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Blogs by Laura Spinella
Summer Whine 9/11/2010 1:58:51 PM
When I started this blog I swore I would never use it to gripe. I’d dedicate it to writing, things associated with writing, a place for the fodder from everyday life construed into pithy writing. I’d chat about my book; make that plural, if I’m so lucky. But like a relative that won’t take the hint and leave, I’m stuck in the dog days of August—and I am fully prepared to bemoan the situation. Let me qualify that by saying that I am neither a summer nor a winter person. I don’t like extremes. Given the fact that I live in Massachusetts, you can probably count on another seasonal lament come mid-March. Spring and fall work best for me, so even in New England I’ve had my fill of heat and weeds and summer vacation.
By late August I’ve traveled everywhere that I intend on traveling, and I’m tired of tripping over the suitcases that I’m too lazy to drag back into the storage closet. My planters are bug-bitten, gnarly globs of May promises, the flowers so spent I can no longer recall whether I went with a pink and white or red and purple theme. As I deadhead what’s left, I wonder just how much it would piss Mother Nature off if I hauled them out back and dumped them, trailing perky vines that are too stubborn to succumb to my disinterest. The planters might have lasted longer, but I caught Auggie, our puppy, lapping up puddles of Miracle Grow, thus thwarting any effort to fake a green thumb.
If you’re from my neck of the woods, take a poll in any grocery store and the majority of moms would agree: it’s over—unless it’s Whole Foods. People who shop in Whole Foods are unnervingly attached to their kids. They’re the ones who shudder at the very idea of little ones leaving home for an entire school day, the same moms who cut PB&J into heart shapes and have never bribed a child with M&Ms, or Junior Mints, or Little Debbie products if need be. I digress, that’s another gripe entirely. As summer fades, pools become passé, vacation souvenirs forgotten, and anyone with disposable income has disposed of it. Short of whale watching off Provincetown, there isn’t an interesting activity left on the East Coast. And just FYI if you’re ever in my neck of the woods, Provincetown’s midsummer gay and lesbian parade is way more fun. As for summer fun in the rest of the Bay State, the Sox don’t look so good, as we bide our time awaiting the cavalry who come in full Patriots’ attire. Aside from the inevitable apathy of summer, weather is often the first thing to give way in the Northeast. And Mother Nature obliged today, dropping her first hint: 63-degrees and rain.
Of course, my summertime gripe can be traced all the way back to the Fourth of July. We have a beautiful common in Franklin. I walk my dog there every evening. I used to walk both dogs, but the puppy pulls like a pit bull on crack so I make my eldest daughter walk him. Every July 4th our quiet common transforms into a quarter square mile of Mardi Gras madness. The town, I assume to raise revenue, puts on a carnival. Now if it was done in true Judy & Mickey aw shucks fashion, run by townies and had a dunking booth featuring Franklin’s most colorful residents, maybe a fortune telling tent run by a local gypsy I could buy into the charm. But the town brings in an outside vendor, the kind with rickety rides that look like they haven’t been inspected since the Nixon administration. With it come the people who run them, all of whom bear a striking resemblance to members of the Manson clan. Add to this the hoards of people who flock to Franklin as if we’re passing out winning lottery tickets. I just don’t get it. It’s crowded, it’s dirty, and by the time it’s over my beautiful common looks likes a French village the day after D-Day.
During carnival days and the ever popular St. Rocco’s Feast, which takes place next door to the common, I reroute my walk. Either way, it takes me past Franklin’s public library. Did you know that we’re home to the nation’s first public library? If you go, you can see the books donated by Benjamin Franklin to his namesake. The story goes that the town wanted a bell. Apparently Mr. Franklin saw a more pressing need for literacy and opted for the books. The books are there, on display in a glass case. Of course you can’t touch them, but you can look. I highly recommend it over the Fourth of July festivities. It’s clean, quiet, and air conditioned. I have, on occasion, passed by our library and wondered if BEAUTIFUL DISASTER might find its way onto the shelves. If I donate a copy, surely it will—I don’t believe the carnival benefits library funding. Anyway, that would be kind of cool, to live in the town that’s home to the nation’s first public library, knowing your novel donation sits a few rows over from Ben Franklin’s. Hmm, there you go. I told you this blog was all about writing and books.
