Pandemic Jean Jacket Done!

 I should have been out walking. I should have been working on my memoir. Instead I slid into the comfort of cross stitch, a talent my dear grandmother gave me back in the 1970s.

Mr. J gave me a jean jacket for my birthday. A nice one. And then, just a week afterward, we were in lockdown.

So I went to work.

EXHIBIT A: GRITTY IS THE CENTERPIECE

I actually got permission to use this design from its creator.

It says "No Grit No Glory." The green strip just above the bottom is my name, with a snowflake. More about the Phoenix in a moment.

After I finished Gritty, I thought, "It would be really cool to make this jacket monster-themed." And that's what I did.

EXHIBIT B: RAT FINK

I'll bet some of y'all remember this hot rod mascot from the 1960s. This is an iron-on patch, and I must say they adhere better than they did in the past. Technology isn't totally a waste. To the left of Rat Fink you'll see more snowflakes. They are buttons I sewed down the front.

EXHIBIT C: PHOENIX

Iron on patches are kind of cheating, but I could never have done this amazing Phoenix on my own, on a jean jacket. I have plans to add some words above it, but other projects come first.

EXHIBIT D: MOTHMAN

I really enjoyed working on Mothman. Above him is my WVresist button I got from the Women's March on Washington and my "My Heart, My Soul, and My Grave Are In Appalachia" pin. Under the arm is a pin that says "Tax the Rich."

EXHIBIT E: MURDER HORNET AND CTHULHU

My daughter The Heir drew the murder hornet. It is straight-up embroidery. Above it is a pin featuring Otter the River God (long story), and a Jersey Fresh pin. Cthulhu is a patch. And I've never been able to spell his name without looking it up.

EXHIBIT F:  FRONT OVERALL

So this jawn has pins and more pins on it. In no particular order, Union Yes, NJEA PAC, BLACK LIVES MATTER, SEPARATE CHURCH AND STATE, and the others previously mentioned.

When my daughter The Fair was snapping these photos, we totally forgot to take a picture of the Flying Spaghetti Monster patch I sewed on the back at the top.

There's one last monster, and it's the absolute worst of all.

EXHIBIT H: HORRIBLE MONSTER

This says, and I quote, "Any protesters, anarchists, agitators, losers or lowlifes who are going to OKLAHOMA please understand you will not be treated like you have been in NEW YORK, SEATTLE, or MINNEAPOLIS. It will be a MUCH DIFFERENT SCENE."

Followed by the monster's name, the date, and #notmypresident.

Counted cross stitch and embroidery had gone by the wayside, being considered an obsolete granny-driven art form based on platitudes and pretty flowers. But a new generation has taken it up and given it a whole new direction. I'm so glad, because it never would have occurred to me to bend such a floofy hobby to novel ends.

I haven't done this one myself yet, but it's on the radar. Don't you love it?

And fuck the Smithsonian Institution too. To me this post screams "pandemic diary."

Two Trips Navel Gaze

My traveling experiences are so limited that it's embarrassing. I've never taken a major vacation, as in getting on a plane and biffing off to another continent or some fantastic national park. At the rate I'm going, it looks very unlikely that I ever will.

In the meantime, girls just wanna have fun. So this summer I took two weekend excursions, one with my daughter The Heir, and one with my daughter The Fair. (Old timers will notice I've changed this up a bit.)

The Fair and I went to my old stomping grounds. We visited my sister for an overnight at her home near Williamsport, Maryland. That was fun, because Sis has done a 180 in her political views and is no longer remotely interested in the Pentecostal people she used to hang with. We had a lot of fun! Here's Fair at the Potomac River, which was quite high.

The next day The Fair and I went to Cumberland, Maryland, where my grandparents are buried, right next to my grandfather's brother (and near another brother). I got to telling Fair all about how kind these people were, what straight-up great folks they were, and she listened to me gab. She's very interested in family lore, and I never get tired of talking about it.

So we laid some flowers on my grandmother's grave (she loved flowers). Then we drove out to Polish Mountain. There's a beautiful covered bridge at the foot of the mountain, perfect for photo opportunities.





This, of course, is The Fair, earning her name.

And here I am, on the other side of the bridge. Notice how high the creek is in the background! It's never like that in August!

(I try to counter-act my New Jersey license plates by wearing Orioles garb and putting an Orioles baseball cap in the back window of the Subaru.)

The best thing about this bridge is that, even after a major renovation in 1998, they didn't replace my grandfather's initials, carved who-knows-when. They used the original beams for the renovation ...

