The Canoe Diaries: Chapter 1

Fish Head Soup

My love affair with canoeing began after a bowl of curried fish head soup in a small open air restaurant on the far northeastern corner of Singapore sometime in January 1997. I had been traveling around Asia on business and met up with an old colleague, Dick Isherwood, who just happened to be in Singapore on business, too. When Dick asked me whether I wanted to have lunch and then go hiking on an abandoned plantation somewhere in the middle of the Straights of Johor over the weekend, I should have realized what I might be getting into. Years back when Dick and I worked for the same company, everyone had a Dick Isherwood story - How he convinced another colleague to bushwhack up the side of an unexplored volcano in Indonesia or how he swam to Ellis Island when a freighter heading out of Manhattan swamped his sea kayak.

Dick started with the company years before I did, but took a hiatus for 10 years to trek and work in Nepal. It wasn’t until he found himself married and the father of a Bengali girl and a Nepali boy that he returned to resume his corporate existence somewhere in his late 40s. By the time I met Dick, he and his family had worked and traveled across the world. But, he had settled in northern New Jersey with his kids in middle school and photographs of the Himalayas filling his office walls.

After we finished our curried fish head soup, Dick led me to a rickety dock, to an even more rickety wooden boat which took us, along with about 10 local residents, across the rolling sea to an island several miles distant.

“If only” said Dick looking longingly across the swells, “I had my sea kayak”.

“Ummm”, I replied, thinking “If only I had taken two Dramamine.”

The sky was warm and blue and the breeze finally convinced me that eating fish head soap was not such a bad idea after all. We landed at another old wooden dock at the edge of a ramshackle village. As we disembarked, I was struck by how different this place was from Singapore, with its rusty old cars and chickens and dogs roaming freely.

Dick and I wandered through the streets of the town to the far side of the island with its white sand beaches and unidentifiable rusty machine carcasses. The weather was warm and clear, and I asked Dick a million questions about his adventures. Even if Dick were by nature a boring or stogy person, which he is not, his adventures are so enthralling, I could listen to him for hours. I was not his captive audience. Rather, he was my captive storyteller.

Somewhere after Dick reentered corporate life, he started taking his family canoe tripping, a term I had never even heard of. I wasn’t interested in canoeing, but I found vicarious pleasure listening to Dick’s adventures. As we walked along he told me how the summer before his family paddled a river up in Canada all the way to a place called Moosonee on the St. James Bay. His kids had flipped paddling through one of the rapids and they had a fire sale of wet gear floating down the river. After paddling north for nearly two weeks without meeting a soul, they arrived in Moosonee – a town filled with tourists who had traveled North by train on the Polar Bear Express.

As we were walking along, Dick told me that in the coming summer he was heading to a place I’d never heard of called Algonquin Park. To get there, he would have to drive from his home in New Jersey, through Toronto and on up into Ontario Province. When I realized that he would be driving through my hometown of Rochester, I invited him to stop on his way north.

We made our way back across the Straits of Johor, Dick looking longingly at the occasional sea kayak that we would pass and me looking longingly at shore. On the taxi ride home, Dick explained that the old cars littering the abandoned plantation were exported from Singapore where driving rusty or damaged cars was illegal. As the taxi sped on, we passed Changyi Prison.

“You know why crime is so low in Singapore, don’t you?” he asked.

I raised my eyebrows in a blank response.

“Well”, he said “they hang all the criminals.”

A Proper Upbringing

I grew up in Utah and like most local residents only went to the Great Salt Lake under duress – usually entertaining out of town relatives – who were simply dying to say they’d floated in the salt waters – or who had just overstayed their welcome so long that there was absolutely nothing else to do with them. Wilderness wasn’t foreign to me. Fresh water was.

In Salt Lake City in the 70s, the most accessible alternatives to Church activities were smoking pot and hiking. You either fell in with a Good crowd or a Bad one because there weren’t any other options, like, for instance, band camp.
I had my first marijuana brownie, spelunking somewhere in the Uinta Mountains on a school outing in Eighth Grade.

As a teenager, I would walk out the front door of my house, up the foothills of the Watch Front and into the canyons and ridges of the surrounding Mountains. Neither of my parents went camping, but they were happy to let me backpack in Southern Utah with any family friends that would take me. Routinely, they let me hike off into the Wasatch Mountains to camp unsupervised with several boys I knew from high school. I spent one summer working for the forest service and another at wilderness survival school. By the time I graduated high school I had hiked all over the Rockies, wandered the canyons of Southern Utah, backpacked in the Uintas, smoked a little marijuana and somehow managed to maintain my virginity.

