A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Canada

I can laugh about it now... sort of.  If I think about it too deeply, I get pissed all over again.

Here's our side of the story...

The windshield wipers slapped in time to The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald as our family approached the Canadian Border.  Our history lesson was finished for the day thanks to Gordon Lightfoot.  
Greg rolled down his window as we pulled up to the border’s drive-through window.  Sliding our five passports into the extended metal drawer, he greeted the guard with a smile.

 The guard recited as she flipped through our passports, “Do you have any alcohol, tobacco or weapons in your car?” 

We had driven eighteen hundred miles up the east coast from South Carolina to Maine with three kids.  Of course, we had alcohol in our car. A cigarette might have helped, but I didn’t smoke.  Weapons?  Last week, Wyatt fashioned a slingshot out of two pencils and his sisters’ ponytail holders. Did that count?  Just yesterday, Emma beat Anabel into submission with her Teddy. Should we declare her stuffed animal as a lethal weapon? Whenever an authority figure asked me a question, I panicked regardless of guilt.  I assumed they could read my mind to uncover some past indiscretion.

Sharing my thoughts, Greg responded to the French-Canadian border guard with his best poker face, “We have some blueberry beer from Maine and a bottle of gin. No tobacco or weapons.”

Frowning at the overflowing rear compartment of our Ford Excursion we affectionately called, the family truckster, she said, “Pull over just ahead.” 

No photos of our story after this one... I was afraid of confiscation. 

Two guards, armed to the teeth, approached our vehicle with clipboards in hand and said, “Please vacate your automobile leaving everything inside.”  A family of five Americans entering Canada on an October morning seemed to be subversive stuff. Unfazed, the kids bickered as they scrambled over notebooks and travel games exiting the car.  Greg winced as two cans hit the ground and rolled toward the guards’ feet.  He was more embarrassed by our mess than fearful of possible contraband.

Smiling as the chilly northern wind hit my face, I turned on the Southern charm. “How are y’all?” No response.  “We’re so excited to be in Canada!  We’re on a family sabbatical…traveling America to teach our kids first hand about history and geography and different cultures…” I rattled on about our one-year radical lifestyle change while one Francophone guard- a man wearing ladies’ glasses- wrote down our make, model, tag number and passport information and the other began searching our car.  They spoke to each other in French, so I moved closer to put my twenty-year-old college French into practice.  

Threatened by a woman in mom jeans and a knotted scarf, the armed guard stopped my progress with a brisk flash of his clipboard in my face. “Step away from zee vehicle!” 


I prepared to push aside the papers of the rude officer and teach him some manners- fifteen years in public education taught me how to deal with impertinence-  when the other guard (a man sans glasses – see, I know some French) unfolded himself from our car holding a carton of bullets in his hand; So much for my indignation. Our kids, silent for the first time in eight hundred miles, huddled against the cold as their father was frisked on top of the family truckster.  The guard in little girl glasses demanded to know where the gun was. He yelled loudly to be heard over the swooshing sound of other cars smoothly crossing the border. 

“At home, locked in a gun safe in Georgia,” Greg answered to the hood of the car.

“Sir, we don’t have a gun with us; we are traveling with children.” I reminded him little eyes were watching with a glance towards our traumatized kids. The other guard gestured for Greg to stand. Seeing the look in Greg's eyes as he put his wallet and change back in his pockets, I began to explain. “We have used the bullet box for years to keep the glove compartment’s light off.  It is heavy and just the right size.” They ignored me and began stripping our ten-year-old car.

Lost something in your car?  Cross the US/Canada border from Maine to Quebec, and the Canadian Gestapo will find it for you.  After pulling out three weeks’ worth of luggage and laundry, home school projects and portfolios, along with Skittles and empty Coke cans, they gleefully discovered a three-inch butterfly knife covered in sticky-kid-crumb debris under the backseat in the crack between the loose carpet and the rusty seat frame.  Greg owned the knife when I met him 24 years ago.  It was like the one Emilio Estevez flipped out in a flash of light in the movie, The Outsiders- you know the knife was cool if it made Emilio Estevez look tough. We had not seen the knife in years, but because they dug it out of our car twenty-feet past the border’s drive-through window, and we had “not declared that we were carrying weapons,” that once cool, now Fruit Loop-encrusted knife was costing us five hundred bucks. 