Those are my dad's initials too. Dad was a Junior. But this is Senior's work.

The Fair and I went to Polish Mountain specifically to watch the Perseid meteor shower. We have done this before, but not for a long time. We arrived at the old family home (now no longer in the family, and I'm the only one who cares), and of course it was cloudy. So we passed a few enjoyable hours excavating old bottles from the former trash heap that my great-uncle and great-aunt had out along the mountainside. Just look at this magnificent item Fair literally dug out of the ground!

Scoff if you like at the process of ancestor worship, but Fair and I had just spent an hour at a cemetery talking about my great-aunt and what a treasure of a person she was. This item was buried in the ground. Fair only saw the lid. It's an old one, too!

Time came to build a bonfire, except the skies opened up and a thunderstorm commenced. When that died down, we did build a fire, on the long shot hope that the clouds would clear away. And they did, for about an hour of meteor-viewing. We saw about a dozen. This is a low number, but hey, it clouded up again!

Fair and I stayed at the Road Kill Cafe, which has cute little cabins that are very rustic and clean. The next day we took a hike in Green Ridge State Forest. Now, this is where it really became frustrating. I have a goal in that forest to reach an extremely obscure swimming hole called Long Pond. Trouble is, the hiking trail is super steep. That doesn't stop me (see below), but on this day, we kept hearing thunder, and we kept getting little spits of rain. It just didn't seem like a good bet to be clambering about in those conditions. Fair did climb a bit and get a glimpse of the swimming hole, from a distance. So we at least know for sure it exists.

There are lots of cats and kittens at the Road Kill Cafe, just wandering around with only basic needs met. Fair loved this. We found many excuses to loiter, even when the cafe was closed.

This was an excellent and memorable trip back to the land of the ancestors (blessed be to them). I'm so glad my daughter The Fair is interested in learning about her family!


More recently I went on an overnight excursion with my daughter The Heir. While Fair is nostalgic for the land of her blood, Heir is eternally infatuated with New Jersey. This is good and bad. The bad part is, what a lousy state to be infatuated with! The good part is, it's easy to have fun experiences in New Jersey, because we don't have to drive for hours to get there.

Heir and I love to hike. I've been collecting waterfalls, so I tried to find a hiking destination that would include both waterfalls and vistas. Heir likes vistas.

Vistas? Waterfalls? In New Jersey? Shhhhh ... don't tell anyone!

Heir and I hiked for two days in Norvin Green State Forest. She was very patient with me on the impossible, ridiculous, no-woman-my-age-should-be-doing-this rock climbing.

First we took a trail to a place called Osio Rock. There was only one scary part.

The sign gives you an option for a difficult climb or an easy go-around. Guess which one Heir wanted to do? So, what the hell, I'm only gonna be 60 at my next birthday, I'm only the breadwinner in my house ... why not?

Yes, I did climb down this cliff. It was one of many.

It has always been my dream to go hiking in the grand parks of this lovely nation, but I've never had the opportunity. But I'll bet you even the most veteran hiker of Yosemite and the Grand Canyon never saw what Heir and I saw from the top of Osio Rock.

We saw the skyline of New York City. The photo does not really capture the surreal quality of the experience, but here goes:

Can't really see the skyscrapers unless you enlarge the photo. But trust me, they were there. It was like something out of Star Wars.

On the second day of our hike, I had researched a charming loop trail to a place called Wyanokie High Point. The trail also included a waterfall, Chikahoki Falls. I love those names, don't you?

The trouble was, the map that I was using didn't have proper topographical benchmarks on it. Free advice: always consult the topo map! Heir was very, very patient as I lugged my ancient butt up over rocks and down steep inclines, and up over more rocks, and up and up and up, then down and down and down, and all of it over rocks, rocks, and more rocks.

The waterfall was really pretty.

A smart, well prepared woman of a certain age would have called it quits right there, by the waterfall. Not me. Oh no. Off we went to Wyanoki High Point, by the toughest route on the map! I shiver just thinking about it!

I. Am. A. Badass.

The last observation I'll make about the jaunt to Norvin Green State Forest is that it was the first time I really used my organic, free-range hiking stick, pictured above. I grew it myself, and it was very helpful and not at all heavy or hipster!

In case you wondered what the rest of my summer looked like, here I am on a week day.

Hot, dirty, strenuous work on the paint crew, Monday through Friday, 6:00 a.m. until 2:30 p.m. But that's what gets a girl ready to climb rocks.

