Disappointment and Redemption, Pt. 2

   

     Sunday was a new day, filled with hope and sun and fresh air.  In order to not allow the day to go by on the couch or fighting crowded supermarkets for the week's rations, I had concocted a plan from the previous night's disappointment.  The family would hop in the car and travel a short distance to a wooded nature reserve.  We would spend the day hiking, geocaching, picnicking, and enjoying the weather.  They were slightly worn out from Saturday's birthday party and shopping spree.  Last night's dinner was a forgettable memory and fading fast.
    We arrived at the first parking area of the state forest and readied ourselves for the day's adventures.  Our initial hike was a short jaunt down a fire road where we came upon an unused telephone pole and a puzzle for searching geocachers.  The whole "event" was wonderful, amazing, and truly well-crafted and thought out.  I will not divulge the details of this woodsy puzzle to keep the quality of the experience intact for any who should seek it out, but to get kids outside this is definitely a treat.  It also bode well for the rest of the day. 
      Throughout the day we traveled down dirt roads and leisurely back roads passing farms and woods and ghost towns and fishermen.  We sat by the stream and admired the water and the Spring colors blossoming and the fish outsmarting the kernels of corn on the ends of the hooks bobbing in the current.  We grabbed several small walks down short nature trails along the stream until we came upon Buttermilk Falls.  The climb is steep, but not oppressive, up NJ's tallest waterfall.  They have placed stairs now to gain the top.  One used to have to actually climb to the apex.  Our youngest adventurer wished to lead the way and she had us climb well beyond the top of the falls and probably would have had us climb to the clouds if she had her way.  We finished our day with a two-and-a-half mile hike that felt more like a forced march by the end.  The sun was setting and our legs were tiring as we made our way back to the truck.  Our feet howled from the long day but our bellies rumbled even louder.
     A nearby brewery would be our savior, and hopefully redemption from the previous night's disappointment.  Krogh's is shadowy inside, filled with cubby-hole booths and log-hewn tables.  The bar is separate from the dining area and has a different entrance.  For those wishing fresh air and scenery, there is a quaint patio outside in front.  The dishes are comforting, large, and filling.  The desserts are homemade mountains of sugary sweet goodness.  The staff is efficient, knowledgeable, and loyal (a plaque on the wall shows many employees staying beyond 20 years).  The sampler of their goods comes in a handmade wood platter holding seven different brews, a true treat.  The only thing better than the meal and the beer and the day would have been a nap in the fading glow of the afternoon.  But the road home beckoned and away we went, headed for home, feeling not only redeemed but quite happy.

(I do not usually write true reviews of places, restaurants, etc.  I may offer suggestions or opinions about certain things but normally do not attempt to steer a person away from experiencing it themselves.  However, in this case, the two brewpubs were so similar in style (local "dive" bar) but so glaringly different in overall experience, that I could not help but to see one so negatively while finding the other so satisfying.  I would easily steer anyone to Krogh's but I would be hesitant to give directions to the Gaslight.  If you are in search of beer try both just to say you did, if not follow the Krogh.)

