no candles please, it'll just set off the smoke alarm...

Seriously?
 Does this mean it's all downhill from here?

the hole

When I was a kid growing up in Queens, I knew our neighborhood like the back of my hand. In those days, (let's mosey on back to the dark ages for a moment, shall we?) parents kicked their kids out of the house to "go play outside" whenever possible. In the summertime, after a breakfast of Cap'n Crunch or Cocoa Puffs, we'd be out on the street, high on sugar, and looking for someone to play with by about 9 am.

After my friend Jenny and her sister Lisa moved to California, my sister Kathy and I had to go around the block to play with the kids who lived on the next street. It's not like we were the only kids left, it's just that we didn't mingle much with the ones who lived at the other end of our own street, even though some of them went to the same Catholic school we did. Anyway, most of them were boys who were pretty obnoxious and always trying to start turf wars or they teased my sister, and then I'd have to beat them up just to prove I could.

(This is the way things worked in a nine year old girl's world back in the dark ages: You were either the cute little thing in pink who had a boyfriend right out of kindergarten, and went around kissing boys you liked until they stopped being afraid of "cooties" and kissed you back, or you were the tomboy who ran around and rode your bike and climbed trees with the boys, and beat them up when they deserved it. Needless to say, I still wouldn't be caught dead wearing pink, but then again, I also didn't have a boyfriend until I was about 14, either. But they did respect me.)

Sometimes we tried playing with the two Dimbat boys who lived next door but they were just too strange and wild. (More on those two another time.)

So that left mining the next block for eligible kids. The house directly behind us was populated by another Italian family with five kids, two of whom, Nicole and Jeanette, were the same ages as my sister and I. Our backyards were separated by a tall, dense privet hedge that my dad resisted trimming until he had to get out the stepladder to reach the top of it. It's not as if Dad didn't care, it's just that our house was in a constant state of renovation, and the hedges were probably not his highest priority. On top of that, Mr. Rosso tended to get rather pissy about it, since he always kept his side of the hedge neatly trimmed. Our rather unkempt half protruding over the top must have really messed with his perfectionist tendencies. He would occasionally get on a ladder himself, lean over and trim our side, and then toss the clippings into our yard. I heard my dad muttering more than once about what he'd like to do with those clippings.

Going around the block to play was complicated. If we took the shortest route, we had to walk along a very busy boulevard, which my grandmother insisted was populated by unsavory characters. Going the long way around was just...long. We soon realized that there was a thin spot in the hedge between our yard and the Rosso's that would allow us to cut through to the next block with ease. It became known as The Hole, and all the kids soon got in the habit of going through that way, until Nicole's father found out. It just didn't sit right with him somehow.

the hole

He complained to our parents that we were going to ruin the hedge. (I'm pretty sure we weren't the first kids to figure out the shortcut, since the hedge already had a very well-worn path through it.) My parents pretty much dismissed him as a bit of a crackpot took his side and urged us to take the long way around, rather than get into trouble.

Of course to us kids, the sensible thing to do was to just get more stealthy about it. It became a challenge to cut through The Hole without being seen by Nicole's parents, and we sometimes had to post lookouts to make sure the coast was clear. We concocted elaborate schemes to divert attention away from the back yard so her parents didn't spot us. We even built a periscope once out of paper towel tubes to see around corners. It was relatively easy to avoid getting caught until the fateful day Mr. Rosso put up The Fence.

the fence

(photo borrowed from these guys)

The Fence was of the type you usually see at pioneer forts, at least six feet tall, with sharp pointy tops designed to keep the marauding hoards at bay. I think he assumed that once the yard was enclosed, the kids would give up using The Hole and take the long way around. The only exit from the yard was now a gate situated under the kitchen window, where Mrs. Rosso, who always seemed to be standing at the sink washing dishes, became the de facto gatekeeper.

Far from being a deterrent, The Fence became a challenge, forcing us to step up our game. Now, not only did we have to make it through The Hole without being seen, but we also had to open the gate, slip through and make it all the way down the driveway without getting yelled at.