Southern graces gone, I pleaded, “How do we declare something we didn’t know was there?” I tried to appeal to their sympathy by sharing how we quit our jobs to take a life break and travel with our rapidly growing kids.  After inspecting every inch of our car, they should have surmised that we were not the Rockefellers. “We don’t have five hundred dollars to give you.” 

Without a hint of irony, the guard in pink, bedazzled glasses said, “We take Veeza and MasterCard.” 

Greg said I blacked out at this point.  He feared my arrest as I began speaking in tongue from the darkness of my anger and quickly returned me to our car with the kids before he followed the guards inside the building. I couldn’t believe how calm he was. 

Signing the receipt, Greg couldn’t resist asking, “What? No line for a tip?”  The French Canadians stared.  He left before they arrested him for having a sense of humor.  

The Joy of Food in Maine

Greg grinned like Emma in a candy store as we stood in the enormous warehouse of lobsters at Young’s Lobster Pound.  Water circulated through the giant tanks each holding grosses of lobsters of varying sizes.  

“How do we chose?” I asked.

“I don’t think you can make a wrong choice here.  The only decision we have to make is: how many?” Greg said.

“One’s enough for me.”  I ate frugally when we traveled.  (I’d be thin if we stayed on the road.  I blame a house full of inexpensive meals for my fat.)

“Are you kidding? At five dollars a pound, I could eat a hundred dollars worth, but I’ll settle for fifty.”

We ordered five lobsters and a bag of mussels.  We strolled out on the deck while the guys behind the counter caught and steamed our meal.  Twenty miles north of Camden lay the tiny town of Belfast, Maine.  The moon rose above the surrounding mountains and reflected gently on the water of the cove.  Sailboats, dinghies and lobster boats lined the water’s edge.  All fishermen were anchored for the night.  I wondered about the men and women who lived in this remote town.  The ragged coast of Maine had a charm separate from the languid allure of South Carolina’s low country.  Locals dotted the tables on the deck.  It was Friday night and they had brought their own bottles for enjoying with the fresh seafood by the water.  May through October were heavenly months here, but you had hell to pay in the winter.  We spotted several family snow plows already out and ready for winter on our drive up the Maine coast.

My first bite of sweet lobster meat dripping in melted butter was too good to swallow.  I determined to invent a buttered lobster candy as soon as we returned to South Carolina so I could hold this flavor in my mouth as long as possible.  The crisp, light wine washed the taste from my mouth too soon, but complemented the seafood sublimely.  Conversation came to a standstill as Greg and I cracked claws and tails in unison.  The perfection of each bite had me matching Greg’s pace, but I couldn’t match his culinary skill.  He popped the tail off the body with one twist and delighted as he licked up the delicate tomalley before digging into the dense meat of the tail.  Who cares about Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning?  When in Rome…and Maine, the FDA be damned!

Camden’s harbor housed several restaurants tucked along the waterfront.  We chose Fresh hoping to taste fresh, locally sourced food.  The parents ordered lobster rolls while Wyatt and Emma went for the grass-fed hamburgers.  Anabel surprised us all when she chose the catch of the day with a side of brussel sprouts.  Has any parent ever heard a child order brussel sprouts?  I noted the date and the time in case this was a news worthy event.  

Our waitress was curious about our family. “Are you on vacation?”

“Sort of.  We’re homeschooling our kids and teaching them about America from the road,” I said.  People wondered why our kids weren’t in school in October.  It made me uncomfortable at first, but the more we traveled, the more I began to open up about our adventure.  It seemed every time I shared our story we made a connection with someone.

“You’re from Georgia?  Ten years ago, I lived in Alpharetta, Georgia,” said the waitress.