Disappointment and Redemption

    This past weekend was filled with a little bit of everything.  We had a birthday party to attend, filled with fun and games and cupcakes.  It was a marathon of amusements, laser tag, and arcade games.  On the off chance that my family and I stay down by the city on a weekend, I attempt to cram as much as possible into the two days.  Staying local means grabbing as many local attractions as we can.  There are plenty of diversions but it is also too easy to laze away an afternoon relaxing in the yard or on the couch, taking a breather from being on the go.  These two days would not be a breather.
    Saturday found us with a birthday party on the schedule.  My daughter's best friend had invited her and her sister to a local arcade/amusement/funplex.  There would be magic and lasers and video games and the constant whirring of kids and machines.  Before we even thought of the party, the weekend was started with a Spring walk through the cherry blossoms of a nearby park.  It was nice to be out as a family, strolling along in the crisp morning air.  The party brought us near a shopping center and so after several hours of laughing and playing and singing, we stopped by some stores to refresh the kids' wardrobes for the coming warmer months.  As shopping usually does, our bellies began to grumble, which leads us to our disappointment.
     To say the day was long would be an understatement.  To say we had our fill of fresh air and activities would be a mild description of the day's events.  We were hungry and ready for a good meal.  I had, as I am wont to do, decided to finish the day at a brewery.  A sample of new brews made in a nearby town would be a decent end to a long Saturday.  Breweries/brewpubs are usually known for their quality pub fare and some even excel at more ambitious dishes.  This particular spot was near several colleges and with such a pedigree should prove to be a worthy dining spot.  The Gaslight Brewery and Restaurant is a confusing and confused little spot.  At first glance it seems to be a local dive bar (that's the door you come in and the scene you are greeted by).  We entered into an everyday bar, no hostess, no one to seat us, no one even to greet us as we looked for a table in a place that had several rooms of seats.  Most of the seating was at bar tables with high, stiff chairs.  We found our place to dine without much ado but something was off.  There were plenty of wait-staff but everything seemed to be in slow motion, as if underwater.  Our waitress was courteous and attentive enough yet she never offered any direction or insight to new guests about ordering or the homemade brews available.  She was just sort of lost.  All the bar tables appeared crowded, with plates, glasses, what have you, merely because they were small.
     We had come to a place with an identity crisis.  It was not a restaurant, though it touted itself as one.  The prices on the menu would have you believe it was a restaurant but the tables spoke of a small-town bar.  It was not a brewpub, or even a bar, again the prices on the menu would not allow it.  The management wanted the place to be a restaurant with a refined menu and priced accordingly but they failed in the endeavor.  The establishment had a homey closeness to it.  As a dive bar with fresh-brewed beer it would have excelled if not for the pretend family atmosphere that was put on to attract customers in order to justify the menu.  If one would turn down the lights, serve the requisite pub fare done right, and continue brewing decent beers, I would agree with the decision, give it two thumbs up, and leave the family at home as I enjoy a local ale.  As a restaurant, one would have to expand past the tiny bar bathroom, extract the local bar hounds from the corner stools, add real tables, and train the staff to hawk the place's hand-crafted wares.
     To our disappointment, dinner was lacking.  I had found the first brewery ever where I could not get a sampler of their craft. And the day ended flat.  We would have to wait for tomorrow for a shot at redemption.  I was truly disappointed that a day spent away from the farm had ended so poorly.  There was not hunger strong enough to make our dinner seem filling nor throats dry enough to find the beer quenching. 