All that changed my freshman year in college.

When I turned 18, I made a beeline for the Utah border and headed for the east coast. By my junior year, I had transferred to school in Boston to study Chinese, and from there I went Shanghai and then to New York City. Perhaps with a broader range of social options, I went outside a little less. Don’t get me wrong, I always loved to be outside, but I got distracted. By the time I first met up with Dick Isherwood in Singapore, 20 years had passed since I’d spent a night outside under the stars.

Why Not?

Several months after Dick and I made it safely back to the shores of Singapore, I called Dick in New Jersey, to see if he and his wife, Janet, would indeed like to stop for a night on their way to Algonquin Park.

Dick said instead, “Why don’t you just come with us?”

Twenty years is a long time to be inside. And my sole canoe experience at the age of 17 had been less than stellar. For hours my mother and I fumed at each other’s incompetence as we paddled in circles down the Delaware River. I wasn’t sure a week long canoe trip was for me.

“Well”, I said, “I’d love, too, but I don’t think my husband, Brian, will go for it.”

I know. I know. I can’t always be expected to own up to my own shit, can I? Besides, Brian is a nice Jewish guy, born in Miami and raised in the suburbs of New Jersey. I wasn’t expecting a whole lot of enthusiasm about this one from him either.

But I called Brian at work because I told Dick I would.

When I explained to Brian what Dick and his family had invited us to do with them, he paused and said “Sure, why not?”

“Why not?”

Next time you are at the edge of a quiet pond, drop a pebble in and watch the water ripple. See how the minute waves stir up the silt at the edge of the pond. Maybe a seed pod resting at the shore is pushed over just a little, so that the sunlight and the warm earth take hold and the magic that is encased within the seed swells up. Over the next week a small sprout pushes through and then, the first leaves unfurl. Return each year in spring and look again as the sapling takes root. Over time you will watch the trunk strengthen and the branches open to the sky. Remember this.

“Why not”. These two words changed everything.

Canoe Tripping: The Company You Keep

As my close friend, Carolyn, so eloquently observed about canoe tripping:

"Its not the physical activity; it's the company that wears you down."

Deciding with whom to venture into the wilderness is the most important decision you make in planning a canoe trip. Believe me. You have to spend 24 hours a day with these people, and it is not considered acceptable protocol to abandon, beat or dismember other trip members, no matter how annoying they can be. This is especially true for family members.

When we paddle down the Upper Missinaibi River this summer, that will be about the forth or fifth year my family has ventured into the wilds with our friend, Pete, and his kids. Last year Carolyn and her son, Kai, joined our ranks as we all paddled through Killarney Provincial Park. We’ve paddled the Allagash River in Maine, Quetico (the Canadian Boundary Waters), and of course we’ve been through Algonquin a couple of times. The point is that we have gotten to know each other well – for better and worse.

So, to give you a feel for what it is like to be in the middle of the woods with the same few people for days on end, here are a few snippets of conversation, most of which my husband, Brian, recorded in a little spiral notebook on our last canoe trip through Killarney.

1) My 8 year old daughter Hannah speaking of something she did wrong to my husband: “It’s already happened. It’s passed. Deal with it.”

2) Pete instructing the kids on how to obtain firewood: “Look for a beaver dam and steal from the damn beaver.”

3) Martha, Pete’s daughter: “Dad, DAD, DAAAD, What the hell is the matter with you?”

4) Five year old Kai looking off across the still waters that surrounded the island we were camped on and casually asking: “Pete, is that your boat going down the lake?”

5) Me in response to comments on the rain tarp I set up: “I did it a 4 o’clock in the morning, so don’t give me shit.”

6) And Brian then placating me: “Next time you look for a wife, not only check her teeth, but make sure she sleeps with one eye open to track the weather.”

7) Joe, Pete’s 16 year old son on learning from the best: “I wish Brian was my Daddy.”

Then there are my two favorite instances from our trip to Algonquin in 2004:

At the end of the day, I walked up behind Pete and Brian who were washing dinner dishes in the lake and caught Pete remarking “God, your wife is a bitch, but man can she cook”.

Several days later, I accidentally knocked one of our two rolls of toilet paper into the thunder box, only to come back to the privy the next morning to find a note from “Forest Ranger Gump” suggesting that I dive in and retrieve the rolls if it happens again.

