There's no shame in being "card catalog vintage"

The meme featured a photograph of a wooden card catalog and the words "This is how old I am."

Alas, I could relate.

The card catalog and I have a long history. I was a school librarian for 32 years, and the card catalog was in use at the beginning of my tenure. But I’d been a library user since age five. I knew the card catalog long before it became a professional tool of the trade for me.

I’d use my experience while teaching research skills to middle and high school students. I’d tell them about the laborious process of going to the Fall River (Mass.) Public LIbrary when I was a teenager.

First, I had to get to the city from my suburban home, via bus. It was a walk to the library from the terminal, then up a lot of stairs. In the reference room’s card catalog I’d locate a few books that looked like they’d be helpful and write their call numbers on little sheets of papers. These I would hand to the librarian.

She’d (they were always women) hand them off to a “runner,” who would go into the closed stacks to retrieve the items. I’d wait anxiously, not knowing if these books were going to suit my needs. My greatest fear was that they would be on brittle paper, in tiny print, with absolutely no illustrations.

Finally the books would arrive and I would examine them. If I was lucky, they suited my needs and I could check them out and go home. Or better yet, go for lunch at a joint improbably named Jock’s Spaghetti-an. If not, it was back to the card catalog for me.

All this palaver was a reminder to the young folk that gathering information today is much easier—the hard work is sorting the wheat from the chaff.

I love the card catalog both in theory and as a physical entity; I have several vintage models I use for storage in my home. I have kept discarded catalog cards that I use for bookmarks or notes.

This is not to say I want to return to the days when the card catalog ruled. The digital world is a boon for both librarians and bibliophiles.

I’m still not sure how I managed to organize classes of antsy 11-year-olds, who all needed to find the books for their reports on ancient Egyptians at the same time. The middle school library was small and I knew the collection well, but they were supposed to practice using the card catalog—the single card catalog.

Little did I know that in a few years they’d all have their own laptops.

The computer was not an alien concept to me in 1990. My first job after graduating from college in 1978 involved using a Wang desktop model. As a journalist, I’d written my stories and columns on computers. The middle school library, indeed, had two Apple IIs.

But in those pre-internet days, students only used computers for practicing keyboard skills or playing educational games like “The Oregon Trail.” I could barely imagine software that would allow me to check books in and out, catalog them, connect me and my students to other libraries—and replace the card catalog with a digital version.

Eventually this all came to pass, and made my job easier and my reading life richer.

Nowadays I enjoy reading reviews and making lists of books I want to read. Then I can reserve them through the statewide Minerva consortium. Books can be placed on hold even when they’re on order, and haven’t even arrived in the library. That is a serious reader’s dream come true. There are sometimes a hundred people waiting to read a popular title, so it pays to stay on top of what’s coming out.

I can browse the catalog of my local library, Lithgow, or the holdings of all the consortium members, online.

This can lead, I must admit, to what I tried to warn my students about: an abundance of riches. In their case, it was an overload of information to wade through. For me, it’s four books to pick up at the same time. When I reserved them, they were on order or there were three patrons ahead of me. It seemed safe to reserve all four. But suddenly (probably because several other libraries bought copies in the meantime), there they were, waiting for me.

I am working on my supply flow issue, but I’m not optimistic I can change my ways. I do like to always have my next book ready to read. 

And I do love the way I can plan and organize my reading with the aid of online resources. But—yet—I am glad I didn’t have that convenience as a teenager.

Taking the bus into the city, finding my way to the library, dealing with unfamiliar adults, interacting with or just observing a wide variety of people in the library—it was a valuable experience for me. I was shy, awkward and anxious. It took books and the quest for knowledge to jolt me out of my comfort zone.

I daresay my research adventures helped me become the person I am today.

Hey, maybe being “card catalog vintage” isn’t so bad after all.

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com 

Column: Librarians, of all people, must learn to play by the rules

A few years ago, a friend told me how her daughter, then 5 or 6, liked to play librarian. Wow. I was amazed. When I was the same age, I liked to play librarian. Alas, I was always alone.

Although I could always harass my friends into playing school, putting on “theatrical productions” and shopping at my pretend store, none of them showed the faintest interest in organizing books.

Maybe this was because I had written my name in all of my parents’ books (without their knowledge) and certainly would not let my friends write theirs.

