On Summer

THE HOUSE ON LAKE OSCAWANA, 1942

Summer is undoubtedly my favorite time of year. While I am sure I am not alone in this conviction, summer tends to mean something different for everyone, and that meaning tends to change through the stages of our lives. When we were kids, summer was three months of blissful freedom from any perceived obligations we may have had at that age – school, homework, bedtime, putting on a coat! As teenagers, restrictions on these free summer days were already being introduced with reading lists, SAT tests, and college applications. By college, we had summer jobs and internships that were hopefully setting us up for our futures, or at least making us a buck or two. And now, summer has been reduced to a shorter Friday here and there, and perhaps a few vacation days you may have saved up throughout the year. This is, unless you had the brilliant foresight to become a teacher – a profession that allows you to seem like you care about helping people when, really, you just picked a great vacation schedule. I did not. Still, summer is my favorite time of year.

As a child, my summers were spent at my family’s old country house on Lake Oscawana. The lake was an hour outside of Manhattan in a little town called Putnam Valley. While I absolutely loved it there, the house, which was about a thousand years old, scared the shit out of me. It was big and dark and made of stone. It had a huge wrap around porch that covered the entire front of the house, and kept any daylight from entering the interior of the first floor. There were big imposing beams that hung just below the ceilings, and the floors and stairs were made from old wood that creaked and moaned with your every move. The basement looked like a torture chamber from a horror movie, and the attic, which was equally terrifying, sat right across from my bedroom on the second floor of the house. To make matters worse, the house was haunted.

Our ghost’s name was June Webber, and she lived in the little apartment that sat above our kitchen. June inherited the house from the former owner, F.K. James, who not only owned our house, but also half of Lake Oscawana, and a well-known chain of drug stores called Whalen’s Drugs. This was, until he died in the 1960s, leaving all of his worldly possessions to his caretaker, June Webber. June, my family had decided, was in love with F.K. James, and fell into a deep depression after his death. Too sad to be in the other parts of the house where F.K. lived, June spent the rest of her days in her quarters above the kitchen, having only the company of her nine cats. According to some (my family), June stayed in that little apartment above the kitchen for nearly twenty years until she died…up there…above the kitchen…with her nine cats. A few years later, my parents bought the house from June’s brother, who was looking to unload it quickly. Little did they know that June was still living there, and every so often when there was a quiet moment in the kitchen or there was a bad thunderstorm, she could be heard walking around up in that little apartment. Even worse, it still reeked of her cats.

So what kid would enjoy spending summers in a haunted house that smelled like dead kitties? Well, truthfully, I didn’t spend much time indoors when I was there. The house sat on two and a half acres of partially wooded waterfront land that had a stream running from end to end. There was also a massive willow tree that sat smack in the middle of the front yard, with vines that hung almost all the way down to the ground. For a city kid, this kind of space was absolutely priceless.

I noticed early on that Putnam Valley nature was extremely different from Central Park nature, as I didn’t get my hand smacked every time I tried to pick something up and put it in my mouth. I was also allowed to dig wherever I wanted - another privilege that life in Manhattan never afforded a child. My personal favorite was digging for worms. One morning when I was four-years-old, my parents woke up to realize I was nowhere in sight. The only sign of me was the pajamas I wore to bed the night before that were tossed in a little pile in front of my bedroom. My parents spent nearly an hour looking for me, when finally they noticed the kitchen door was ajar. When they walked outside, they found me in the back yard completely naked and covered head to toe in dirt. In front of me was a hole, already about a foot deep. With a smile, I turned to my parents and proudly showed them what I had found. Two muddy handfuls of worms! It was bliss.

Putnam Valley, while a charming town, was not exactly a popular destination for a summer home. However, my parents wanted a place they could easily get to from Manhattan, as my father, an allergist, would commute into the city to see patients during weekdays. This, of course, baffled me. How on earth could he find anyone to treat? Nobody is going to be in the city. It’s summer! They will all surely be at camp. Adults are so stupid.

