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Mount Washington’s Alpine Garden

Mount Washington in NH is the highest peak in the Northeast, at some 6200 feet. The mountain is known for severe and volatile weather; treacherous ravine skiing 10 out of 12 months a year; its auto road and ‘This car climbed Mount Washington’ bumper stickers; and the popular cog railroad that chugs passengers up and down the mountain. Since the summit can be reached by means other than hiking, I’ve never felt an urge to step foot on Mt. Washington… until yesterday, when we decided to check out the blooming Alpine Garden on the mountain’s eastern slope.

We did a 8.5 mile loop (vertical rise 3500 feet) that started on the little-used Old Jackson Road trail, then up, up the rocky Nelson Crag trail, then across the Alpine Garden trail, then down the Lion Head and Tuckerman Ravine trails. On our way down, we encountered many men with labored breath asking “Did you get to the top?” How annoying. I quelled the urge to snottily blurt that peak-bagging was not our objective – we wanted to enjoy Mt. Washington’s unique alpine ecology. But in fact, we would have gone the extra mile to the summit had the weather forecast not included thunderstorms, which started right after we finished our hike.

When I say “Alpine Garden,” don’t you picture lounge chairs, beer, and Italian butlers with platters of Swiss chocolate? Unfortunately, we were forced to take our Alpine Garden tour in the midst of mist, fog, and wind. Even though the dizzying views were obscured in the clouds, I dug the Middle Earth mise-en-scene.

My overall impression of Mount Washington: Raw awe. Pleasing fear of nature. Pretty flowers.



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By Meredith – July 8, 2007

Preparing for Jehovah’s Witnesses

Having never been visited by a Jehovah’s Witness, L.L. doesn’t believe they exist. He is ready for them, though. He has a plan. When they come to his door, he will welcome them with milk and cookies, and invite them to sit down in his living room. He will deflect their conversion with his own highly-developed Christian theology. They will fall silent as he explains the fallacy of their biblical notions. When he’s done, they will be Episcopalians, and then they’ll all go see Ratatouille.

Us normal people can sneer all we want at those odd Jehovah’s Witnesses, who are infamous for door-to-door proselytizing about how impending Armageddon will result in precisely 144,000 people ascending into heaven while the remaining believers enjoy earthly paradise. But if you love freedom, you gotta love for the Witnesses. An article in the San Francisco Chronicle points out that these odd zealots do serve a secular purpose: Legal experts say Jehovah’s Witnesses’ lawsuits to protect their beliefs have done more over the past century to protect First Amendment freedoms than any other organization. The right to refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance, the ability to pamphleteer without government monitoring and the expansion of the Bill of Rights into state law are among the many precedents established or strengthened by litigation by Jehovah’s Witnesses.

The next time someone knocks on my door all eager to share the teachings of Jehovah, I have a prepared statement that I will read. “I respect that the Supreme Court has ruled that you do not need a permit in order to solicit door-to-door. I appreciate that your crazy beliefs have tested the boundaries of this country’s laws to establish our civil liberties. I acknowledge that the First Amendment protects our freedom to think and say pretty much whatever we want (with the exception of fighting words, as Jehovah’s Witness Walter Chaplinsky discovered). It’s all really great, really American. But I could never, ever be a Jehovah’s Witness. Your highly-developed doctrines about blood are too much for me. I’m a fainter, you see. Just looking at you, I’m picturing you bleeding to death on principles based on a random bible verse in the book of Acts. It’s making me light-headed, so I’m closing the door now.”

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By Meredith – July 6, 2007

Sheep Effer in Sherborn

I believe in getting news from a variety of media to ensure a well-rounded news diet.

The current staple of my media diet is the New York Times, which provides a nourishing mix of well-written liberal-slanted hard news spiced with cultural filler. I also feast weekly on the Economist – my leafy greens. To complete my recommended allowance of News of Historic Importance, I take supplements of the online versions of the Guardian and the London Times).

For my dose of regional news, the Boston Globe is an excellent source of Massachusetts politics and business, and I also dip in to a number of Boston-centered blogs. Sometimes I watch the local television news, but this is a once-in-a-while treat that doesn’t really satisfy any craving for news. The headlines invariably include a story about an incident of public rage or deep consumer dissatisfaction; a local couple or clergyman who is going to jail for child abuse; a joyous event that has ended in violence or tragedy; and a really special and/or cute animal.

Quite frequently, I nibble on infotainment, like Slate, Spiked Online, the Obscure Store, and BuzzFeed.