“Our home is just ten miles from Alpharetta.”

“What a coincidence! I think taking a year off to spend with your kids is terrific.  What a great experience for you and your kids!  I have six children myself and would love to spend a year traveling with them.”

“You should do it.  We’re living proof of: if there’s a will, there’s a way.  We sold our car and rented out our home in Georgia to help pay for our travels,” I said.

She surprised me when she said, “Oh, it’s not the money that would stop me. I’d love to do it, but I learned a long time ago that I need to miss my kids.”

I smiled, but thought, “How awful.  I hate to miss my kids.  That’s why we’re doing this- we were missing their childhoods.”

The waitress returned with our food and our discussion ended.  We enjoyed all the food, but the best thing served were the brussel sprouts.  They were blanched and then roasted with garlic, onions and butter.  Anabel got mad at us picking them off her plate.  Who would have thought we’d have a family squabble over eating too many brussel sprouts?

After lunch, we discovered Maine’s Round Top ice cream at Camden Cone.  We tasted samples of each ice cream way too long since I could have ordered each person’s flavor without asking.  We were all drawn to one selection for a personality reason.  I will try the one that is regional thinking it will help me learn more about the area; Greg will go for the most unusual thinking different is better and who knows when he’ll be able to try it again, right?; Anabel will chose the most old-fashioned flavor thinking it may have been eaten in days gone by; Wyatt goes for the messiest because that’s what ten year old boys do; and Emma will choose the one that looks healthy, but really contains the most sugar because she wants to make good choices, but is still just a kid.  Our final flavor decisions were: Vanilla, Strawberry, Ginger, Blueberry and Chocolate. (Can you match who got which?  Submit your answer to The Joy of Food Show 555 Burbank Studios, Los Angeles, California.)

Just when Greg thought there was nothing better than Maine lobster, he discovered the fried clam belly boat in Bar Harbor.  Crisp on the outside yet juicy in the middle, the clams warmed our bellies during our foggy day touring Fisherman’s Bay. We didn’t let a little drizzle stop us from seeing this Christmas Card town.

That evening, with the kids tucked in the room with another pizza, Greg and I explored Bar Harbor’s nightlife. Let the party begin! The town looked ghostly as we walked from restaurant to restaurant sampling local delicacies. One ingredient began to stand out: not lobster… blueberries.  From fried chicken with blueberry sauce and roasted pork with a blueberry wine reduction to wild blueberry beer and fried blueberry pie, I was in blueberry heaven.  At each bar, Greg asked for a blueberry brandy, but no local moonshine was available in town.  If he could sample homemade peach brandy in Georgia, he was sure a Mainer made the blueberry form somewhere…  

Before leaving for Canada, we enjoyed Maine’s famous lobster rolls at Lunt’s Lobster Pound just outside of Acadia National Forest.  Hunks of tail meat covering a fresh roll dotted with spicy mayonnaise satisfied Greg and the kids, but I thought the roll took away from the subtle sweetness of the lobster.  (Please note: this is the first time I have ever preferred a meal without the bread.)

We fell in love with the people and food of this northern state and looked forward to returning when we had more time to get to know it better.  Maybe someone we meet will hook Greg up with some blueberry brandy.

Road Scholars- Fear of Boredom in Salem, Massachusetts

Kierkegaard said, “Boredom is the root of all evil.”  In the case of the Salem Witch Trials, he was correct.  Historians have debated the cause of the fanatical witch hunt for ages, but after one visit to Salem, Massachusetts I knew boredom started it all.

  Our morning leaving Boston began in the most irksome way: a dead battery.  The family truckster died of boredom sitting in a hotel parking garage for two days.  We joined Triple A auto club for this supposition, so Greg made the call and a mechanic was duly dispatched.  Greg stood by our vehicle while the kids and I sat on the curb waiting.  

Triple A called. “Traffic on I-90 is shutdown.  The mechanic is looking for side streets to your location.  It may be another thirty minutes.”