These are the voices of my canoe family. We definitely irk each other at times, but we’re found a rhythm that makes each day in the wilderness rejuvenating and fun.

I’ll conclude with a final quote from my husband Brian who remarked after we spent 10 hours in the pouring rain paddling and portaging through a place called Kirk Creek in Killarney:

“Canoeing in the rain is better than a good day at work” – especially when you are with the people you love.

Good Advice

My grandma: Always use a butter knife.

My dentist: Floss.

My father: All you have to do is one thing and eventually everything will be done.

My grandpa: Two lovers can find room on the edge of a knife.

My mother, curtsey of my grandmother: Practice your wiles.

My father: It’s better to be a Harvard MBA than marry one.

My mother: It’s good to get married because then you’ll know it makes no difference.

My friend: A lady always swallows.

My grandma: Love is hard.

My sister: Dating is affordable.

My mother: Everyone should be allowed to throw away their first born because that’s

the one you screw up.

My sister: Never buy cocaine, but never turn it down.

My mother: Never Tell.

My friend: If you can’t be smart, be careful.

My father: If it flies, floats or fucks, rent it.

A Hike wtih Laura on the Lehigh Valley Trail

Last Monday, the air finally warmed, and the snow that blanketed our town all month melted quickly away, filling the local creek with brown, turbulent water. Even the birds seemed convinced that spring was coming. Behind the house, my daughter and I found snowbells pushing their heads through the shrinking snow banks. As with all things in spring, we began to wake up earlier with the desire to create something new in the world.

For my friend, Laura, and me, that meant almost simultaneously deciding that we were ready to write – or more importantly – to be writers. Laura went to Ithaca to look into opportunities for travel writing and applied for freelance work, and I finally started this blog – my first foray into the public domain of written expression. Through the week we talked about our goals and brainstormed how we could get published. Laura is more experienced – and I learn a lot simply from listening to her experiences. I am older and probably more fearless. Somehow we drive each other forward.

Rather than sit inside to brainstorm about what to write or how to get published, we decided to walk along the Lehigh Valley Trail and breath in the early spring air. The trail runs along the former tracks of the old local railroad through forests, fields, and farms. On Saturday, St. Patrick’s Day, we planned to walk and talk about writing.

By late Friday afternoon the skies were gray and the first few flakes of snow started blowing randomly this way and that like some confused tourist who’d taken a wrong turn. Even so, I never would have guessed that we would all wake up on St. Patrick’s Day to 10 inches of fresh snow. We found ourselves ready for a St. Patrick’s Day walk on a cold, snow laden day.

Laura and I put on snow shoes and stomped on down the Lehigh Valley Trail anyway. The forest floor was brittle with ice, and the tree branches drooped with clumps of snow that looked more like cotton ready to be picked. With the exception of a few startled deer, we had the trail to ourselves to meander free of distraction in the cold air. And meander we did, one footstep at a time across the snow covered path. It took well over two hours to walk 5 miles, and by the last half mile our legs were sore, and we had talked ourselves into silence.

Neither of us went home to write the Great American Novel. In fact, I took a nap. But, we tossed around ideas and fed on each other’s thoughts until we came up with our next steps. And that is all we need for now. Until spring finally takes hold.

Wilderness Canoeing - Trip Planning: Key Items to Bring

It’s about time to plan our annual canoe trip, and this year we are heading up to Canada again to run the Missinaibi River. My friend, June, says that we are psycho-canoeists just because 5 years ago I took her out to a local pond and almost flipped her. I mean what’s a little swim? It was warm.

While I know some of you who read this blog are canoeists and some of you who read this blog are certifiably insane, my guess is that most of you don’t do a lot of wilderness canoeing and probably lay awake at night wondering….”What is the nature of God…. Does the Universe have a beginning or an end and what is wilderness canoeing really like?”

So I thought for the next little while I will talk about planning a wilderness canoe trip and share some of the excitement that ripples through our household in anticipation of our trip down the Missinaibi.

To give you an idea how that excitement flows through our house, I’ve give you an example of a typical morning conversation over fresh brewed coffee.

“Good morning my darling husband”

“Oh, my sweet wife, you look so lovely. Were you dreaming of our canoe trip this summer?”

“Golly, as a matter of fact I was.”

“Hi Mom and Dad. Before I sit down and eat my nutritious breakfast, I better take out the trash. Are there any other chores you want me to do?