You’d think I’d be stuffed on news at this point, but then there’s super-super local news. Town news, like local ordinance disputes, high school sports, and ordinary people dealing with ordinary life. It’s the media equivalent of white bread, with the rare piece of chocolate cake: Yesterday, I go to the Metrowest Daily News online, expecting to read lame stories about local acts of patriotism…

And instead the headline story is “Sherborn teen charged with bestiality”. An 18-year old boy was caught having sex with sheep, thanks to a surveillance camera that was installed in the barn after a year of break-ins. The man grabbed a sheep by its hind legs and dragged it to the corner of the stall… The man removed his clothes and appeared to have sexual relations with the sheep. After finishing, the man put his pants back on and left the barn with his shirt in his hand.

Dear lord. You see, some people ignore local news because it is too fluffy or inconsequential, but this story illustrates perfectly why it is important to keep up with local news. Because yes, it’s important to know what is happening in Afghanistan, or what Gordon Brown’s attitude towards the US is, or how the trial against Charles Taylor is progressing at the Hague. But it’s also important to know that there’s a sheep effer in Sherborn.

Posted in In the News.

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By Meredith – July 5, 2007

Reigning

What crappy weather. The grave-faced weathermen deliver the forecast: 70 degrees, rain, wind. They are solemn, with a tad of joviality thrown in for mercy. Honestly, we don’t make the weather, we just report it. We like the Boston Pops Fireworks Spectacular just as much as anyone! Bad weather reports on the Fourth of July are like the final exam of meteorologist school.

Why is God punishing America like this on her birthday? Why, President Bush, why?

Here we have “Conversation Starters for Your BBQ: 9 off-beat facts about our Founding Fathers.” I can hear it now: “John Adams would have a hard time with this corn on the cob. He refused to wear dentures!” Silence and bewildered stares. “Chilly, isn’t it? Never thought I’d be wearing jeans on July 4th. Hey, did you know James Madison was the first President to wear long pants instead of breeches?” Crickets.

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By Meredith – July 4, 2007

Rebel Hell

My trip to Charleston, South Carolina made me think: Wow, what a pluralistic nation we are. It’s comforting to know that America isn’t entirely culturally homogenous because of retail chains with standardized business practices and products that have people from Maine to Texas to California drinking Frappuccino, wearing Crocs, and one-stop shopping at Target.

There are subtle differences. For example, we went to a bakery called “Atlanta Bread” that was exactly like “Panera Bread” except with less emphasis on salad. And there are not-so-subtle differences. For example:

Rock-solid Republican! Proud to be in the party of Bush and Cheney! Red States rule! It’s your fault that you’re poor and have no social welfare net! Yee-haw!
I imagined that branding oneself a staunch Republican would be slightly taboo given the party’s dismal approval ratings these days. But when it comes to Southern politics, rational logic does not apply. In fact, I bet the national backlash against Republicans only increases the party’s appeal in South Carolina. They’re rebels, after all. They’ll rebel against funding for public health and education, and be damn proud when they’re ranked near-bottom on nearly every social well-being index. Yee-haw!
I was interested to explore this bizarre psychology of having pride in spectacular defeat. We visited Fort Sumter, which is where the opening shots of the Civil War were fired in 1861, when Confederate soldiers lay siege on the fort until the Union surrendered it. On the ferry ride to Fort Sumter, I toyed with the idea of marching through the aisles of Southerners, singing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” But that could have been dangerous. There was no smoking allowed on the boat, so half of the passengers were in the throes of a nicotine fit. And I know someone had a gun. Yee-haw!
The South seems especially obsessed with flags. Pictured below are the flags at Fort Sumter. Note the flag on the right – one of numerous flag iterations for the Confederacy. This short-lived design of the Southern Cross in a field of white was often mistaken for a white flag of surrender. Yee-haw!

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By Meredith – July 3, 2007

The Night of Laringo

Last week, I promised to share the most rambunctious collegiate memory that surfaced over the weekend in Charleston. I made this promise for two reasons: 1- I was hanging out with my “good influence” college friends who had limited exposure to my most flagrant lasciviousness. 2- I was fully expecting a particular story to be told, because it’s always told. It’s an amusing, unique, classic story that sends me into a spiral of red-faced cringing and forehead cradling. We could be at a wedding reception, sipping wine and talking about how beautiful the bride is, and out of nowhere someone will say “Hey, remember Laringo?” And then everyone else jumps on the pile, eager to share their memories of the most embarrassing night of my college life.

But amazingly, an entire weekend went by without mention of Laringo! My friends must be losing it in their old age. Indeed, the untold story left a void. A void that I will now fill…

I met Laringo at a party on Hobart Lane, UMass Amherst’s notorious off-campus non-Greek party spot. I was fed up with the idiots at the party, and noticed a very tall, porcine black kid quietly standing by himself. Right when I said Hi to him, Bizmarkie’s “Just a Friend” came on, and he amused me by gently mocking all the white kids dancing to the corny rap. I hung out with Laringo for a bit, then my friends went to another party and I decided to call it a night.