Wyatt leaned his head on my shoulder.  Emma sprawled over the curb with her head in my lap.  Anabel paced with her dad.  We waited.

The mechanic called. “Wheh is youh cah pahked?  I can’t find the entrance.”  Greg explained the back alley/underground entrance to the Hyatt Hotel.  We waited. 

(Are you bored yet? I fell asleep while writing this.)

Finally, the mechanic found our vehicle and assessed that we needed two new batteries to the tune of $350.  

“Aw, you’re kidding me!  I had those replaced last year.  They can’t be dead yet!” Greg said knowing three hundred and fifty dollars was not in our budget.

“Wheh’d you get ‘em?  You can return ‘em fa a refund.  If you got’em at a Triple A affiliate, I won’t chahge you.”

Greg couldn’t remember, but called our hometown mechanic to find out. Suddenly, Greg’s ennui was relieved by the slowest Southern drawl in one ear and a Southie’s   rapid dropping of Rs in the other.  I kept the kids out of the way while Greg’s brain tried to translate. 

Georgia mechanic: 

“Hey, Greg.  How’re you?  Yeah.  Heard y’all were traveling.  Where’re y’all at?  Boston, you say.  Well, how bout that. What’s that bout your car? Yeah. We replaced them batteries for you… let me see… seems like it was last year.  Where’d we get the batteries?  Let’s see… seems like it was that place down the road…”

Boston mechanic:

“Wheh’d he get ‘em? Wheh’d he get ‘em? We got a Auto Zone ‘round the corneh can deliveh them a sap.”

Georgia mechanic:

“Well, Greg.  I’m trying to think.  Most times we get our parts from that Auto Zone up the road in Macedonia. You know the one just past the church there.  Yeah.  Down by the Ace Hardware.  But now I’ma thinking we might of got‘em at that other place.”

Greg to the Boston mechanic while still listening to our old mechanic:

“Order them.  I’ll take the dead batteries with me and sort it out later.”  Boredom cost us $350 bucks; evil, indeed.

Two hours later, we arrived at the village of Salem in time for the noon tour at Salem’s Witch Museum.  Walking up to the door I pointed to a statue in the street.  “Look kids! They have a statue of a witch.”

“Mom, that’s a pilgrim man.” 

“Oh. Yeah. I see that now. Roger Conant- first settler of Salem, 1626.  Never mind.”

The Salem Witch Museum tour began with a interactive show that took us through the entire witch trial drama.  We were led into a church/court-like room and sat around the edges of the stage on benches. The lights were dimmed and only a circle of names glowed in the middle of the room. I had goosebumps.  Then, a curtain opened and an animatronic pilgrim came out to tell the story.  My goosebumps receded. 

Seventeenth Century New England’s Puritan culture demanded that children be seen and not heard- and I thought waiting for a mechanic was boring.  In January of 1692, Salem Village wanted to get rid of their new minister, Reverend Samuel Parris, having become disenchanted by his greed.  Parris’s nine-year-old daughter, Betty, felt the stress in the household and sought release.  It was the dead of winter with the entire village covered in snow.  What can a girl do to fight stress and boredom? Gather your girlfriends for some fortune telling with the family’s Barbados slave, of course.  Betty and her friends, Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam delighted in the devilish entertainment of Tibuta’s tales.  What could make this more fun?  Pretending to be afflicted and possessed, obviously.  Soon Betty began writhing on the floor and speaking gibberish.  When Ann and Abigail saw the great diversion Betty was having, they joined in.  Each cowered under chairs, frightened of unseen specters.  They convulsed in fits and flung themselves against walls and furniture.  The honorable Reverend Cotton Mather said upon witnessing their afflictions, “The girls’ agonies could not possibly be dissembled.” Without natural causes, the Puritans declared the girls to be under supernatural control… bewitched. 