“Golly, honey, as a matter of fact, could you bring up the dehydrator from the basement for me. I better get cracking on dehydrating all our deliciously nutritious meals for our canoe trip.”

“You sure are the best Mom ever. I love your deliciously nutritious meals especially when they’re dehydrated. Golly, don’t forget to dehydrate extra spinach so I can be strong when I get up to paddle on our canoe trip”.

“Golly honey, I’ll make sure to dehydrate extra just for you because you are so special to me, and I’m going to make Daddy’s favorite, too: Dehydrated Four-Bean Chili. You know how that gets him going every morning on our canoe trip”.

Food, as you can gather from our typical family talks around the breakfast table, is a critical component of a successful wilderness canoe trip because without it, we'd starve. So to conclude today’s blog, I will review the two most critical food items in a wilderness canoe paddlers’ kitchen pack: Alcohol and peanut M&Ms. I’ll concede that it is true that you should not drink and paddle at the same time but once you set up camp…. Come on. There is no T.V. What else are you going to do?

Canadian provincial parks don’t allow glass containers, so that narrows the wilderness alcohol consumption playing field considerably. We discovered, however, that Canadian Mist comes in plastic bottles. Last year when we paddled through Killarney Provincial Park, my friend, Carolyn and I also decided to add a little refinement to the trip by bringing boxed wine. Unfortunately, the cardboard box melted over time (like the time we forgot to put it away when it rained). But, the real issue was that wine and wilderness don’t mix. You can swig whiskey from a plastic bottle, wipe your mouth off with your sleeve and then head off to build a fire or gut a fish. Swigging boxed wine has a few logistical limitations, and even when we succeeded, we found ourselves discussing our favorite books and thinking about gardening.

Last year, since we had to paddle into and out of Killarney on the same route, my husband, Brian, and our friend, Pete, decided it would be great to sneak in beer and bury it, so that it would be waiting for us on our way out of the park before we took out our boats. The only problem was that we sort of forgot to bury the beer, and by the time we realized our mistake, it was too late. So in the interest of managing the weight of all the gear that we had to portage between lakes, we had a fantastic beer fest the first night, after which, of course, we built a fire and gutted fish. Fortunately, the peanut M&Ms gave us enough strength to drag a 5 gallon bucket filled with empty beer bottles the entire course of our trip.

Jungle Love: An Almost True Story

This is the story of your conception:

The costume store had only two gorilla outfits, so I rented them both, glad that we could
get our hands on two costumes so close to Halloween. I suppose I should have asked for a few more details. How was I to know that gorilla costumes come in different sizes and colors? Could I help it that the King Kong outfit happened to be two sizes smaller than Gertrude the Gorgeous Pink Gorilla. Frankly, I always liked your father in Pink, just not furry hot pink. Alright, I admit he looked pretty stupid, but no one would have known it was him, if he’d just kept Gertrude’s gorgeous pink head on, which of course he wouldn’t. At first he insisted that the night was just too warm, which it wasn’t because it was Halloween and we could all see our breath. Eventually, though, he made the best of it, walking around the neighborhood with your brother insisting that he had to remove his head in order not to scare any of the neighbor kids. As if, anyone would be afraid of a pink gorilla.

I got left home to hand out bags and bags of candy in the traditional distribution of labor on our block. I was being a good wife and mother, only this year, I was King Kong. There’s something about being a mean looking black hairy gorilla that is over powering.

Gorillas don’t talk, they grunt. So I grunted. It worked pretty well with the first few kids, so then I tried scratching. Worked pretty well. In between trick or treaters I got a banana and a quick swig of wine. The banana seemed really authentic to me until I realized I couldn’t eat it. So I went back inside, left the banana, and had another swig of wine.

My gorilla instincts were starting to kick in. I got a couple of junior high school kids so I tried pounding my chest and grunting. I almost forgot to give them candy. More often than not, I got little kids and their parents half of whom I’d seen at PTA. When they’d ask if this was our house, hoping to discover the true identity of my Gorilla self, I would jump up and down and grunt. I was King Kong, which unfortunately made more than a few of the littler kids cry. I tried to tone it down for them – a bit, but let’s face it, King Kong is scary.