But it was more likely that they just thought moving books around and pretending to take them out was a stupid way to spend time. That’s OK. We can’t all get rhapsodic about the Dewey Decimal System — or, as is now the fashion, ways to get rid of it. The smell of a new book does not cause everyone to swoon. Who despairs when a patron leaves a wad of gum stuck between the pages of a bestseller that 30 people are waiting to read, and rejoices when a book is returned after being 246 days overdue?

Librarians, of course. I should know. I grew up to be one.

So I was thrilled to hear that Miss L. (as we shall call her) also liked to play librarian. It was a legitimate game after all. I could crush and toss my conviction that I had been a strange child. Someone else in the universe liked to play librarian. Hurrah!

Then I got to work making a Library Box for Miss L.

Every librarian needs the tools of the trade. While I wasn’t about to outfit her with scissors sharp enough to cut through plastic book covers (and fingers), tape thick and sticky enough to repair broken spines (and, perhaps, remain permanently attached to hair) and glue strong enough to hold loose pages in place (and with a smell that could topple over a small child), I did feel some of the more benign supplies we use would make her library experience more enjoyable.

Luckily, having closed up two libraries in my career, and gone from the card catalog to the “online public access catalog,” I had a selection of used and useless items that I couldn’t bear to throw away. Perhaps this is another librarian trait. I love old, typed catalog cards for books such as “The Ludlow Girls Go to the Seashore,” and have a small collection of them.

Chief among these dubious treasures was a cardboard box that had once held part of the “shelf list.” This was the collection, noted on catalog cards, and placed in the order the books appeared on the shelves, from the 000s to the 900s. In the olden days, the shelf list enabled the librarian to do inventory by matching the card to the book. Or was it the other way around?

Now I would repurpose it as a Library Box. It was in sad shape, but I rescued it with generous applications of colorful duct tape. Then I filled it with items such as old cards, outdated stampers and yellowed date due pockets. I was pleased to find them a good home, and I knew they would be well used. My heart was glad. Another librarian in the making!

A few days ago, my friend called me to say that one of Miss L.’s friends had seen the Library Box and wanted one of her own. Could I help?

Of course. Once, that is, I got over my excitement that there were two children in the world who wanted to play librarian.

I’m not looking to recruit elementary-age students to the field. But I often spend the better part of the day devising ways to keep young people reading right through high school. I search for high-interest books to buy, dream up programs and displays, and, most importantly, help individual students find the right book — the one that will help them realize what a joy it is to read.

How fantastic was it that these two youngsters loved books so much they wanted to organize them and take care of them?

Miss L. has even taken her librarian skills to her second-grade classroom. I use character rubber duckies to illustrate the Dewey Decimal System to middle-school students. For example, a baseball player duck represents the 700s, which include sports. One of the items in the box was a bookmark showing the ducks and their classifications. This inspired Miss L. to assemble her own collection of ducks, and present the Dewey Duckies to her class. I wish I had been there to see it.

She does take her work seriously. Recently, I was working in her school library when Miss L.’s class came in. I was helping to check out books, but didn’t have the sheet of student bar codes the elementary-school librarians scan to open a student’s account.

No problem — I could just type in Miss L.’s name and bring up her record. She watched suspiciously as I did this, and then hesitated as I handed back her book. “You’re supposed to use the sheet,” she said, pointing to the elementary librarian at the other computer terminal.

I explained that I didn’t use bar code sheets in the middle- and high-school library, so what I had done instead was perfectly fine. But I had to admire her dedication to the rules. After all, librarians, of all people, have to go by the book.

Column: Can you read all the way to the very end of this headline?

I went out to lunch with a friend recently. She was driving, and I was telling her a long involved story. We were passing through a rural area, and a sudden movement in a field caught my eye. “Ooh, sheep!” I exclaimed. Then I continued on with my story.

She didn’t think anything of it, because she’s liable to do the same thing. In fact, I didn’t even realize how often I break off in mid-sentence until my husband, Paul, brought it to my attention.

We were in a bookstore, and he pointed out a sign to me. “I think I’ll do some housework. Oh, look, a bird!”

“What?” I said.

“That’s you.”

“Really? Actually, it’s the other way around. When I should be writing, I feel the sudden need to clean the shower.”

“No, the bird, the bird!”