Catching Caching

    It is not often that I get to spend some time with my niece and nephew.  They seem to always be involved in one activity or another, sports, clubs, just being busy.  To some degree, I do not know them that well.  They know my kids and they know who I am, we live in the same two-family house.  However, we do not find time enough to truly interact.  A few times a year I usually ask my brother and sister-in-law to let the kids travel with us the 150 miles to our farm.  We all get to spend some quality time together to reconnect and they get to spend some time with their grandparents out on the farm as an added special bonus.  They run free, playing with the goats, chasing chickens, riding ATV's, being kids.  Ice cream and pizza for dinner, mud and water and sunshine during the day.  Grandma and Grandpa usually have some special gifts squirreled away for these weekends.  These are jam-packed, fun-filled weekends.
      Our last foray with the kids into the wilds brought an opportunity of sun, snow, and a gorgeous mountain day to go for a hike.  My kids ran for their gear, knowing a hike usually consists of also finding a cache or two.  Now, for anyone that follows the Gravel Road already knows, caches (geocaches) are little, hidden treasures found by downloading coordinates from a computer to a GPS and then following the GPS to "ground zero" of where the treasure is hidden.  The treasure is usually a small ammo box or Tupperware filled with silly little trinkets stashed out of sight along a hiking, biking, or walking trail.  As the now attached stat bars alongside this writing can attest, the kids truly enjoy the treasure hunt.  And they were more than eager to share their secret searches with their cousins.
       The day was bright.  The roads were muddy.  The snow on the trail was deep and crunchy.  The kids were vibrating with excitement.  They couldn't get down the trail fast enough.  The four of them were running from tree to tree, from rock to rock, glimpsing at the GPS as they ran.  I had to call my kids back, to allow their cousins a chance to find the hidden box.  Searching in the rocks of an outcrop, reaching under fallen logs, digging through the snow, the search was chaotic and fun.  My young niece finally found the box safely tucked under a tree root sticking out from the short rocky ledge.  She excitedly sifted through the baubles inside, looking for a keeper.  There was a victory dance and some trash talking before the box was rehidden and we returned to the hiking trail.  The kids sprinted back down the trail to the truck, hooting and hollering along the way.  They cried out for another set of coordinates, for another cache.
       A short drive brought us to a secluded Boy Scout camp in rural upstate NY.  The kids scrambled out of the truck in a tangle of arms and legs, trying to be the first to secure the prize.  It was cute seeing three young Girl Scouts debating the whereabouts of the hidden container in the middle of a snow-covered dirt road before climbing the entrance wall to the camp and discovering the Boy Scouts' cache.  We left them a special trinket with a mileage tracker and special story as well as their unique Girl Scout swap.  With one short trip, and two fairly quick finds, the kids were hungry and the big people were ready for home.
      The rest of the weekend flew by, with more games and adventures.  The trip home found us interrupted by a bathroom stop along the highway.  To keep the kids busy while awaiting the bathroom-breakers, I found a cache nearby and everyone again piled out in a rush to find the hidden Tupperware.  The stop was short and just a distraction before we hit the road again, and the rest of the trip was filled with snores and quiet, sleepy grumbles from the backseat.  At the journey's end, my niece and nephew quickly returned to their at-home routine, as "Uncle John" had brought them home after their scheduled bedtime on a school night (What a rebel!).  Our time together had ended without much ceremony or fanfare. 
     It was not until a few days later when we received a text message and saw an accompanying segment on Facebook of the "wonderful new world of treasures and adventures" that my niece had found so enthralling.  She had brought home a new hobby, a new interest.  She has since dragged my brother out in the dark of night in search of new, local caches.  During weekends, she has tried to run and find some hidden goodies in between soccer.  It would be a lie to say that I do not feel a little twinge of pride of opening up a new world to my niece.  I can not say that it does not make me smile to know that my brother is now haunted by little plastic key chains hidden in public parks searched out by kids young and old.  To know, in some little way, that my family has contributed to the memories that his family now makes brings a satisfying grin.  I can not wait for our next trip together, for our new adventures, for what is hidden under the next fallen tree or down the next hiking trail.  Though our time with them is short, it is always special. 
    

The Fruits of Winter

     The first day of Spring has come and gone.  The sap is running from the trees and overflowing the buckets.  The Easter eggs have all been hidden and found and turned into egg salad.  Snow still covers some shady areas and the wind still bites as it blows through the naked trees.  Mud has become the color of the landscape and the road and the woods.  The sky wages a daily war against the weather to change from grey to blue.  Winter clutches greedily to the world not wanting to relinquish its cold grasp.
      In the barnyard the animals are becoming antsy.  They can feel the changes of the season.  They yearn to run in the pasture.  The barn is slowly becoming empty as the hay reserves grow low from the long months of frigid air and hungry goats.  The shed is hidden by great clouds of steam as the sap boils its way down into syrup.  The impromptu sugar shack is a sure sign that Spring is right around the corner.  The workshop is a buzz with ATV's and motorcycles and oil changes and tires being aired, tractors being greased for the coming sun, and big, open doors letting the air finally circulate through the building.
       As the grass fights its way from brown to green and the first buds of the season can be seen on some of the hardier trees, the yard seems to be slowly waking.  The birds have returned.  Wood ducks have been spotted on the open water of the pond.  The new chicks have arrived to bolster the flock and increase our egg stock.  The damage from the onslaught of this winter's hurricanes and storms can finally be assessed.  The fences need mending, trees strewn across the trails need to be turned into firewood, and some of the drives need to be regraded yet again.  There is plenty to do outside and the fresh air stirs not only the soul but the stomach as well.
        Inside, baseball has come to the TV.  It is a funny thing, drinking the dark, hearty beers of winter, the porters and the stouts, while enjoying a few innings.  But those few remaining winter warmers will go nicely with the venison stew simmering on the stove and filling the house with belly-grumbling wafts of garlic and onion and gravy.  The stove is cluttered with pots.  The stew is cramped on all sides by boiling syrup in its final stages of production, adding a sweet smell to the savory scents filling the house.  Mason jars of the finished syrup sit next to fresh-baked biscuits.  The biscuits are torn between a bath of brown gravy and fresh stew or melted butter and warm maple syrup.  We may just have to save a few biscuits for breakfast, if we can wait that long.
     Though Spring may have sprung, it is the fruits of winter that have filled our freezer with meat and our cupboards with syrup.  The fridge is stocked with the last of the hearty brews.  Our bellies will be full and bursting and ready to fend off the outside work to be done.  Though some may find the chores daunting, they are merely good excuses to be outside in the air, in the world.  They are hidden gems, precious fruit, time to spend with family working together on our own piece of land nestled in the woods.  The in-between seasons are the best of all.  Mud and snow, cold wind and warming sun, wood smoke and open windows, the best of all seasons.