At least to most. A group of high school football players showed up dressed like cheerleaders. The head cheerleader, a boy with a French flip, a fifties dress and the largest falsies I had ever seen, tried to steal an extra piece of candy. I grunted. I pounded my chest, and then I thought in the most animal part of my brain, “What would King Kong do”. And, I dove from the porch, tackled him and grabbed the candy bar. Then
just before I got up, I shoved leaves into each side of his bra. “Hmmmm. Ughh. Ohh. Grrr.” I said, as I swaggered, scratching my butt back onto the porch.

Several parents grabbed their children’s hands and skipped my house. I went inside, had another big swig from the wine bottle and put on an old disco tape from my college days. I took another swig of wine and turned the music up. Jungle boogie! What would King Kong do? Shake my gorilla bootie. YEAH. I went back to the porch and in between the trick or treaters I tried the Moon Walk. Then I did my John Travolta imitation. But none of it felt right.

I went back inside and grabbed the bottle of wine and returned. What would King Kong do? That’s when I noticed the porch rafters. I jumped up onto the porch rail, bottle in hand and grunted. I shouldn’t have tried swinging from the rafters, or perhaps I shouldn’t have tried pounding my chest since I was carrying the wine bottle. Whatever the case, I looked up and there before me was the most beautiful pink gorilla coming up the street with your brother. What would King Kong do? I missed the rafter I was aiming for, the wine bottle flew from my hand, shattering on the porch and I landed at your father’s feet with a thud.

“UGHHH” I managed. The neighbors came running, but Gertrude the Gorgeous Gorilla turned to them accusingly and said “Who gave King Kong so much candy? You know it makes him crazy. Stand back. He might be dangerous” Your father then put me in a headlock and dragged me inside.

You were born 40 weeks later, but it took about 3 years before we could convince your brother that there were, indeed, no wild gorillas in the neighborhood.

My life as a Hockey Player

I know all sorts of things happen when you enter your forties. For one thing, there is no way you can remotely claim to be in any other period of life than middle age. I started to low light my hair, made sure I got annual mammograms and began wondering if I really ever had a waist. My rather predictable PMS shifted into something better referred to as free floating hostility. And of course I was in that pleasant state of realizing that neither my career nor family was close to perfect. In other words, I was ripe for a “middle age crisis”. I could have found a cabana boy, had breast implants or gotten a tattoo, but I didn’t. Instead, I took up ice hockey.

During my moments of free floating hostility I had on more than one occasion remarked that I would love to learn to play hockey if I could slam my boss/husband/guy who cut me off in traffic/lady at the DMV into the boards. And while the idea of exercise appealed to me, I never thought about getting it on the ice.

Now understand, that I grew up out West, in an area lacking in water and rich in mountains. Skiing was one thing, but I had only been on ice skates twice in my life. I skated once when I was 8 and once in college, where I clung desperately to the outer wall of the rink as my ankles took on a life of their own.

So why hockey? I really don’t know. I had not one, but two roommates in college who played the sport. For close to twenty years, I thought they were weird. I’ll be honest here, I grew up before Title IX, in Utah, in an all girl family and I thought girls (forget younger or older women) who played team sports were …… well…. Unfeminine….not ladylike….and let’s face it, June Cleaver was no athlete.

I never played a sport in my life.

I moved to Rochester, New York in the mid nineties, and for those of you who have never had the pleasure of visiting Rochester between November and April, you may not understand why we say that in Rochester there are only two seasons: Winter and Road repair. The winters are long, cold, snowy and sometimes dreary. Ice Hockey is big around here. My son began playing hockey within a year of moving here. For six months of the year, I was at an ice rink twice a week with him. This is what I liked: the game was incredibly intense and aggressive. It was also short and sweet. For those of you who have sat through little league season, you can appreciate why I liked 50 minute games.

I wish I could tell you that I spent that time at the ice rink intently watching my son play, learning the rules of the game and following his team’s progress. The reality is that most of the time I spent chasing after my young daughter who had a propensity to eat anything she found on the ice arena floor.

One January morning, just shy of my 42nd birthday, I was at the ice rink, waiting for my son, watching my two year old consume popcorn she had discovered under one of the tables by the snack bar. (My rule to this day is anything that doesn’t have hair on it is ok.) I glanced up at the bulletin board and noticed a small flyer with the words “Beginner Adult Hockey Classes”, and I thought “Hmmmmm”.

Admittedly, there was no beam of light from the heavens calling me to the ice, but as soon as I got home, I called to inquire about the class, telling them that I was in my forties and didn’t know how to skate. As it turned out the guy who ran the class also gave 30 minute private lessons, which seemed more reasonable. I signed up for a lesson later that day, and borrowed my son’s skates. My husband, daughter and in-laws all came to watch. My son would have sooner died. He stayed home with his head under a pillow.