“Really?”

I knew it was true. I prefer to think of myself as a master of multi-tasking, but I have probably suffered from attention deficit disorder since I was a kid. Not the kind with hyperactivity. My type of ADD involves a lot of instant switching of gears, daydreaming, staring off into space and, of course, spotting birds in the most unusual of places.

My schoolwork didn’t suffer much because I enjoyed learning. If I missed something the teacher said, I usually could figure it out on my own. That wasn’t true of algebra and geometry, needless to say, and those were my weakest subjects.

In fact, looking back now, I can see that I probably had trouble learning math because there’s only one correct answer for every problem, and sometimes, only one acceptable way of getting it. I start to panic if I have to concentrate that long. I know there’s a formula for doing percentages, for example, but I can never remember it. So instead of wracking my brain, I use some convoluted method that works, but would never have been accepted by Miss Bottomley, the ultra-strict eighth-grade math teacher.

If I had been able to pay attention in math class, I’m sure I wouldn’t be as pathetic in the subject as I am now.

I realized that my mind tended to wander, and that I enjoyed doing several things at once, at an early age. Once I learned about astrology, I chalked it up to the fact that I was born a Gemini. Represented by “the twins,” we Geminis are known for our quicksilver minds and tongues. Our brains hum with activity. We are often thinking, and doing, two things at once.  Example: I’m traveling down the interstate, talking my head off to my husband, who’s at the wheel, and I’ll espy a hawk or falcon high up in a tree.

It’s a blessing, and a curse.

I’m never flummoxed when faced with a detour, either literal or figurative. I love going off on side roads. I’m a school librarian, and if I’m in the middle of cataloguing a pile of books, I don’t mind being interrupted by a visiting group of alumni from the class of 1949. Not at all. If they hadn’t come along, I’d probably have jumped up and made a cup of coffee or something.

I know when I get back to my pile, I’ll be refreshed and ready to work again.

This is what I mean about “switching gears.” If my interest is waning on one project, I go over to another one for awhile. I even do this with writing. Computers make this so much easier for me; I can go back and forth between several documents at once.

This time-management method, if I can be so bold as to call it that, is an anathema to some people. There’s even a diagnosis for those who are afflicted with an overactive sense of persistence: obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. It’s not the same as obsessive-compulsive disorder. An example of the former would be a doctor who is determined to finish his paperwork while a patient is waiting to see him.

Some people can’t unglue themselves from the task at hand; I struggle to stick with it. I suppose I should congratulate myself on getting anything done. Though I always have at least two books, two writing projects and two knitting patterns going at once, eventually I do finish them.

There may be a genetic component to attention deficiency. I can certainly trace mine right back to my father. He liked to watch hockey on television while listening to baseball on the radio. When my sister and I were young, my mother worked part-time at a fabric store several evenings a week. If Dad was in charge of supper, the three of us would sit around the table with the evening news on the portable TV, eating, with books propped up in front of us.

Is it any wonder I can’t concen—hey, look, a bird!

Column: As Gen. Anthony McAuliffe said in another context: "Nuts!"

I’d wanted to try the French cookie known as a macaron for at least a year. Not to be confused with a macaroon —a gooey coconut confection — macarons are small, light-as-air, layered treats, often created in bright colors. Since a trip to Paris is not in my immediate future (drat), I wondered where I could find one of these delicacies. They certainly are not turned out by supermarket bakeries.

On Father’s Day, my husband and I ate lunch out. I suggested we stop at a nearby bakery to buy something to bring home. I was excited to see the bakery had a selection of macarons. Finally, I would get to try one.

The cookie was all I had hoped it would be. Delicious, and tiny enough that I didn’t have to feel guilty about indulging.

Several hours later, I developed a rash so intensely itchy that I had to take Benadryl. When I woke up — the antihistamine knocks me out — I wondered what had caused it. I’d had a near anaphylactic shock last summer after eating a seemingly innocuous meal of chicken salad and coleslaw at a restaurant. Later, testing showed that I’m allergic to walnuts, almonds and sesame. Come to find out, there was walnut oil in the coleslaw dressing.

Now I have to carry an EpiPen and Benadryl everywhere, and spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what is safe to order in restaurants. I developed an allergy to citrus fruits and tomatoes as a young woman, but my reaction then was hives. That I could handle. Having my throat close up was a scary experience, and not one I ever want to repeat. I am vigilant.