In March, the girls pointed their undulating fingers toward three of the town’s lowest folks: a beggar- Sarah Good, an infirm- Sarah Osburn, and Tibuta- the slave whose tales first broke the boredom.  Osburn declared her innocence, as did Good, but Good declared Osburn to be a witch.  Tibuta, thanks to the lashes of her master- the good Reverend Parris, sang like a bird.  She confessed to being a witch and enchanted the entire village with her stories of Satan’s army of black dogs, red cats, yellow birds and a white haired man who made her sign the devil’s book.  She claimed there were several undiscovered witches living in Salem whose primary goal was to destroy Puritanism.  Ironically, the Salem Witch Hunt almost did just that.

Within six months, hundreds were arrested and twenty-two were tried and convicted of witchcraft. The bored girls put on an entertaining show at each trial:  Ann suddenly goes limp.  Abigail and Betty shriek in response.  Ann jerks awake and begins flying about the room flapping her arms as wings and screeching an ungodly sound. The overwrought judges implore her to name her tormentors.  She silently points another finger. Puritans from near and far came to witness the nineteen innocent villagers hung till their deaths at Gallows Hill. Five more- including one infant- died in prison awaiting their trials.  One man, Giles Cory, refused to enter a plea of innocence or guilt and was pressed to death with massive stones added atop him- one at a time- by his neighbors hoping to make him confess.  

At this point in the multimedia show, Emma climbed in my lap.  The mannequin Giles Cory grimaced in great pain as the stones lowered onto his body.  This was not part of her elementary school’s reenactment of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock.  It was our children’s first exposure to the dour side of Puritan life.   Between the stone pressing and the grotesque statue of Satan, I hoped Emma didn’t have nightmares due to this history lesson. But reservations aside, what a way to learn about history!  We had witnessed the positive effects of the pilgrim spirit with the American Revolution, and we were seeing what happened when that Puritanical work ethic turned into fanaticism. 

After reading the names of the twenty-five people who died in the Salem Witch Hunt, we were guided into the second phase of the tour: the history of witches and the devastating results of witch hunts around the world from the Middle Ages to present day.  From midwifery to the Wizard of Oz, the transformation of women healers to wicked witches with green skin and pointy hats would have been comical if it wasn’t so disturbing.  Then, the museum’s attempts to promote an understanding of the Wicca religion today would have been moving if it wasn’t for the comical pandering of Bewitched items for sale in the museum gift shop.  I loved Samantha, but the old episode- the one where she was chased around Salem by an enchanted bed warmer from Nathaniel Hawthorn’s House of Seven Gables- playing in the background as we shopped for a Christmas tree ornament of a witch made the whole thing feel silly.  But at least, I wasn’t bored.

Before leaving Salem, we discussed hysteria and false accusations over a delicious lunch of comfort food at the Scratch Kitchen.  

“I think teenagers blow everything out of proportion,” said the girl who would be turning thirteen in six months.  Anabel gleaned another reason not to grow up from our tour of Salem.

Downplaying age as a factor, I said, “I think the lesson is: beware of bored people.  Now finish your grilled cheese and let’s head to Maine!”

Family Road Scholars: Tourists in Boston

By day six of our road trip, I relinquished my teacher reins and placed them firmly in the claws of Lobstaman.  Lobstaman was our driver and guide on the Old Town Trolley Tours in Boston.  Spending so much time with my kids, I had grown emotionally and no longer needed to prove I knew it all for my family. Plus, I was worn out. In my former life, I would rather have died than look like a tourist, but now I was a mother with three children to teach and only one full day to do it. I had never been to Boston so the trolley tour and harbor cruise made sense. 

We hopped on the tour across from the state building near the top of Beacon Hill and next to Boston Common.  Lobstaman began his lessons in history and regional phonetics immediately.

“Climb on, folks, and grab a seat.  We gotta book it outta here to stay on schedule. Where you guys from?”

“Atlanta!” Greg shouted over the roar of the wind as Lobstaman gunned it down Beacon Street and hung a right onto School.  

“That’s wicked good ‘cause I was gonna make you stand if you were Nooyawkahs.”  