The instructor had to show me how to put on ice skates, and after 30 minutes I had made it around the rink 3 times with him by my side ready to catch me before I fell, fractured my hip or got a concussion. My family cheered me on, and I was totally pleased with myself. Who said you had to be a kid to learn something new? My middle age crisis started to foment.

The skating instructor called me up the next day to see if I wanted to sign up for his class. In retrospect, I should have realized that he was starting a new business and was looking for students, but at the time it never occurred to me. After all he had seen me skate, and he invited me to join his class. That was all the encouragement I needed. It never occurred to me that he was so desperate that he would recruit a middle aged woman who had virtually never been on the ice. If he had impersonated Mario Lemieux and asked me to join the Pittsburgh Penguins, I probably would have believed him. I signed up for the course then and there over the phone.

Now before I go on, I have to point out in my excitement, I assumed that learning to play hockey and learning to skate were the same thing. You would have thought that the equipment I needed should have been a clue. I was able to borrow my son’s skates, shin guards, elbow bow pads, gloves, shoulder pads, garter (Who would have ever thought that hockey players wear garter belts?) and socks. But I had to buy a helmet, pants, neck guard, protector (a female jock strap of sorts) and mouth guard. I am still not sure which seemed worse, the smell of my son’s equipment or the actual quantity of items I would have to wear. My son and neighbor wrote down the order that I needed to put the equipment on. I even practiced getting dressed at home. Twice.

I got to the rink very early, and eventually waddled out of the dressing room into the rink, as the other “beginner” students were getting on the ice. At that point I began to sense a clear distinction between learning to skate and learning to play hockey. These guys were actually HOPPING on to the ice and skating off like the wind. Clearly they had not needed lessons in how to put on ice skates.

That was the moment when I almost passed out. I know no other way to describe it. I remember thinking “I am going to die. Either I am going to slip and kill myself or I am going to die of utter humiliation.” Then I remembered my Grandmother. When she was 41 she decided to learn to play the viola. I grew up listening to her play quartets every Wednesday when I stayed with her in the summer as a child. She played the viola well into her 80s, and while she may have been no Isaac Stern, she had a great time. Then I thought “Damn it. I am 41 years old, and I can make an ass of myself any way I want”.

And I did.

About one month into it, I played in my first hockey game, which my husband dutifully videotaped and continues to this day to show people. The best part of the video is the commentary between my husband, Brian, who was filming and my neighbor, Steve. “Which one is she?” “Look over there. She’s the one who’s not moving. Oh wait. She’s the one going in circles.” “Oh, she’s down….Oh Man…”

I wasn’t exactly “a natural” at the sport, having neither played any sport ever before or possessing anything that remotely could be referred to as Hand – Eye coordination. At one point during that first season, the coach finally sighed heavily and pointed up the ice, saying “This way GOOD” and then down the ice “This way BAD”. That worked for me.

I suppose what I lacked in talent I made up for with determination and enthusiasm (two traits that seem to be of significant embarrassment to my children). I went to class every Sunday evening and no matter how clumsy or frustrated I felt, I always went back. During the week, I even convinced unsuspecting colleagues to skate with me during the lunch hour. Practice, Practice, Practice. By the end of the first season, there was not a part of my body that hadn’t felt the full impact of the ice is some way, means or form. But I could skate, stop, turn, go backwards and crossover. Puck handling was a bit of a challenge, but I learned which direction on the ice was “GOOD” and that helped. I improved. A lot.

The following fall, I joined a newly formed team called the Demons which said as much about the team’s generosity toward novices as it did about the overall level of the team. The Demons were the team with Personality. At the end of our first season, we were 0 for 20. But we had a great time, played hard and gelled as a team. Moreover, the entire team mastered the unwritten yet fundamental rules of hockey. Number one: No Crying. (Bitching, Whining and complaining were, of course, acceptable.)Rule number two: Hockey players are required to use obscenities to describe anything they want to happen in the sport, as in screaming “If you want a fucking goal, just shoot the fucking puck in the fucking net”. As you can imagine, this is a fantastic outlet for any woman with PMS. The last rule involved the generous consumption of beer to the exclusion of all other beverages. Early on in the season we went to a bar after a game, and several members of the team unwittingly ordered fruit based alcoholic beverages – you know the ones that come with small paper umbrellas in them. Our coach was dumbfounded. He looked at us and proclaimed very clearly “If you are going to play hockey, you better drink fucking beer.”