But I make mistakes. As I reviewed all I had eaten on Father’s Day, in hopes of figuring out what had caused the rash, I remembered a sign on the macarons that read “gluten-free.” Uh-oh. I appreciate gluten-free, but the cookies definitely had flour in them. And flour, in the gluten-free universe, is usually made from nuts.

Swiftly, I searched online for macaron recipes. There it was. They are made from almond flour.

I’m surprised I didn’t go into anaphylactic shock right then and there, just on the power of suggestion. Then again, I had already taken two Benadryl.

When I was allergic to acidic foods, it was hard to avoid them because I was young and really liked pizza. But it was, nonetheless, obvious when foods contained tomatoes or oranges. Nuts appear in unsuspected places, and sesame is downright insidious.

My local hospital has an excellent food court that includes an “exhibition” chef. He makes one daily offering, right in front of you. After a medical appointment one day, I treated myself to lunch. Mmmm….orange chicken. Thank goodness I’m not allergic to oranges anymore. But after I’d taken my plate, sat down and eaten a few bites, I panicked. Asian food! Sesame! I ran back to the chef and asked him if it contained any. “Would that be a problem?” he replied.

“I’m allergic.” Thank goodness I was in a hospital.

He checked his sauce ingredients. No sesame. I breathed a sigh of relief, and was not only happy to be breathing, but able to enjoy my orange chicken.

I can avoid Asian restaurants, but sesame seeds are liable to pop up anywhere. Recently, I attended an educational seminar. There were many food choices for breakfast, lunch and snacks, but I found myself paralyzed at every turn. What was on and in the bagels? A peanut butter breakfast bar contained almond butter. Really? I was grateful for the fresh peaches—I knew they were safe.

Lunch featured hummus. Few people realize that hummus contains sesame in the form of tahini, or paste. I love hummus, but now I have to make my own or buy the tahini-free variety at Trader Joe’s. I have checked every kind of hummus in my local Hannaford (at least 25), and they are all off-limits to me.

The cheese on the lunch buffet was fine, but what about the crackers? Luckily, some of them were Saltines. Anything crunchy or nutty looking was too risky. One salad contained almonds. Another, bacon, and I don’t eat meat, only poultry and fish. A third met my specifications. I really hate being so high maintenance. Luckily, there was once again a giant pile of fresh produce, this time in the form of crudités. I loaded my plate with peppers, cucumbers and broccoli.

After I finished eating, I saw small, oval, white items on my plate. Had some sesame seeds snuck in? Then I realized they were sunflower seeds.

Even the afternoon treats were filled with potential land mines. Almond Joy bars? I used to love them, alas. Cookies are filled with many ingredients and can’t be trusted unless I see a list. I settled for a single Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup and a glass of water, and I reflected that I might lose a pound or two before the week was out.

I now have the utmost sympathy for anyone who has to deal with any kind of food allergy or intolerance. My previous experience with hives — which could get quite severe — was nothing like this fear of dying because I ate pesto by mistake.

I don’t enjoy eating out so much anymore. Take one of my favorite lunch spots — Panera Bread. I can’t eat the Napa Almond Chicken Salad sandwich, which I used to crave. Obviously, the Asian Sesame Chicken Salad is also out. Way, way out.

When we eat there, my husband, Paul, and I always share a cookie. One time I bought the double chocolate, not realizing it contained walnuts. I had to watch him eat the whole thing.

I do thank Panera for listing the potential allergens in its offerings. It helps to know up front how deprived I’m going to feel.

I’ve been a label reader for a long time, as I’ve tried to avoid hydrogenated oils and high-fructose corn syrup. Of course, whole, natural foods are best for us, but there are times when convenience is our highest priority. So I’ve become a label reader par excellence. It’s a good thing I now wear graduated lenses, so I can decipher all that tiny print. I ask you, what’s almond butter doing in a peanut butter bar?

Column: Giving thanks for the bounty outside my door

I have many reasons to be grateful, but I never feel as appreciative about my life as when I’m sitting on my backyard deck.

It’s not a fancy structure, and it doesn’t include a water view. But it’s big enough to hold a table with an umbrella, dining chairs, a lounging chair and two beds for our dogs. What more do I need?