Laughing at New York’s expense, I settled next to the trolley’s open window and let Lobstaman’s corny jokes and the fall breeze lighten my mood.  I thought, “Is there anything better than a crisp, clear autumn day?  Who would want to be sitting in a beige, concrete-block walled classroom on a day like this?”

Our group rattled along the streets of Boston deciphering the American history as we went.  To our right, the Old South Meeting House where the People of Boston assembled and planned the Boston Tea Party in December 1773. I thought all was done in secrecy, but in reality posters were plastered all over the city exclaiming the meetings to discuss responses to the Tea Act: 

Friends! Brethren! Countrymen! That worst of Plagues, the detested tea shipped for this port by the East India Company, is now arrived in the Harbor; the hour of destruction, or manly opposition to the machinations of Tyranny stares you in the Face… 

“Machinations of Tyranny…” How vivid!  The People first planned to meet at Faneuil Hall, but over five thousand showed up, so they moved to the larger Old South Meeting House.  Again, I was mistaken in my understanding of The Boston Tea Party.  I thought it was a few brave souls-not thousands! After a month of dead-end negotiations and unsuccessful pressure-plays with the loyalist tea purveyors, the People left it to the Sons of Liberty to carry out the final plan to prevent the tea from hitting shore and a tax being due upon it.  On the night of December 16, 1773, the Sons of Liberty, numbering 116 Mohawk Indian impersonators, sneaked aboard the three tea ships moored in the harbor and dumped 342 chests of British tea overboard.  So much for my image of Sam Adams and three other dudes doing all the work.  Actually, the whole event was carried out in a gentlemanly manner with the dumpers sweeping the decks clean and replacing a broken lock after their peaceful protest was complete.

Our trolley tour included a harbor cruise that pointed out the location of the Tea Party- although historians believe the actual watery location was covered by landfill of the ever growing City of Boston many years ago so the official historical plague rests at the corner of Congress and Purchase Street.  On board our ship, we watched as the water glimmered in the late September sun.  I didn’t tell the kids about the true garbage-filled historic site; Boston harbor was more poetic. 

“When legend becomes fact, print the legend,” Greg said quoting his favorite movie, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

“And they did.” We leaned against the rails admiring our view of the blue sky, shimmering water, and the stars and stripes flapping in the wind.  This Colonial America trip was bringing out the patriot in us all.

After viewing the USS Constitution, “Old Ironsides”   from the War of 1812 fame, we resumed our trolley tour, rolling around Bunker Hill, and eventually rattling past the Old North Church from whence the “Two if by sea” lights shined causing Paul Revere’s famous ride- another fictionalized event in American history thanks to William Wadsworth Longfellow’s iconic poem.  The more we toured America the more I began to realize how skewed my elementary education had been.  All my teachers took the Liberty Valance movie quote to heart.  In teaching my own kids, I wanted to get it right. The facts of the “midnight ride” were this:  

Actively engaged in the patriot’s cause, Paul Revere warned John Hancock, Sam Adams, and the town of Lexington that the ‘British were coming’ three days before his ride.  He set up a signal system for warning patriots in Charlestown of the moment and direction of the British’s movement in case Revere couldn’t leave Boston- in other words, the lights in the Old North Church were not for him.  But he made it across the Charles River and safely traveled on horseback to Lexington only to be captured by four British soldiers in route to Concord.  Luckily, there were three riders on this famous midnight ride: Revere, William Dawes and Dr. Samuel Prescott.  Only Prescott reached Concord to alert the Minute Men to hide their storehouse of ammunitions and prepare to face the British in time. This field trip year was becoming an education for all of us and a hell of a lot more work than I expected just researching all the historical facts. 

The trolley jolted to a stop.  Downtown traffic snarled as rush hour approached giving us a break from the onslaught of facts, but we couldn’t escape the intertwining of history with modern America.  With a graveyard to our right and a bar to our left, I could see Sam Adams’ headstone out of the corner of one eye and people drinking Sam Adams’ beer out of the other.  

“Man, I’m thirsty,” I said.

“Ready to hop off?” Greg’s interest was waning. There was only so much information a person could process in a day.

