Some pictures and commentary from our recent trip to the Northeast…
Here is the restaurant where I was a terrible waitress and a mediocre hostess. I was trained by a head waitress who we will call Vivian, who smoked like a chimney and talked in a baritone smoker’s voice/cough. The whole staff was made up of bitter people who also smoked and had worked there for half their lives, and they all made fun of Innocent Kelly Who Couldn’t Take a Drink Order to Save Her Life Because She Behaved Herself in High School and College and Her Parents Mostly Drink Wine, Except for Her Mother Who Drinks White Zinfandel.
Let me tell you something, by the end of that summer I was all, “Oh, you’d like an extra-dry Beefeater Martini straight up with a twist, rocks on the side? Sure. No problem.” And my customers were all, “Wow, that girl knows her stuff. She must drink herself silly on weekends.”
This place is for sale now. Anyone want to buy it? I do, fulfilling my lifelong dream of owning a bed and breakfast. I informed my husband of this fact, prompting him to laugh heartily right in my face.
This is the center of my town. This is why people who grow up in New England have lingering bitterness about living in places that don’t look like postcards all the time.
Here’s the school where I attended first and second grade. Behind it is the parking lot where I would fall down playing tag or hopscotch and rip my tights on a regular basis.
The school is named after the Butterick family. Yes, that one.
Here is the house where I lived from the time I was nine until I got married. Over the garage is the apartment where David lived when he started stalking me mercilessly.
My parents don’t live here anymore because after David moved out my dad realized that he would have to mow the lawn again and said, “Forget it, we are out of here.”
We went to Old Sturbridge Village
— a change of plans from our original idea of going to Plymouth — and saw a man fire a musket.
Loud. Smoky. The boys wondered how many fish he had killed in the pond he aimed at.
Hello, Mr. Blacksmith. I’m pretty sure my boys would have watched you work all day long. Thanks for teaching us about the different colors of fire and for answering my son’s question seriously when he asked you why your coffee cup was on top of the fire. (The answer? It keeps it warm, of course.)
On the way home, we stopped at my grandparents’ farm and Jonathan fed a baby lamb while indulging his perpetual need to tilt his head at strange angles when there’s a camera near him.
Hello, Mr. Billy Goat. Even though the filmmakers dropped your scene from “Finding Woodstock,” I still think you deserve to be famous. That’s why I put you on my Widely Circulated, Extremely Famous Blog.