Scarecrows and Trucks

Okay, today is the day we make a scarecrow. Not just any old scarecrow, but a Halloween scarecrow that will be one of many on the lawn of the local museum. Considering I've never in my life made a scarecrow, I have a feeling this will look more like a sad crow. But, we'll give it the old college try.

We signed up to make this scarecrow back in early September. It seemed like a great way to spend the afternoon. But about a week or so ago, we got a flier for yet another activity we can do today, called "Touch a Truck." This is where the town lines up all it's taxpayer-provided vehicles, and lets the kids climb on them.

We did this last year, and the most memorable truck is that which carries the garbage. Although empty, a vomit-inducing aroma still wafted through the cab. Mmmm, enticing. The cab has a window that looks right into the garbage part of the garbage truck. I'm not sure I would really want to have that view when the truck is in action, y'know? Who knows what could come squishing out of a Hefty bag when 50 tons of pressure is being applied.

But my son is wild for trucks of all kinds (little boy law), so we'll be heading over to touch some trucks this afternoon. After the scare/sadcrow event.

I actually forgot we had these two things lined up until this morning. It was a busy weekend. On Friday, I went with Ryan on a class trip to a zoo. We got there via a school bus that somehow passed inspection despite a lack of shocks. After we arrived, and while I was waiting to overcome my intense nausea, we went to the "educational center," which housed snakes, turtles and other rank-smelling things. The signs posted on the door said, "no food or drink," but they forgot to add "And no oxygen." Mike, either the very smart one or the "less interested in being in the finer moments of our child's happy memories" one, drove separately to the zoo, stayed outside the "educational center" to talk sports with another doting dad, and then drove home early to meet the washing machine repairman. Loser.

Then on Friday afternoon, one of our friends hosted a "happy hour." Which was more like happy "hours." By 10 p.m., the kids were camped out in our hosts' garage watching Jurassic Park, and us desperate-for-fun parents were dancing on the deck to radio disco, and pogo-sticking around the driveway. I should amend that: those who could MAINTAIN a bounce were pogo-ing. It's amazing how alcohol + age + decreased mobility = sad display. Actually, it equalled "very sad display." And, when the "very sad" level is reached, that's when the subtle snickering turns to outright mocking. Which leads to, "Hey, let me try!" And the process repeats itself among the adults until the kids step in to stop the insanity. It was great.

Then yesterday, my folks came down for a visit. Their first in a while, since we go up to their house all summer. Obviously, THEY have a pool and we don't. Our yard is small and pool-less, they have acres of land and a pool. The choice is clear. So, since they hadn't seen the house for a couple months, I felt it was a good time to break out the lawn mower, as well as indoor cleaning supplies. Of course, my son needed to have a friend over in the midst of this. Mike and Cara were out at Cara's Saturday morning activities. So, before I knew it, it was the afternoon, and they were here. We had a great visit wherein pizza, donuts, soda and salty snacks were consumed. They left, Ryan passed out on the couch for a bit, and then we went for Indian food at about 7:30. Nothing like lamb roganjosh on top of junk food for a gastrointestinal free-for-all.

During dinner, we were tossing around the idea of going to a movie today, trying to decide which movie, etc. And then this morning--like a bolt from the blue--I remembered the scarecrow making. See, it all comes back to me. I have a mind like a steel trap--that's rusty with corrosion.

--Catherine Schetting Salfino

The fun just keeps on comin'

It's Wednesday and I'm finally getting around to writing about what I did with the kids on Sunday. Should I have written about it Sunday night? Yes, of course. But I was wiped out from trudging around an apple-less apple orchard.

Okay, maybe it wasn't completely without apples--we did get 17 pounds worth, as my weak arms and wallet can attest.

But I'm used to the orchard we've gone to for years. The orchard that gives you a hayride to the trees, which are loaded with apples that everyone can reach. You get back on the haywagon, pay and leave. It's virtually stressless.

This year, I decided the usual place was too "usual." Let's live on the edge, kids, and drive an hour to a place we've never been before. It didn't have a petting zoo or live music like some of the others that were listed in the paper, but it was set in the countryside, so we would kill "Football Sunday" time getting there.

But first, we had to get a new Rotoaction.com picture taken. Because mom felt like she looked like trailer park trash in the first photo that went up on the site. (Why the old picture is STILL on the site is beyond me. Mike, get ready to rumble!) Then, we stopped to get money, then stopped to get gas. At this point, it was 2 in the afternoon and Ryan announced, "My belly's grumbly." So--FINE--let's get lunch. God knows it's dangerous to be hungry in an apple orchard--you might pass out from lack of sustenance.

We ate at a place that was actually great--good food served on an outdoor patio on a beautiful day . Other than the tarantula-sized spider that had to be taken out with a stun gun, it was perfect. We killed an hour there.

We got in the car and I remembered the newspaper advised to call ahead to to the orchards to confirm when they're open and that they have apples. I call the orchard, and get a recording. It runs through a list of 26 different types of apples that it has--just ripe for the pickin'--and then states place will be closing at 4:30. We were about 45 minutes away. It was 3:15 at that point (it takes a long time to listen to 26 different apple names), so that meant we'd have about a half-hour to pick apples. Who says my outings are poorly planned? But, in my defense, we should have been able to get plenty of apples in half an hour. THERE WERE 26 TYPES LISTED!! And the recording didn't end with a speed talker advising me that, "All 26 varieties are subject to availability, zero financing available, not applicable by law," or something. But it SHOULD have said, "Just how badly do you really want these apples?"

Whatever, we get there, and join the other unpaid migrant suburbanites who were wandering aimlessly in the orchard, desperate to contrive a day in the country for our kids. One romantic, childless couple joined us in the Jonagold section, where there were about 10 pieces of fruit left on the very tops of the trees. The guy, camera around his neck, nearly strangled himself climbing the tree to procure the elusive treat for his love. This, despite the "NO TREE CLIMBING" sign bobbing in his face. Of course, my kids see this and tell ME to start climbing the trees. I'm like, "He's just showing off so she'll fall in love with him. You guys are stuck with me. I have no reason to engage in derring-do. So stop crabbin' and keep walkin'." See, that's REAL love.

In the end, we managed to find a few rows of "I don't know what kind these are" apples. They aren't MacIntosh, Red Delicious, Golden Delicious or Granny Smith, otherwise known as "regular" apples. These had names like "Bruce," I think. I was stuck carrying mine and Ryan's bags, plus my purse, which, by mom-law, weighs in at about 78 pounds. By the time we got back to the car, it was 5:30, and past my coffee time. My arms were tired, my brain was cranky. And all that was nearby was a lousy Dunkin' Donuts. And by that I mean, a Dunkin' Donuts. I got a coffee, they each got a donut. The orchard got its trees cleared and we paid for the privilege.

Next year, I want a petting zoo and live music for my trouble. And maybe some hard cider....