At the end of the first season, the team gave out awards to each team member. I got an award for “The team member with the prettiest name”. Not exactly the Stanly Cup, but I was playing hockey and loving it.

I actually played for six years in all. Each season was different. We all improved and new players and teams joined the women’s league. Best of all both Girls Hockey and Women’s hockey really took off. Seven years ago, it was all middle aged Moms and generic run of the mill lesbians who played like women. Now, there is an entire generation of ass kicking competitive hot babe hockey players old enough to be my daughters and some young run of the mill lesbians who play like men. In 2004, there were even two young women from Rochester on the US Olympic Hockey Team.

Men’s hockey leagues are divided by ability, so you can play with people with similar skill levels. In women’s hockey the only distinction is age: Under 19 and over 19, so every year the Women’s league has become more competitive. I, on the other hand, have not. Don’t get me wrong. I play to win, but hockey was my cabana boy and last year I decided it was time to move on. No regrets. I traded in my hockey skates for a skin suit and speed skates. Speed skating is the hardest thing I have ever done, and I love it. And I never ever would have had the guts to do it, if I hadn’t thrown caution and humility to the wind and played hockey.

I really think women of all ages owe it to themselves to play a sport. And here’s why: I’m in better shape now than when I was in my thirties. And I am braver. Anything physical used to intimidate me. Instead of an observer, I am now a participant. When I was younger, I would take my kids to the pool and watch them swim. Now I swim with them. Ditto for volley ball, basketball, white water paddling and sledding. I even tried snow boarding. And finally and most importantly –I don’t skate for anyone but me, and it brings me great joy. If that’s not the answer to a mid life crisis, what is?

Thoughts on Television

About 4 years ago we finally bought a 27 inch color TV. This was a momentous moment in my family because up until then we had never viewed a picture on a screen larger than 13 inches.

Actually, in 1995 we upgraded to a 13 inch TV from Wal-mart when we first moved to Seneca Falls. Say what you will, but it was color and it replaced the 13 inch black and white Hitachi TV that my husband, Brian, purchased in 1971. I’ve never been able to figure out where the Hitachi TV ended up but by the time it “disappeared” it was being held together with duct tape and had a coat hangar as an antenna. It would never have made the corner of Martha Stewart’s jail cell, but ask Brian about the TV and he will smile fondly and say “It worked great.” What’s even scarier is that this very morning, he walked up from the basement and showed me the warranty card he still keeps on that set.

Shortly after moving once again from the realm of unemployment to a full time job, I was feeling flush with cash and on a lark purchased a 27 inch Sony Flat Screen TV in the winter of 2000. Unfortunately it did not come with a hangar for an antenna and being too cheap to pay for cable, we let it sit in our living room for about 2 years and collect dust. Then once again emerging from the land of unemployment to yet another full time position, I convinced Brian to lay out $12.99 for basic cable. We now get ABC, CBS, NBC, FOX and, thank almighty God, The Home Shopping Network.

Fortunately we got service in time to enjoy the general degradation of American Broadcast Entertainment. But, screw PBS. I love reality TV. In the words of Peter Sellers in the movie, “Being There”: “I like to watch.”. My favorites include “Beauty and the Geek”, “Amish in the City”, “Amazing Race”, “American Idol” and “Extreme Makeovers”. I could go on and on. If there were a reality TV show about writing essays, I would probably give this up and watch someone else do it. Fortunately or not, most of the things I love to do have not made it to reality TV. Excluding of course shows you can only see on Pay-For-View or Late Night HBO.

Normally, I try to stick to reality TV, but earlier this season I was traveling on business and found the opportunity to veg-out in my hotel room with at least 22 channels to choose from. I ended up watching “ER”, and one of the actors quoted my Father’s 3-F Rule. Right there on TV, one of the ER Physician quips “If it flies, floats or fornicates, rent it”. Now granted, my father uses a different word from fornicate, but it’s basically the same thing. TV quoted my Dad! Then I got thinking, how the hell did a bunch of screen writers steal my father’s words and is my Dad going to get any royalties for his genius? It’s kind of ironic don’t you think, that with all the Reality out there on TV, I had to find one of my father’s greatest pieces of advice, in a show that is pure fiction. Don’t you just feel the lines begin to blur?