“We’re not far from Fenway Park.  Why don’t you and Wyatt hop off there for a tour and the girls and I will continue on to Cambridge?”  Greg agreed immediately.  Baseball always perked him up.

We waved the boys goodbye in the shadow of the Green Monster.  Greg back-kicked Wyatt in his rear end as they approached the ticket booth.  The Atlanta Braves and the Boston Red Sox were out of the pennant race, but the love of baseball continued.  Visiting all the major league parks was a bucket list item for Greg.  He checked off Turner Field, Old Yankee Stadium, Camden Yard, and now, Fenway- only twenty-six to go. 

Crossing the Charles River over the Harvard Bridge to Cambridge, Boston College crew boats sliced the water with precision navigating around sailboats and Boston whalers. We didn’t see many rowing teams in the South, and this Georgia Bulldog felt a little in awe as we entered the campus of Massachusetts Institute of Technology.  I taught gifted children for over ten years where we considered MIT the holy grail of universities with Harvard a close second.  The girls and I smiled into the crisp late afternoon breeze ready to increase our intelligence by osmosis; we must glean something from being this close to our nation’s brain trust.  My eyes swept the campus squares ready to note any student behavior, their dress, walk or general demeanor, that might give insight into the brilliance needed to gain admission to this school.  Nothing. No one in sight. Any given Friday in September on University of Georgia’s campus would show kids of every color celebrating life without parents; girls in dresses outside sorority houses, boys in jeans tackling one another on lawns, kids shouting and laughing- just happy to be alive.  On MIT’s campus at four o’clock on Friday afternoon, every light was on in the industrial-like buildings, while tumbleweeds drifted through the parks and streets. Apparently, attending MIT took a more diligent work ethic than your run-of-the-mill SEC university.  On this glorious afternoon, I was thankful for my average education.  I bet no MIT graduate would quit her job to take off and explore the world with her family.  Go, Slacker University!

Our trolley tour ended, but I wanted more of Boston.  Anabel and Emma did not.

“Let’s walk through the Common and back to Charles Street.  I want to take a look in the shops.”

“I’m so tired,” said Emma. 

“Me, too. Can we go back to the hotel?” asked Anabel.

“It’s beautiful out.  Who knows when we’ll be back to Boston… come on, girls, stick with me.”  I tried to convince them to power through and walk Beacon Hill with me, but my heart wasn’t in it.  I loved sharing a new city with my kids, but nothing beats exploring all alone.  

Savenor's Shop Window

With Greg and Wyatt at the ballpark and Anabel and Emma tucked in the hotel room with a movie, I walked.  I walked through the Common to the most delightful street in America: Charles Street.  Shop windows displayed autumnal colors in clothing and food, in antiques and even pharmaceutical products. From slate gray arm chairs with red and gold throw pillows to a pyramid of Gold Bond Powder, each purveyor did their part to give the street a seasonal feel.  A burnt orange and taupe scarf called my name, but budget-minded, I averted my eyes. Mothers and nannies strolled the youngest of each robust brood of children reminiscent of the Kennedy clan.  Down a side street to my left was the Charles River with a lone man maneuvering a kayak off the hood of his Subaru. Up a street to my right were Beacon Hill’s brass door knockers and elaborate window boxes filled with tangerine mums, purple and white cineraria and yellow tinged juniper against a background of variegated ivy.  I smiled as I passed every person, shop and door.  I walked without stopping until I arrived at Savenor’s. 

Home School Immersion- Philadelphia, PA

     I enjoyed watching Greg get shocked after our hellish drive from Virginia to Philadelphia.  I dared him to do it again just for fun and he did; what did that say about the patriarch of our family?  Good thing I made our travel decisions.  Well, most of them – Greg had planned special restaurant reservations using this year as his personal culinary tour of America. 