The Hole never lost its appeal for us, and in fact it proved useful many times when we were being chased by bullies who didn't know the territory as well as we did. Once, our friend Zanny, who was about 12 or 13 at the time, was going home from our house one night, and was dutifully walking around the long way when he encountered a drunk guy peeing on the sidewalk and exposing himself. (my grandmother turned out to be right about the unsavory characters) When Zanny turned around and started running back to our house for safety, the guy followed him. He stayed under our protection for awhile and then decided to cut through The Hole to his house on the next block, unobserved and safe. (and if you're wondering why my parents didn't get involved, it was probably because our dad was still at work, and we were home under the supervision of our older brother.)

I know it sounds like we lived in a rough inner city 'hood, but it was really just your average middle class residential neighborhood in the New York City borough of Queens. I'm sure our parents had no idea we were ever chased by bullies, or hung around the tracks of the Long Island Railroad for that matter, either.

Basically, we just figured what they didn't know couldn't hurt us.

Protecting your parents from your childhood: it's a time honored tradition.

the hole (west)

in my neighborhood in Portland

And whatever happened to Mr. Rosso? I heard a rumor he moved to Texas and lobbied to build another fence...

invisible horses

Way back in the dark ages when I was little, kids used to play outside after school. My little sister Kathy and I were no exception. We had a TV, but we weren't allowed to watch it if the weather was good enough for our mom or grandmother to shove us out the door to get some "exercise" and "fresh air." (We lived in NYC...there was no fresh air) In fact, it didn't even matter if the weather was good, we often found ourselves roller skating in the garage on rainy afternoons with our friends, going around and around in tight circles until we were dizzy and giggling and falling down.

In the winter, when the snowdrifts blocked the garage door or Mom didn't feel like cleaning up wet muddy clothing, I'd sit in the breakfast room for hours, wearing down crayon after crayon drawing pictures of horses.

Horses! I was crazy about 'em. I fell head over heels the first time I was put on the back of a little pinto in the pony ring at Kissena Park in Queens. I planned and schemed and measured the garage to see if we could build a stall big enough for a small horse. I was a realist. I knew how big thoroughbreds were, having seen them at Belmont racetrack, but I was pretty sure a feisty little mustang would be quite cozy in there. I lobbied for most of my childhood, I think, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. The parents were not gonna budge.

My best friend Jenny, who lived two doors down from us, had a wild imagination. We made up new games almost every day. Some were based on television shows, but most came straight out of our crazy little eight year old heads.

One day, we were sitting on my stoop discussing our love of horses and lamenting our parents' shortsightedness. (They just didn't seem to get how useful horses could be: they were easy to park, and I would be happy to run any sort of errand on my trusty steed, Dad wouldn't have to pay for train fare on the Long Island RR to Times Square, we'd never have to mow the lawn again, I could ride for help in an emergency, etc.)

Anyway, Jenny and I decided right then and there, that if we couldn't have visible horses, we'd just have to get some invisible ones that our parents couldn't see.

I decided my horse would be named Chocolate Pudding. He was a dark brown bay mustang with a long, flowing mane and tail the color of whipped cream. I think Jenny's may have been a pinto. The stables we kept them in (Cloud Nine Stables) were located (yep, you guessed it) on Cloud Nine.

Over the next couple of years, Jenny and I, her sister Lisa, and my sister Kathy formed the Invisible Horse Club of America, and held shows in our backyards. We held jumping events, steeplechases, and races, and endlessly debated the differences between a trot, a gallop and a canter. We set up viewing stands, and led stuffed animal parades down the block on our trusty steeds.

It was a great time to be a kid. No video games, or internet. TV was in black and white (ours was, anyway) and there wasn't much on in the afternoons except soap operas. Our parents expected us to amuse ourselves, so that's what we did.

I miss Chocolate Pudding. I just might have to get myself another invisible horse...this time, I think maybe it'll be a Palomino named Butterscotch. She won't be any trouble at all, really!