Since my father was in the city all week, my mother, who - God love her - does not have a domestic bone in her body, would hire a few extra hands to help out for the summer. Now, when I say “a few extra hands”, what I really mean is we would bunk up for the summer in our haunted house with, quite literally, a troupe of young, beautiful Brazilian woman. They were all also somehow related to each other, and apparently, to the former Miss Rio. Seriously, I’m pretty sure Lucia’s sister was Miss Rio.

I absolutely loved my new collection of nannies, especially Rosalie, who treated me like her little princess, and was responsible for giving me any girly bone I may have in my body. Born a natural tomboy, from an early age I gravitated towards sports and dirt, before clothes and dolls (that’s not to say I didn’t have my collection of Barbies who I would use for experimental haircuts, after which, they always ended up bald). Then came Rosalie. She showed me how to curtsy and walk like a lady. She told me that all little girls should take ballet, which started an eight-year ballet career. She dressed me in flowery dresses and put blush on my cheeks. She taught me how to be flirty and bat my eyes, but never easily accept an advance from a boy. She always made sure I finished my dinner, not because it was polite, but because I needed to eventually develop curves – something all real women should have. And at the ripe age of five, she had me walking around Lake Oscawana in a little string bikini that matched hers because anything more covering would just be silly. There is really no better teacher of how to be female than a Brazilian woman.

As you can imagine, in a place like Putnam Valley, where there was a local bar down the road called “Shecky’s Shack”, which had about fifteen Harleys parked out front at all times, our arrival with the Brazilians at the beginning of each summer caused quite a commotion. So while I spent my mornings at Camp Nabby, learning arts and crafts, relay races, and how to start a fire from sticks, I spent my afternoons unknowingly receiving an education on men and the lengths at which they will go to get the attention of a beautiful woman.

Back then I just thought our little corner of the lake was the most popular, as this was where all the boats seemed to congregate. I assumed that Tony, the guy behind the deli counter of the local market just liked to give away free meat. I also figured that Joe, the man who always offered to give us a lift back to the house, even though it was fifteen minutes out of his way, was just being neighborly. I did find it strange that the gardener always seemed to take his shirt off just as we were walking past him, but I concluded that he just always got hot…right then. It wasn’t until later in my life that I realized just what these men were after. Luckily, when it came time for me to be offered the free meat, I could see right through it.

As the years passed, and my brother, Aaron, and I got old enough to look out for ourselves, the Brazilians eventually stopped coming. While at times I missed them, I was a kid, and it only took an ice cream cone or two to help me move on. It was especially easy with the arrival of the Sadek family.

I was seven and Aaron was nine, when the Sadeks moved into a house about a quarter mile down the road, and about a hundred yards across the water. They had a daughter my age and a son Aaron’s, a match-up that worked out perfectly. Bec and Zach quickly became our summer best friends, and for many summers to come, the four of us were rarely seen separately. In the mornings we all carpooled together to camp, and when we returned in the afternoons, it was only a matter of minutes before one pair of siblings had hopped on their bikes and ridden over to the other’s house. Generally, it was Aaron and I that ended up at the Sadek’s house, as the water in their part of the lake was seaweed-free, and their mom could cook.

The four of us spent our days playing endless games; some made up, and some well known. However, the one that is most memorable for me, and perhaps for all of us, was our annual end-of-summer Teich vs. Sadek triathlon. The race was broken down into the traditional three legs, which could be split between brother and sister as seen fit. Of course, Aaron took two of the legs and I was left to do my best in whatever portion he felt I had best trained for that summer.

The first leg was the bike (we didn’t know the proper order of an actual triathlon) from our house to their house. This included biking up the “monster”, a steep hill that sat right outside our driveway, and took me two years to get strong enough to reach the top without walking. Next, was the run from their house to our house, the leg of the race I was most often assigned as I was actually quite a fast runner. The final portion of the race was a swim from our house to theirs, a feat so nearly impossible, I almost always let Aaron do it.