If I’m sitting outside, it must be a pleasant day. I’m always grateful for those. Though I bought the smallest “market-style” umbrella I could find, it still covers most of the deck. So, I am able to use the space even if the sun is broiling.

Rain, however, is a deal breaker. But I am lucky enough to have a front porch that provides both shade and shelter from storms.

Deck time is a luxury. I’m a school librarian, so I have nine weeks off in the summer. I’m a writer year-round, and I often work a day or two per week during July and August in a vacation library program. Not this year, however.

I am reveling in my freedom. Writing is my passion, and I enjoy the flexibility it offers. I can write on the deck if I choose. When I write is up to me. Reading, another one of my favorite activities, is often closely tied into my writing, and I love to read on the deck.

Whenever I am sitting on the deck, I try to give silent thanks for the gift of free time.

Our deck is quite new, and I like its sturdy design. When my husband, Paul, and I bought this 1870s-era cottage in 1988, the back yard was a scruffy wasteland, notable only for the handsome pear tree in its center. An attached shed that ran perpendicular to the house, a small, detached carriage house, and a retaining wall separating our property from the next-door neighbors’ created a natural courtyard. Beyond the carriage house, a larger yard on our lot was overgrown with random, spindly maples.

The “L” formed by the house and shed, with its door leading from a mudroom, was the perfect place for a deck. Within a few years, we had one built, and had the shed shored up. But the shed was never in very good condition, and the deck deteriorated over the years as well. Two years ago, we had the deck, shed and carriage house torn down. A new structure at the badk of the house follows the footprint of the old shed, but is actually a family room, with a loft above for storage. The new deck is attractive and well-built. The new garage is a lovely, classical design with plenty of room downstairs and a “bonus” room above.

Since the garage is twice as tall as the old carriage house was, we have even more privacy in our courtyard. I did lose some gardening space in that area, but there is still plenty of room in the “big” backyard. There, I have three raised beds with assorted vegetables, nasturtiums and marigolds; an herb bed that includes lavender, lemon balm, echinacea, thyme and mint, as well as cosmos and calendar; and big beds of garlic and potatoes. Our chicken coop and pen, with our three chickens, stand nearby.

The yard is lined with raspberry plants, and there is another small pear tree, as well as rosa rugosa, joe pye weed, hostas, honeysuckle, lilacs and bleeding hearts. It took years, but the big backyard has become both a productive urban garden and a little piece of paradise.

I can’t see much of it from the deck. But I can admire the rhododendrons that line the retaining wall. We tore up several raised beds in our renovation project, but some of the plants just kept on growing, up through the wood chips Paul lays down fresh every year to cover the courtyard. Our pear tree is always a pleasure to observe. It produces many pears, but, unfortunately, they are small and not very tasty. The squirrels enjoy taking bites out of them and throwing them on the ground, however.

Our bushy-tailed frenemies are entertaining to watch, as they chase each other up and down the tree and across fences. The dogs especially enjoy the show. Chickadees, catbirds, cardinals and bluejays visit the feeders and birdbath. We have a hammock in this little yard, as well as two Adirondack chairs. Statuary, including gnomes, a hedgehog and gargoyles, keeps watch over the place.

On the warmest days, I enjoy breakfast on the deck. If we are both at home, and I can talk him into it, Paul and I will lunch there. I am amused that my labrador retriever, Quinn, immediately goes to the deck door after I prepare my late afternoon tea. He never does that during the winter, and he didn’t do it today, because it’s raining. But on nice days, without fail, he knows that I am going to eat my snack on the deck, and he wants to be there with me.

On the Fourth of July, we can see our town’s fireworks from the deck. We don’t get to see any ground displays, but why leave home when most of the display is clearly visible from the comfort of your own lounge chair? Paul doesn’t get too excited about fireworks, but I like to sit out alone with a glass of wine and watch the show. I can even hear the oohs and aahs, and clapping between the booms.

It is then that I allow myself to think how lucky I am to be so fulfilled without even leaving my own backyard.

Column: I rode my Schwinn without a helmet . . . and survived!

I take absurd pleasure in a meme that appears on Facebook and in random e-mails. It wonders how baby boomers ever survived their dangerous childhoods. Riding bikes without wearing helmets? Living in houses layered in lead paint? Drinking whole milk?