Laringo offered to walk me back to my dorm. I accepted; it was a friendly and normal gesture since we lived in adjacent dorms. When we reached my dorm, he followed me to the security desk and gave the security desk his ID to get “signed in” as my guest. This unhinged me. I was a tittle lipsy. “Um, oh, you want to come in? Um, well, I’m going to sleep. Um, I guess I’ll sign you in. Um, bye. Oh, um, you’re coming up? My roommates might be sleeping. Well, um, oh.”

Once he was legally inside of my dorm, Laringo followed me to my room, a large triple room where my roommates were hosting an informal gathering of about a half-dozen neighbors and friends. When we appeared, the room hushed. Laringo ignored everyone and walked directly to my bed. “Help me!” I mouthed to stunned onlookers as a fully-clothed Laringo climbed into my bed. He wordlessly stared at me as I paced near the bed and jabbered about how late it was, and how my roommates wanted to go to sleep, and how he should maybe leave.

Meanwhile, word spread like wildfire down the hallway: There’s a gigantic black man laying in Meredith’s bed! Within a few minutes, about 20 different people visited our room to gawk at Laringo. It was high entertainment. Finally, after about a half-hour, my roommates made it very clear that we were going to sleep, and Laringo finally got out of my bed and left our room without incident or fuss.

The night of Laringo made me a laughingstock of our entire floor. Even my “bad influence” college friends got in on the fun, leaving messages on my voicemail in their best ebonic accents (Yo baby, whazup, diz Laringo) and playing “Jungle Fever” on the stereo at random times over the next two years. The enduring appeal of the Laringo episode comes from a combination of things: That he was black, huge, and had beached himself on my bed; that I was noticeably distraught and babbling; and that when a group of us went to breakfast the next morning, I talked loudly about how horrible the situation had been before realizing that I had chosen a table right across from Laringo himself.

Posted in Massachusetts, Nostalgia.

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By Meredith – July 2, 2007

The Star Spinning Banner

At a 6am spinning class, a short-lived burst of mysterious energy during Kayne West’s “Golddigger” abated quickly. I thought: What am I doing here at this ungodly hour? Why aren’t I sleeping? I turned down the tension knob on my bike to a flat road setting and decided to fake my way through the rest of the class.

Then Donna the instructor announced that the next song would honor the troops in Iraq. “If they can serve out there in the desert, then you can turn up the tension on your bikes.” And suddenly the spinning studio was filled with the sounds of the National Anthem – a traditional marching band version with no vocals.

Arguably a spinning class is not the proper context for “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but America is a uniquely flag-happy nation that welcomes any opportunity to be patriotic. We dutifully rose from the seats of our bikes into the hill-climbing position, our legs gallantly spinning. By the end of the anthem, I felt invigorated. Land of the free! Home of the brave! Even in a spinning class, America’s glory and pride reverberates in our hearts.

Today I read an AP article called “Bush Urges People to Exercise” that was not nearly as inspiring. “I exercise a lot because it’s good for my mind and it’s good for my soul,” said Bush, a mountain biker. Jesus Christ. What of Bush’s puny mind and his weak soul? During the same interview, Bush said, ”A lot of the dietary problems are what people eat. Our obesity problem is not just an exercise problem, but a bad diet.” Good lord, Bush can’t even speak eloquently about cream puff issues like our national fatness.

America would be much improved if, whenever Bush opened his mouth, someone would blare a recording of “The Star-Spangled Banner” to drown out his idiocy. Whatever he’s saying, don’t look to Bush for guidance, for strength, or for inspiration. Look to that glorious musical composition that evokes the history, struggles and triumph of our people. Remember our heritage, and keep it holy.

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By Meredith – June 28, 2007

The Reunion of Babb’s Babies

This weekend I’m off to Charleston, SC, for a much-anticipated reunion with my college housemates. In our senior year of college, the six of us lived in a squalid centuries-old house in Amherst that has since been torn down and replaced with a bank. The house was a nightmare: Fat mice in the closets, feral cats in the garage, and absolutely no counter space in the kitchen. We had a landlady named Marjorie Babb, a shrewy lady in her 70s who watched us with Mr. Furley-like moral scrutiny. “Babb’s Babies,” we were. (I just coined that term, but this weekend, I will campaign to make it stick.)

Despite now being scattered across the country, we convene semi-regularly. If it’s only a partial gathering, we’ll call an absent person and concoct a ruse to fool the person into believing something ridiculous. This has long stopped working effectively. “I don’t believe you,” one roommate told me last year when we called from Disney Land, saying that I had been chosen to star in that evening’s light parade. “Because whenever we get together, we call each other on the phone, and we lie!”

Yes, it’s true. I’m not sure why we do this, because we’re all such nice people. Except for me, of course, which is how I earned my nickname – “Old Salty.” I really can’t recall how earned this nickname. I think it has something to do with pirates and beer.