Perfect Together

In a million years I never thought I would say this ... but I love New Jersey.

Today my daughter The Heir and I went to Absecon Inlet for a short beach day. It was so festive! There were kids everywhere, swimming and having a good time, and the parents and grandparents were all so chill. Someone near us was playing old school rap on a boom box, and folks were grilling burgers right on the beach. I volunteered to photograph not one but two cute couples with the surf in the background.

Speaking of surf, on the Jersey Shore the waves can knock you right off your feet, face first into the sand. But if you live in Jersey long enough, you learn where to go. Absecon is an inlet. The waves don't crash. They swish lightly to shore. Today the water was so clear that Cloacina gladly accepted an invitation from Oshun to check out the awesome school of dolphins that cavorted just beyond the pier.

Regarding the dolphins, almost everyone thought they were seeing a shark. Including me. Looked just like the fin you see in all the Jaws movies. But the lifeguards weren't perturbed. So I went to the guard stand, and the conversation went something like this:

Anne: Um, should I be concerned about the fin I just saw out there?

Lifeguard: That's a dolphin. Sharks swim under water.

Anne: I should know that! Geez, maybe we all ought to take tests before they let us out on the beach, huh?

Lifeguard: Nah, that's what I'm here for.

Sweetness and light, don't you think? And that same guard had to streak into the water two times to rescue little tots who got in over their heads. That's what he's there for!

The sky was bright blue, the water was bright blue, and there was a boat named after The Spare.

You'll just have to believe me. I couldn't zoom.

I always take the back roads to Atlantic City, or Asbury Park, or whatever beach I visit. Today, driving home from AC, we passed roadside farm stands full of peaches and corn and crabs, and then we drove through the peach orchards, and then we drove through the blueberry farms, and the trees and the earth smelled so sweet. Everything is green and ripe, and the sun didn't set until 8:30.

Years and years ago, New Jersey had a tourist campaign called "New Jersey and You: Perfect Together." The masot's name was Perfy. Oh, I used to belittle this weird-looking thing, and the whole smelly state! I'm a proud Appalachian, after all.

Just now I'm feeling that New Jersey and I could be perfect together.

You see, across the street from Absecon Inlet beach is a high-end shore house that had a TRUMP flag (and a big one) flying from the second floor. And across the street at the beach, Heir and I were almost the only white people, and all of us had our backs to that damn flag!

Did you ever notice that the sea shore smells different from the rest of the world? Of course you've noticed that! Well, the rest of New Jersey is starting to smell pretty good too. We've all turned our backs on Donald Trump, and soon Chris Christie will be history as well.

Then it may well be perfect. Perfect.

Benches on a Boardwalk

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you live and kicking from the great state of New (*coughcoughcoughHACKcough*) Jersey! Remember our slogan: "New Jersey and You: Poisoned Together!"

Now don't you wish you lived here too?

On Friday morning I found myself in the seaside resort of Ocean City, New Jersey. The skies were cloudless, a fine breeze stirred the sand, and I had two early morning hours in which to stroll the boardwalk before returning to the teachers' convention.

Having grown up in the mountains, I have trouble loving the beach. I've never quite gotten over that whole tidal thing. You know, water running uphill. Bothers the hell outta me.

Then there's the crowds. The tacky shops. The high prices. The lack of parking. The broiling sun. If that's your idea of vacation, you go. I'll stay at home and clip coupons.

However, on a November Friday, the boardwalk holds none of its usual nuisances. The stores are closed (no high prices). The sun is welcome (not broiling). Parking is overwhelmingly ample. And the people are few and far between. In this case, the whole seaside resort thing suddenly becomes appealing to me. I can even handle high tide without the jitters!

With soaring spirits, I set out for a stroll.

Let me backpedal for a minute, purely in a navel gaze mode. Summer before last, I went with Mr. Johnson to Ocean City to pick up the Spare from an overnight stay. Mr. J and I went onto the boardwalk, and I couldn't make it one block. My arthritic hip was so bad I just couldn't walk that uneven surface at all. It was hell.

Flash forward to 2009. The hip is fixed. I can stroll and stroll! If you've never been disabled, and subsequently fixed, you can't imagine the high it gives you to walk three miles on a boardwalk, where once you couldn't limp more than a block.

So I set out for a stroll on the quiet, postseason Ocean City boardwalk.

At first, I loved it. No people! No noise! Nothing but the waves, the sun, and the occasional biker, or the thump thump thump of a determined jogger. The stores were all shuttered. One had a sign in the window: "Open every weekend, except during bad blows." Well, I liked that. Seemed sensible to me.