Yup. We did all that and more. How did we make it to adulthood? He-he. I think it’s a shame the way kids are coddled today, often to their detriment. I enjoy recalling those fun days. To think I thought my parents were overprotective!

    

The question, however, is not rhetorical. How did we do it?

    

For starters, I must say that bad things happened to children in the 1950s and ‘60s. I was participating in a school-yard race and as I stretched one leg behind me, I stuck my bare ankle right into the spike of a barbed-wire fence. My sister was bit by a dog as she sat on the swings. She also stuck her hand into the blades of a manual lawn mower our mother was dragging backward, and nearly cut her finger off. A neighbor child wandered into a small pond and nearly drowned. One schoolmate hit a line drive on the playground and smacked another student straight in the eye.

    

It used to be, when things like this occurred, people would say, in so many words, “Life Happens.” Now, they call Joe Bornstein.

    

We have become a litigious society. There are times when people or companies are negligent, and should be made to pay. But we have gone way, way overboard. A classic example is the woman who sued McDonald’s because she spilled coffee on her lap. Only in America could it be argued that wasn’t her own stupid fault.

    

As a result of suit frenzy, laws have become stricter. Directions on normal household items now warn, in English and Spanish, that misuse can cause injury or death. We seem to have forgotten that a ballpoint pen can cause injury or death if it is shoved with force into a victim’s windpipe.

    

The plethora of over-the-top regulations on transporting children is one of my favorite bugaboos. One of my earliest memories is going with my father to pick up my mother and new sister at the hospital. I don’t know why, but the back seat in the car had been removed. Perhaps my father had been carrying something large back there. Anyway, he didn’t bother to put it back in for the 10-mile trip. I merely stood the whole way, one hand holding on to a stuffed animal, the other to the back of the front seat. Needless to say, I wasn’t strapped to anything.

    

My father later bought an Arnold Bread franchise. He had a box truck from which he made deliveries to restaurants, supermarkets and convenience stores. In the early days, when I was around six, he had installed wooden racks in the truck to hold the boxes of bread, rolls and cookies. I would often accompany him on his route during school holidays, and one of my favorite parts of this adventure was curling up for a nap in a big empty box on a shelf as Dad drove home. The horror!

    

Then there was the Plymouth station wagon. As an adolescent, I dreamed of station wagons. I envisioned myself lying in the back compartment, away from my parents and my pestering sister, my cassette player purring next to my ear. Did I mention that Dad smoked? He always cracked his window, but I hated the smell. In my dream, I lay far removed from the smoke and, in my prone position, did not become car sick, as I was wont to do.

    

My parents finally bought a station wagon. It was all I hoped it would be, and I have lived to tell the tale of flopping around unsecured all the way from Massachusetts to Florida—several times.

    

I don’t remember that any children I knew died while I was growing up. Polio was rampant in my earliest years, though; I was very much afraid of contracting it and having to spend my life in an iron lung. The son of one of my father’s best friends developed leukemia—which was quite a rare occurrence—but he did survive. Death, however, was something we knew about it. And we knew it could happen without warning, or any obvious reason. We did not touch dead bodies, but our parents had.

    

My father found his grandmother dead on the floor when he came home from grammar school one day. My mother was named after a sister who expired in the 1918 influenza epidemic. Her mother died in her fifties, in her home, and her daughters washed her and laid her out in the living room for the wake.

    

They had lived through the Depression and the war, and knew that every sunny, peaceful day was a blessing, not an entitlement. There are no guarantees in this life.

    

I just heard a story on the radio about girl softball players wearing masks on the field. Not just the catchers—everyone. What has changed about softball that female players now have to take such extraordinary precautions? Have these women developed arms of steel? Are they foolishly placing themselves in harm’s way?

    

I have never been a good athlete, but I always played intramural sports. Aside from the classmate who was beaned, I never saw anyone hurt, nor was I, a klutz extraordinaire, ever injured. How much fun would I have had if I had to wear a mask? I probably wouldn't have played.

    

The story also reminded me of a faded newspaper clipping that shows my father and his friends in 1960, when I was four. Their softball team had won a championship. They are grinning, yet they wear simple caps, not helmets, and the only one with a mask is the catcher. Were they insane? Or just lucky enough to live in a time when life was meant to be enjoyed, not feared?