I'll just go measure the garage.

not exactly disney world, part 2

Yesterday, following this prompt from San Diego Momma, (What is your craziest travel adventure?) I started telling this tale from my sordid past. Scroll down to read part one. Here's part two:

* * * * * * *

(photo borrowed from this guy)

After we'd regained our composure in the restroom of a gas station in nearby Pittsfield, my boyfriend (always looking ahead for an opportunity to mooch) suggested, that since we were in Massachusetts with no place to go, I should call up my aunt and see if she was up for a visit. My aunt (actually my great aunt, the matriarch of my father's Irish Catholic family) lived in New Bedford, an old whaling town on the coast near Cape Cod. I had not had any contact with her in a couple of years, but I was pretty sure that she had heard rumors of my fall from grace, ie: my leaving home and school to travel around like a vagrant with my hippie boyfriend whilst thumbing my nose at responsibility and polite society. The thought of calling her up out of the blue (and it would have to be a collect call) made me a nervous wreck.

My father's side of the family (particularly the older generation) seemed to me to have very high standards of moral conduct. Maybe it was the proximity of New Bedford to Plymouth Rock, the original landing site of those uptight pilgrims who founded our country.

Or maybe it was the vision of my aunt's (a retired schoolteacher) stern countenance and upstanding character and the fact that any moral misconduct would be most likely be reported to my father that turned my knees to jello. In any event, the LAST thing I wanted to do was to call my aunt and ask to use her place as a crash pad with my hippie boyfriend and gay sidekick. The boyfriend, in his infinite wisdom, cajoled me into calling her (collect) and telling her that we'd be no trouble...we had a tent, and we could simply pitch it in her backyard and she'd hardly even know we were there.

(photo borrowed from this site)

I made the call from a phone booth somewhere between Pittsfield and Springfield. It did not go over well. Perhaps I didn't have the powers of persuasion that my boyfriend so obviously possessed. Maybe I didn't really want to go there. In any case, my aunt's response was unfailingly polite, but firm. That of course, she'd love to see me, but my friends would have to find alternate arrangements. The tent in the backyard was a definite no. I was relieved, but now I had to face the boyfriend and tell him we had no place to stay. His response was not exactly repeatable.

At this point, my gay best friend suggested we check out Cape Cod. We were headed that direction anyway, and he'd heard it was a nice place to pick up guys hang out, a gathering place for artists and others with alternative lifestyles. Maybe we could camp out there on the Cape for a couple of days and check it out. Next stop: Provincetown.

We rolled into Provincetown that afternoon, our ride dropping us just outside of town on Hwy 6. The weather was warm, and before us spread sand dunes rolling gently out to sea. It looked like the perfect place to camp, and was illegal but free within walking distance of town. We climbed over the guardrail and hiked out a ways, up and down the dunes, and finally pitched the tent on the lee side of a small rise overlooking the ocean and invisible from the road. It was a lovely spot, and we left shortly to check out the scene in Ptown.

We checked out the galleries and gift shops, and as darkness fell, the bar scene picked up. Not being a drinker, and being underage kept me outside on a bench while my boyfriend and friend (who had fake id) checked out the nightlife. As jailbait an underage girl in a gay resort town, I was at least relatively safe alone on my little bench, and after a couple of hours we decided to head back to the tent, and walked back along the road, now brightly lit by a full moon. As we came to the bend in the road where we thought we had set off across the dunes, it was apparent that we had sorely misjudged our wilderness camping skills: the tide had come in while we were out partying, and the water now came almost up to the road, the tops of the dunes just peeking out above the water.

This did not deter my best friend and my boyfriend, who by this time were both three sheets to the wind. They took my hands, and dragged me, whining, into the current, wading waist and then shoulder deep through the tide and up and down across the dunes. We had no idea if our tent was even still where we'd left it. I was positive we were all going to die.

We didn't die, and miraculously found our tent, but I was not convinced that the tide was all the way in, and couldn't sleep most of the night. Someone had to stay awake and keep watch while the two drunken idiots slept like the dead. At one point, a small boat with a searchlight on it motored by (I was convinced it was probably a police patrol boat looking for illegal activity) but they apparently didn't see our bright orange and green tent.