I walked to the north end of the Ocean City boardwalk, turned around and started south again. Somewhere between 14th and 16th streets I had a sea change. (Imagine that!) The dead, deserted boardwalk began to weigh on my merry mood. It seemed so empty. Such a shell. (another bad pun) And so, as I turned back toward 9th street, I decided to walk the other side of the boards. The side with the benches.

There are two or three benches every 20 feet or so on the Ocean City boardwalk. Some of them face the sea, but many of them face land. I had noticed before that the benches all have dedication plaques on them. I'd just never read any. Now, in order to ignore that incoming tide, I started to study the plaques.

Major discovery here. People love their families.

The vast majority of the plaques are dedicated to departed "mom moms" and "pop pops" who brought children and grandchildren to Ocean City for a great time. Apparently these deceased grandparents were highly successful at creating happy memories. Bench after bench records how much people are missed, how much they loved the ocean, how much their children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews loved them.

My family also made an annual vacation trip to Atlantic City when I was a little girl. (We lived in the mountains, so a mountain vacation was no fun. Or some such.) I remember these trips to the shore as traumatizing events. My mom had bipolar disorder, and she didn't forget to pack it in her suitcase when we went on vacations. So basically, visiting Atlantic City for a week only meant I had no place to hide from her fury.

Like most little kids who grow up far from the sea, I was afraid of the waves breaking on the shore. I didn't want to go into the water. Mom would have none of that. Well, she put up with it for a day or two. Then she lifted me up roughly, strode out into the surf, and dumped me there. Then she took a picture of me, wailing in the brine. Then she spanked me for crying.

Is it any wonder I can take or leave the beach?

Anyway, all morbid memories aside, it was quite cathartic to see all those benches, lovingly inscribed to people who doled out love and joy by the beautiful sea. May they have found the Summerlands. May they be dancing with the nixies. Forever and ever, so mote it be!

I'm sure I'll never be named on a plaque on a bench by the sea. No problem. I don't want a plaque. What I do want is the love that leads family members to bestow such honors.

To any bored God or Goddess within earshot, please hear this prayer:

May I be worthy of a bench on the boardwalk.
May I be worthy of a flower on the flood.
May I be remembered often and fondly.
May the Summerlands open to me.

Busy day tomorrow, and night school Monday. Catch you soon, my friends!

I Do

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where love is always in the air! Bored gods and goddesses put it there, for all to share. It's only fair.

Last night at 12:01 EST, the state of New Jersey began to conduct civil union ceremonies for gay and lesbian couples. We at "The Gods Are Bored" applaud this action.

Yes, we know ... we know ... it falls short of the magic word, marriage. For now, though, it's a giant step for loving couples who want the same legal protection that is accorded to straight people.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" think that marriage is a state of mind, not something intoned by a priest or slapped on some fancy, flower-bedecked certificate. (I've got one of those. It makes me laugh.)

We've heard of people who got divorced before they had paid off all the credit card debt they ran up for their fancy weddings. Was that marriage, or just a day where you pretended to be Barbie and Ken?

We at "The Gods Are Bored" are proud to live in a state with a big, broad, flexible outlook. We feel that civil unions will enrich our neighborhoods with great folks and bring sadly-needed tax revenues into our coffers. We're going to get plenty of gay people moving into our state. And that is great!

I don't know about you, but truly I will sleep more soundly tonight, knowing that my fellow citizens of New Jersey are all entitled to the same state rights that I'm enjoying. And the rest of it is none of my business. No gay person has ever stained my furniture, so why should I barge into their private lives?

Yours from the Great Blue Northeast,

ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

New Jersey and You - Perfectly Rainbow

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," broadcasting live from New Jersey, the Asphalt State. We get no respect here in Jersey. We give you Frank Sinatra and Bruce Springsteen, you give us your toxic waste.

Forget the part about the toxic waste. Because New Jersey is really the Garden State, and if you're gay, we want you!

If you live in Mississippi or Kansas, or some other dreadful Red State, and you're blissfully in love with your same-gender partner, then pack up the old kit bag and move to New Jersey! We've got brand new civil union laws that will provide your loved one with peace of mind in his or her old age.

And hey. Once you get around these mammoth property taxes, you can get yourself a really nice little bungalow, fix it up, and get along great with your broad-minded neighbors!

Gay Americans, New Jersey wants you! We know how to judge character here. Heck, it's a lot easier than judging the commuting time from Clifton to Wall Street.