Column: Summer means water (as in . . . the Atlantic Ocean)

When summer comes, my thoughts turn to the water. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

I thought this was true of everyone, until I met my husband, Paul. He doesn’t like to swim, and never actually goes into a lake or the ocean. Luckily, he does enjoy canoeing and kayaking.

One of my best friends surprised me once when she declined to go swimming with me. She loved to be at the seaside—just not in it. Then there was the time I visited another friend who was vacationing on Cape Cod. She was taken aback when I suggested we go to the beach.

Both of my parents enjoyed swimming, so I started going to the beach at an early age. I have a picture that shows my mother and her friend sitting on the beach with their year-old baby girls.

I love that photo because it expresses how I think of myself—as a “water baby.”

There was a lot of water where I grew up in southeastern Massachusetts. The ocean lies to the south about 20 miles away, at Newport and Little Compton, R.I. Mount Hope Bay extends from Narragansett Bay to the tip of my hometown, and the Taunton River snakes down to the bay to form the eastern border of the town.

There, in the days when people still swam in rivers, I learned to do the crawl, breaststroke and backstroke. We had a small town beach, and every year for six years I took lessons and proudly received my Red Cross certification card. I think I still have them all. When it came to Junior Lifesaving, though, I declined, as I was afraid to dive.

It was handy to have a beach right in town, but I always understood it wasn’t any kind of destination. Our favorite family beach was down in the quaint village of Little Compton, where a rough patch of rocky terrain stretched thin between a pond and the sea. Here, at South Shore, the waves pounded wild and fierce, which is just the way my father liked it. It was quite a drive down winding country roads to get there, but we’d stay the whole day. Lunch was hot dogs cooked by dad on a portable grill. I remember I would stay in the water so long, bodysurfing, that I would eat while wrapped in a big towel, my lips blue.

For some reason, my parents rarely took us to Horseneck State Beach, which is just a few miles to the east as the crow flies from South Shore, and just over the line in Massachusetts. It is a sandy place, famous for its dunes. Maybe it was because Horseneck was a place teenagers liked to go. Certainly, once I got my license, my sister and I and our friends would spend many happy hours there, during our summers.

When I was in high school, my parents bought an above-ground pool. It wasn’t all that big, or fancy, but none of my friends had any kind of pool at all. None of my relatives did, either, come to think of it. So, our modest pool was quite popular. It didn’t replace the ocean, but I loved being able to take a dip every day.

My family went to Florida during many April vacations. Once Disney World opened, we’d trek inland to Orlando, but we’d spend most of our time on the coast. One of my favorite memories is of several days spent right on the beach in St. Petersburg. An aunt had come along with us that year, bringing our number to five (plus two dogs) so we stayed in a housekeeping apartment that had sliding glass doors overlooking the water. What a joy it was to run right out those doors and into the warm surf.

I suffered the worst sunburn of my life that year in St. Pete, but that doesn’t tarnish my recollections one bit.

We never did much swimming in lakes. Dad always said it was harder to swim in fresh water, although we never exactly swam in the waves at the South Shore, either. One time I convinced him to take us to a state park with a lake that some of my friends had been to with their families. It sounded like a fun place. He agreed, but even I had to admit that it was buggy and crowded. The next weekend we returned to the relative solitude of Little Compton.

My parents had met not far away, at a dance in the ballroom at Lincoln Park, an amusement center. A few weeks after they began dating, my mother went on a weekend trip with her girlfriends to Old Orchard Beach. My father decided to follow them up there with a couple of his friends. I’m sure he thought he was quite clever as the young men surprised the young ladies on the beach. But the joke was on him, as he loved to tell the story. Dad, showing off, ran straight into the water, which, being Maine, was frigid. Of course, he had to stay in a few minutes nonetheless, just to save face.

Even after 28 years in this state, I’ve yet to get used to the cold water. Well, maybe I have adapted somewhat, as Old Orchard is one of the few ocean beaches I can tolerate. I’ll walk along others farther north and enjoy their beauty, but swim? No.

Luckily, Maine has many lakes, and I am fortunate to live among them. My town beach is on a pond, and I appreciate the convenience of having a swimming hole handy. But I can’t stay too long away from the ocean. It’s where I feel most at home.