Dinner with Friends

    I do not "go out on the town" very often.  Meeting up with friends to catch up and enjoy a pint is not a common occurrence.  That is not to say that we, as a family, do not dine out.  My children are quite fond of visiting new restaurants.  They have gone so far as to start their own attempt at a children's version of dining reviews. Their tastes range far and wide and their palates are quite adventurous.  Some old stand-by's that are used as "control" dishes to measure the kitchen of an establishment, and are always ordered, are the calamari, the steamed clams, and the alfredo, preferably with grilled chicken.  A good shrimp cocktail will always bring a smile.
     However, dining out with family in order to spend some quality time over a few choice dishes is not what is on the menu.  To visit with friends, trusted folks with which one can relax, talk frank, laugh, and enjoy company, just may be the perfect dish.  I call many people in my life "friend" but most only wish to pretend at comforting, genuine interaction.  Perhaps I am cynical (if you read this blog even a few times I believe this is glaring), untrusting, slow to let my guard down, but I find most people prove my reservations true.  I do not hold it against them.  I still consider them as close friends, but not close enough for dinner.
     Which leads me here, over the last couple of weeks I have had the opportunity to visit with a friend and his family on several occasions.  We do not see each other nearly as much as we should, yet each time we pick up right where we had left off.  Life, kids, work, all draw us down separate paths and making time to review our adventures is tough to come by, but we always manage to squeeze something into our hectic schedules.  As of late, we have taken to using our time in the pursuit of some of the finer dishes from the more refined restaurants we can find.  This may mean a dent in the pocketbook but an experience well worth the extra hardship.  The different venues and atmospheres, the candlelight and coat checks, the valet parking and origami dining napkins, the fine china and pomp.  We live a little and laugh alot.  I am mightily impressed with his children, older than mine by a generation (his being of college age and mine a year out of middle school) and still happy to share stories of school and work.  They can easily convey their thoughts and engage in conversation with all members of our party, young and old.  I can only hope that my children will mature as well (though it seems by their fine dining mannerisms and conversational ability that they have a good start). 
        The two families have laughed over amazing appetizers, debated politics and applauded achievements over main courses shared around the table, and have reminisced as towering desserts were conquered.  Tales were woven through the foam of craft beers that had traveled from different states and around the corner.  And, in the end, we have hugged and said our "so-longs" as the valet patiently waited.  Maybe a few times a year is all we can afford, both in time and money, but they still are too few.  Life is too short not to try new things.  Time is too little not to laugh.  I cherish the fine things, the finest being their friendship and the lives they share with us.  I hope to see them again soon and tell stories both old and new.

(His daughter is preparing to embark on yet another life journey to help homeless children on the other side of the country.  I would like to wish her a grand adventure, a safe return to tell tales of her journey over yet another dinner, and that she touches other lives the same way she touched our family's (my children's especially).  And I hope her parents are as a proud, if not more so, as I am to know her, to see such a wonderful child grow into a marvelous woman and human being.  You all are truly blessed and have blessed our house.  We will see you all soon but not soon enough.)