I suppose I did fall asleep for awhile, because I woke up to warm sunlight on the tent, and two snoring guys next to me. I quietly crawled out of my sleeping bag, and felt around for my glasses. When I started to unzip the tent screen, I came face to face with the biggest tick I had ever seen. It was on the outside of the screen, and it was then that I slowly realized all the hazy spots covering the tent I'd noticed before I put my glasses on were actually many, many more giant blood sucking bugs. I lurched away from the tent door, falling over my friend, and started sobbing. I'm not a wuss when it comes to bugs, but this was just too much. I figured these things could probably drain the three of us in about 30 seconds and leave our empty shells for the next high tide to take out.

The boys woke up, probably stirred by my now uncontrollable shaking, and complained loudly. When they realized what was happening, they both sobered up immediately. My boyfriend tried to tell me that they were just flies, and I was being a sissy, until he put his glasses on and gasped. My best friend, on the other hand immediately grasped the situation, and joined me in sobbing hysterically. My boyfriend (ever the knight in shining armour) then took control of the situation and went outside to scrape the ticks off the tent, while we cowered inside. When the coast was clear, we packed up and hiked back to the road, where my best friend promptly stripped naked and begged me to inspect him for ticks. The three of us looked like a trio of monkeys going through each other's hair looking for parasites.

By that summer, I had taken the GED, got my high school diploma, moved to California and enrolled in college in San Francisco.

My boyfriend hooked up with my best girlfriend and mooched off her, crashing in her dorm in upstate NY.

My gay best friend found a sugar daddy in Greenwich Village and took to spending winters in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

c'est la vie.

not exactly a trip to disney world...

Over at San Diego Mama's place, it's Prompt Tuesday #52, and the theme is: Craziest Travel Adventure...here's one:

Now, being a starving artist most of my life, I haven't exactly been a world traveler, but I've had one or two adventures here and there.

(photo borrowed from this guy)

Back when I was a young and stupid 16 year old high school dropout with a 21 year old boyfriend, I did a bit of hitchhiking around the countryside. Unemployed and unencumbered, we'd take off on a whim (mostly his) and head out on the open road. Sometimes we'd go places on our own, and other times he'd sweet talk friends into coming so we could mooch off their relations on the trip. Generally there were drugs and alcohol involved, and the transportation of choice was always hitch hiking.

I know what you're thinking. He was a jerk. An asshole. A child molester. Yes, yes, and yes... to all of the above. I know that now. (Actually, I figured it out about 35 years ago) I'm pretty sure I had an inkling then. But I was 16. I was looking for love in all the wrong places (more on that another time).

So, one fine, late spring day we he decided we should take a trip up to Massachusetts to visit an old friend and neighbor of his, Mrs. Green. Our rent was due, and and since neither of us were employed (I had gotten fired from my job shoveling french fries at McDonald's, (and I'm pretty sure he had never held a real job in his life), and considering that we hadn't paid the rent for a couple of months previously, it seemed a good time to get out of town travel. Mrs. Green had bought a cabin in the Berkshires, in hopes of retiring there someday, and was a good prospect to hit up for money friend who might let us stay there for a bit. We were joined on this trip by our roommate, (my best friend) who was another unemployed 16 year old art school drop out, in the midst of discovering his homosexuality.

We hitch hiked up to the Berkshires from Queens, arriving at Mrs. Green's mountain hideaway just as night fell in the middle of a drenching downpour. Mrs. Green was not in residence. Or maybe she was smart enough not to answer the door. In any event, things were looking bleak. We had the forethought to have brought a tent, but for some reason (Who knows? I certainly was not the one making the decisions) we spent the night in an apparently abandoned car on the dirt road leading up to her cabin. The next morning dawned clear and cold, and we were rudely awakened by an irate Massachusetts hillbilly slamming his fist on the windshield, demanding to know just what the F**K we were doing in his car? We high-tailed it down the muddy road as fast as we could, making tracks for the state highway, and the closest town. Apparently, people don't feel the need to lock up their cars in the country.

* * * * * *

The trip didn't end there, but good Lord, it's 1:43 am, and I've got to get to bed. I promise I'll fill in the rest tomorrow.

(you can read the rest of the story here: http://buenosburritos.blogspot.com/2009/04/not-exactly-disney-world-part-2.html )