Yesterday’s four-hour drive took eight and Greg blamed my poor navigational skills. He cussed me right along with the construction workers and broken down cars because when I planned our route up I95, I called the DOT to give the green light on their resurfacing project, right after I magically visited several homes along the way to sabotage their cars.  The kids tuned him out as they put in another Disney DVD- how did the pioneers manage to travel in a covered wagon for hundreds of miles without a DVD player?  Worrying we wouldn’t make that evening’s dinner reservations at Morimoto’s, he spun a web of frustration that covered my mood as well as his. By the time we checked into the Embassy Suites, ordered pizza for the kids, and changed for dinner, I didn’t want to look at him.  He could forget about hundred-dollar sushi.  When he emerged from the bedroom, showered and smelling of Aramis and whiskey, I changed my mind.  It felt so good to find my husband sexy again.  We had spent the last three days in our children’s constant company; a night alone would be just the ticket to soothe our frayed nerves.

By the next morning, we had reconnected, but I still took pleasure in watching Greg shock himself with the electricity experiment at the Ben Franklin Institute. We all tried it; the museum contained hundreds of hands-on experiments and we tried everyone.  Wyatt delighted in the colossal heart traversing each artery and vein.  Anabel explored climate change by creating an erosive environment and discovered ways of improving topsoil.  Emma studied electricity by lighting a tiny city with girl power- she turned the wheel of an electromagnet and boom- lights.

The museum helped teach all these science topics and more with instructors stationed in each room.  A retired surgeon volunteering in the human body area explained the intricacies of the brain.  He conducted a couple of experiments on Wyatt challenging him with a few brainteasers.  An entomologist demonstrated metamorphosis as Emma handled a caterpillar, a chrysalis and a butterfly.  Anabel watched in fascinated horror at a video of an open-heart surgery, then worked a shift in a simulated ER with the guidance of a volunteer nurse.   Taking advantage of expert knowledge made home schooling fun for the kids and easy for the parents.

Wyatt wanted to live at the Franklin Institute, but we assured him Philadelphia had more to offer. 

“It’s time to go, Bud.  We’ll be back.” I headed for the exit.

“Promise?  I want to ride the flight simulator again.”

“I promise we’ll return someday.  We’re only here two days and we still haven’t seen Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. We’ve got to move on.”

Wyatt’s shoulders slumped as the disappointment enveloped his whole body. Our kids did not transition well.  They were slow to warm up to new experiences and once hot, abhorred letting them go.  Traveling to successive cities in two to three day spurts was cruel treatment for these children.

Wyatt said, “This sucks,” under his breath as we walked out the door.  I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or just smack him across the top of his head.  I was thrilled to have a child that loved museums, sad that we couldn’t afford to stay in one city longer, and pissed at having an ungrateful brat who didn’t appreciate his privileges.  This year was turning into a roller coaster of emotions. 

Quick travel had its advantages, though.  It was powerful to go from the encapsulated world of Williamsburg circa 1775 to Philadelphia’s Independence Hall circa 1776. I couldn’t help but feel in awe of the whole place.  Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, John Adams, George Washington sat here, argued here, laughed here, thought here. And we were the winners of their radical experiment of self-government. 

The tour, led by National Park Rangers, gave another great history lesson to all of us, but especially the kids.  Emma was hearing a lot of this information for the first time. I was proud of the close attention she paid.  I didn’t know how much it meant to her at age eight, but she was listening.  First, we were led from the east wing into the judicial room where the colonists held court.  After a brief explanation of the British and American court system, we walked into the Signing Room- the room in all the portraits of the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.  George Washington’s chair as president of the Constitutional Convention was still there presiding over all.

Suddenly, I felt so blessed to have this opportunity with our family.  Whatever the consequences of this life break, I knew I would never regret it. Again, the power of certainty engulfed me.  Not since falling in love with Greg and our children had I felt so sure of myself.

Anabel placed her hand in mine as we crossed the street to view the Liberty Bell.  We spoke for the first time since entering the Signing Room.

“That was cool,” she said.

“Yep.”  Sometimes, words were deficient, but I could have sworn I heard Lee Greenwood singing in the distance. (Cue redneck truck driving by blaring, “I’m proud to be an American.”)