   

Snowballs and Snowtubes

     And with an icy explosion, just for a brief moment, the world was nothing but stars and numbness.  Then as quick as it came, the moment was gone.  I was brought back to my senses by the frozen trail mapping its way down my back underneath my jacket.  A little sliver of smashed snowball had found its way under my clothes.  I proceeded to engage a method of removal that was part dance and part convulsion and it elicited howls of laughter from the kids.  More snowballs arced their way toward me, trying to hit the same target that had me hopping in the first place. 
     I found that the best way to rectify my wet, cold back was to engage the offenders in an impromptu snowball war.  The day's chores, mucking stalls and throwing bales, would have to wait until my assault was avenged.  Being slightly larger than my attackers I devised a less direct engagement of snow artillery.  I began launching snow in high, rainbow trajectories, carpet-bombing the barnyard.  Children, dogs, horses and goats were running in all directions.  From behind tractors and trees their small projectiles still came flying, along with waves of laughter.  My wife's back, sore and perpetually aching from multiple attempts at repair, suddenly did not hurt so much as her hands released the first snowball thrown in years.  Now I had three "enemies" to engage and all of them found my rainbow attacks hysterical.  It was in short order that the tears on my cheeks from laughing so hard began to freeze in their tracks. 
      Seven days later the package had arrived.  My little attackers could not get through the cardboard fast enough.  The only way I could get anyone to agree to a snowball truce was to promise the purchase of a new snow riding device and it was trapped in the packaging.  Now, I could not in good manly country conscience buy a regular sled, not even a sort of fancy racing sled.  No, I needed the hard-bottomed, inner-tube-inflated, heavy-duty, ATV-towable model.  The air compressor screamed as the air went rushing into the inner tube and breathed life into the "sled".  One kid went running to find the tow strap while the other scrambled for the goggles.  My wife tried to quietly hide but the kids would have none of it.  The two little imps had already convinced Grandpa that today would be the perfect day to remove some of our tree stands from the big field and that he needed to bring his ATV and a tow rope just in case we got stuck in the snowy field.
       Cheering the kids on as Grandpa slung them around the field on their new tube was fun.  Watching them bounce over the ridge and get slammed with snowdrift after snowdrift was cute.  Seeing them slide sideways behind the ATV, gaining speed as they were sling-shotted through the turns was a hoot.  But the greatest moment came watching the kids rolling in the snow on their backs holding their stomachs like some crazy little turtles that had been flipped on their shells and could not stop laughing at their plight.  Their laughter was not only infectious but came in unrelenting waves, as one wave finally began to subside another would come crashing down upon them, catching me up in the process.  All of this craziness was brought on by the sight, and more hysterically, the sound of their mother flying by on the snow tube tethered to Grandpa's ATV.  Her hoots and whoops and ooohs and aahhhs were killing us bystanders.  They seemed to be forced out by each and every bump the tube hit.  They grew louder as the pair neared our viewing position in the field and then faded as the ATV blazed a path to the far side of the field.  Her shrieks of terror when the tube was flung into a turn knocked the kids on to their backs in fits of laughter.  They began rolling when the shrieks turned into oowwww, owwww, owwww, owww, oww as the tube bounced toward us.  Just when we all thought it was over, Grandpa threw the ATV into another snow-banked fishtail, shooting the tube into a tight 180 degree arc at what seemed to be a speed that would not end well.  The shrieks were unnaturally loud when they were right next to you but they were nothing compared to the howls of laughter coming from the kids.
        We learned important lessons over those two weekends.  Some we already knew, others we had forgotten.  Grandpa is evil and it is good.  Snow is wonderful and cold.  Snow tubes are fun to ride.  There is only one thing more fun than watching your kids have fun on a ride, and that is watching them laugh, especially at their mother's terror.  The thought still makes my stomach hurt.

Resolutions and Ruts

    Last year was not one of the most memorable.  Some memories were made, but not as many as should have been.  Most of the days, especially as the year aged, blurred and stagnated.  There were family losses and the angry lash outs that come with tragic loss.  There still probably has not been enough time for the wounds to scar over, even as life marches on.  New weights of responsibility and the commitments such weight brings began to pile up and grind away.  The grind is more mental, especially when most of the ailments are mental (and owned by those around you).  Personality conflicts are hard to address when no one is interested in change.  My time in the woods, my sanctuary, grew short.  The time to recharge and refresh became nonexistent.  And the rut grew.  Yet, as always, small hands can perform big things.  And those hands were armed with snowballs and one good frozen projectile to the back of the head was all that was needed.  In that icy explosion, the world was right again and laughter followed..........