Lately, all of our reunions have been for our weddings. Everyone has been married except for me. Rather than sit around and wait for that to happen, we’re converging from all over the country to engage in ritualistic embarrassment by telling stories from our days of boozy debauchment. I’ll be back next week, and I promise to share the best one on this site.

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By Meredith – June 28, 2007

Johnny the Ladybug

A Children’s Story… Inspired by True Events

One summer morning, Johnny the Ladybug decided to fly to his favorite garden, where Johnny had been a larval only two months ago. Johnny wanted to visit his 3 brothers and his 3 sisters, who all had the same 7 black spots on their bright orange wing covers. Together, they would spend the day crawling through the long rows of corn, bean, and tomato plants, looking for tasty aphids to eat.

Johnny flew towards the garden through a canopy of trees, following alongside the train tracks. He soon came to a train platform where many people were standing. Johnny stopped to rest on a tree leaf and admire the people’s brightly-colored clothes. Suddenly, he heard a terrible noise. It got louder and louder, and a wind shook the leaf where Johnny was perched. Panicked, Johnny flew towards a woman and landed on her polka-dotted skirt.

Johnny clung to the cloth within the fold of the skirt. Something was wrong. The woman was moving! Johnny peaked out from behind the skirt. They were inside of a big box filled with rows of people. There was no grass for him to rest on, or plants to find aphids. A voice boomed, “This is the express train to Boston. Next stop, Back Bay.”

Johnny waited until the skirt stopped moving, then cautiously explored his surroundings. He walked along the skirt towards a faint light. His body brushed against something warm and soft, which jerked away suddenly. “A ladybug!” a feminine voice said. “Look, Mr. P! A ladybug is on my skirt!”

Johnny felt his whole body be lifted. He was in a person’s hands! The sensation was both thrilling and scary, and he began to run. “Ladybug,” a male voice said. “In my country, we call them coccinelle.”

“It’s good luck to find a ladybug on you,” the feminine voice said. “Don’t kill it! Let’s try to keep it until we get to Boston, and set it free outside.”

Johnny panicked and took flight. He flew above the people’s heads, searching for way to get out of this big, shaking box. Soon, his wings grew tired, and he landed on the hard ground to rest. “Now arriving Back Bay,” a voice boomed. “Please take all your personal belongings with you when you exit the train. Back Bay.”

Rumbling, all around! The ground shook! Johnny began to run in confusion. He imagined that if he just ran fast enough, he would soon be back in his garden, with his 3 brother and 3 sisters, and they would spend all day in the garden searching for tasty aphids to –

CRUNCH. Johnny the Ladybug, killed by a Teva.

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By Meredith – June 27, 2007

Algo-rhythms

While driving to Mt. Monadnock last Saturday, we turned on the radio. One station touted their ongoing “Whatever Weekend” after every song. Wow, whatever – a perfect example of the current popularity of random radio. Instead of catering to one genre of music (“The same 1000 classic rock songs!” “Today’s biggest hits, played until you are sick of them.” “Your only option for corporate alternative radio!”), stations are reaching out to variety-craving audiences who don’t care how a song is branded, they only care if it’s generally acknowledged to be an auditory delight. But they also want to be in constant suspense over the next song to come on the radio. They want zany surprises. They want whatever.

This shuffle-friendly radio listener likes rock and roll from any decade. Eighties pop is also essential, although novelty is eschewed in favor of respectable artists like Boy George, Bon Jovi, and Belinda Carlisle. They do like to be exposed to today’s latest hits, but with strict filters on teenybopper garbage. They’ll also groove on the occasional mainstream rap and country cross-overs, as well as tried and true oldies that have enjoyed a recent resurgence in pop culture.

Just as important as the niche-free content is the perceived randomness of the song order. Here’s an actual sample “Whatever” playlist: Madonna’s “Who’s that Girl” followed by Green Day’s “Holiday” followed by Tom Petty’s “Running Down a Dream” followed by Beyonce’s “Ring the Alarm” followed by UB40’s “Red Red Wine” followed by REM’s “Shiny Happy People” followed by Staind’s “It’s Been While” followed by the Police’s “Message in a Bottle” followed by Otis Redding’s “Dock of the Bay.”

For being so random, it flows suspiciously well, with extreme selections like “Holiday” and “Ring the Alarm” and “It’s Been Awhile” buffered by reassuring classics that anyone with a foothold into popular culture can enjoy on some level. In fact, the songs are too random. i-Pod users are familiar with that eerie occurrence when they are given two Beastie Boys songs in a row during shuffle mode, from a library of 5000 songs. Coincidence is a natural result of randomness, after all. On commercial radio, even the randomness is formulaic.

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By Meredith – June 26, 2007