Column: Our "mixed marriage" creates outdoor dining woes

Ours is a mixed marriage. I like to eat outside in the warm weather. He doesn’t.

It’s a minor quibble, to be sure. Not any kind of deal breaker, obviously; we’ve been happily hitched for 28 years. But summer is so fleeting. Shouldn’t we take every chance to be outdoors?

That’s not Paul’s problem. He enjoys working in the yard, hiking and napping in a hammock. We spend a week each year on the coast up along Penobscot Bay, and Paul will take his morning tea on the deck, and spend hours reading out-of-doors there.

In fact, he would be the first to tell you that he is outside, rain, shine, or snow, six or more times a day walking our dogs and tending to our chickens.

He just doesn’t like eating in nature.

I think I know the reason why. It can be messy. We may go on one picnic a year—Paul is generous that way—and if the sandwich I’ve made leaks or dribbles, my good husband recoils. I don’t take it personally, as the same thing happens in restaurants. Paul is fond of meatball subs, which is a very sloppy dish. He only remembers this when he gets his sandwich. Luckily, Paul is not self-conscious about eating his meatball mess with a knife and fork.

His neatness is one of the things that drew me to him. I, not surprisingly, since opposites do attract, go about life rather haphazardly. I’m forever dropping bits of food onto myself, which I luckily manage to remove before anyone sees them.

So, it goes without saying that I never pack anything that drips when we dine in the wilderness. But, sometimes, bread is crumbly, or I’ve added too much mustard, or the lettuce pops out when Paul squeezes his sandwich. Oh, dear. 

Here is a fun fact. When we pick up our empty plates from the dinner table, there is often a perfect ring of crumbs on my place mat. This never happens to Paul.

I think my husband doesn’t like the wind flapping napkins around, and would rather not deal with bugs. Paul doesn’t like having the sun in his eyes. Well, I’m not happy when my lemonade is dive-bombed by bumblebees either. The difference is, I think the joys of dining outdoors are worth the inconveniences.

I’m more sensitive to hot weather than Paul is, so when we eat at home during the summer, I do prefer eating outside. We have a deck and a front porch, one facing north and the other, south, so we have options for a range of weather situations. I know Paul prefers the porch, so I’ll suggest we go there whenever possible. However, it’s dangerous to dine out there during any campaign season. Candidates on a mission don’t care if we’re eating; in fact, they see us as a captive audience. Really, do they think they’ll get our votes after interrupting our repast?

Especially my rare alfresco experience?

I remember, with fondness, the time the fire alarm went off at our local Panera Bread. We grabbed our food and found a table outside.There was no fire, so we just kept eating. That’s what it took to get Paul outside—and, no, I didn’t pull the alarm.

My husband is rather smug about his ability to avoid the Panera “terrace.” When we visit in the middle of winter, he’ll often say, “Are we eating outside today?”

I don’t mind so much about Panera, because the tables are set up on the edge of the parking lot. It’s really not all that inviting. An excellent, cozy seafood restaurant in our town, however, has a fine outdoor seating area. Although a water view would make it perfect, it does face a wide field, which is quite pretty. Whenever it is warm enough to eat outside there, I want to. Indoors, the restaurant can be busy, crowded and noisy. Outside—well, there’s that field, and the sky, and hopefully a nice breeze.

You’d think this would be a given at this particular location. Not for Paul. He usually agrees to eat outside there, but he’s not happy about it.

Luckily, I am the cook in our household, so I can usually get my way at home. Paul knows that there is one day a year that we positively, absolutely, have to eat outside if at all possible: the Fourth of July.

Sometimes we eat outside twice on that day!

Last year, we were on vacation, so we had our Independence Day lunch on a dock. It was sloppy lobster rolls, too. But a rule’s a rule.

I grew up eating outside a lot. My father’s sister lived in town and our families alternated hosting clambakes and cookouts. We also went to Newport, R.I. frequently in the spring (we lived only 15 miles away in Massachusetts), eating our lunch, which was usually ham sandwiches, on the bold, rocky cliffs. In the summer, we went to a favorite beach nearly every Sunday, where Dad grilled hot dogs for us once we emerged from the wild surf.

I have a picture of Paul and me at my aunt’s house, during a cookout. He looks pretty happy. I think it was taken before we started eating; before, that is, the mustard had a chance to squirt.