The first year of the triathlon was pretty much just a dare. However, after the Sadeks lost to us that first summer, they insisted on a rematch the next year. By the year after that, formal invitations were sent out to our parents, friends, and extended family to come witness this awesome event.

I don’t remember what year it was when the last race took place. Just as I can’t really remember when we stopped spending our entire summers with the Sadeks. But eventually, it did stop. Some headed off to sleep-away camp, some to sports camp, and I discovered horses and spent my remaining teenage summers riding them. Before too long, my parents sold the old house on Oscawana and moved to a newer, ghost-free model on a lake near by, Lake Mahopac.

It is there that I now grab at any semblance of summer I can find; a luxury that seems to become more elusive with every passing year. Between work, weddings, and other adult-like obligations, my entire summer is now completely scheduled end to end. I used to think a schedule was something summer was supposed to be free of, but as I get older, I realize that is an impossible dream. Even as children, we were on a schedule, we just weren’t the ones who had to keep it.

I hope I can come to a point in my life when I give myself the chance to have a true summer again. I don’t think becoming a teacher is the answer, as I should not be trusted with the lives of small children, or anyone, for that matter. Perhaps it's just a matter of holding onto the memory of what summer once was; a time when we could truly let ourselves go and find joy in something as simple as digging in the dirt for worms. I am hopeful that I can find my way back to that place, but if I can’t, I am confident that summer will still remain my favorite time of year.

Now if only it would stop raining…

On Manhattan

I am one of those rare breeds of people who was actually born and raised on this island. Not that I really consider myself rare, as there are quite literally millions of other people who grew up here as well. However, I have come to find that evolving into a normal, functioning human being after having grown up in Manhattan seems to be considered an anomaly by most. It wasn’t until I got to college when I even realized there was anything particularly exceptional about growing up in New York City. However, after some surprisingly shocked reactions to stories about my upbringing, I realized that not many people were raised in such an environment.

I began to think that maybe it was, in fact, a bit unusual that my elementary school's playground was on the roof of a building, and that gym class was held in Central Park twice a week so that we had a chance to interact with "nature". However, in "nature" would a police officer come tell you and your friend, Jenny, that it is, in fact, illegal to build a tree house in your very favorite tree; even after you had dragged several pieces of plywood from Broadway, all the way down 92nd street, and into the middle of the park?

Maybe not every kid went trick-or-treating inside a building, or, for that matter, chose a friend based on the size of her building, and how much candy you could potentially collect if said friend happened to invite you over for Halloween. Perhaps it was a little strange that, each morning, it was my doorman, Benji, who vigilantly watched me walk the block to school to make sure I arrived there safely. And maybe not everyone was friends with a homeless man named Alan who lived on their block, who also happened to be the subject of one of their brother's college essays.

It was certainly hard to imagine that most people weren't half-raised by a Belizean woman named Geraldine, who would dangle you by your feet and drop you into a warm bath head-first, chase you around with a butcher knife when you acted up (all in good fun, of course), and later in life tell you that you needed to date a man with "some meat on them bones." These were all things I considered to be fairly standard until I began to spend some time outside of New York City, and realized that most people don't really grow up under such circumstances.

I have found there are two types of people who grow up in New York. There are the people who believe that New York is the absolute center of the world and could never imagine living anywhere else. Then there are the people who leave at their first opportunity to get out, and subsequently spend the rest of their lives trying to NOT live in New York. I belong to the second group. The problem is, no matter how many times I actually manage to leave, or how hard I try to stay away, I always end up right back where I started: Manhattan.

Don't get me wrong, I can see why people idolize this city. I can see why they think it's the center of the world, because it is in so many ways. I can see how the pizza alone would make a person never want to leave this little island. I can see how someone could feel like they were constantly missing out on the pulse of life by living anywhere else. I can even see how some people may find it exhilarating to know that there is a 67% chance they will be peed on, cursed at, or killed by a crazy cab driver, just by leaving the house! Yes, New York is undoubtedly an exciting world of possibility.

However, it’s all just too much for me. While possibilities and choices are obviously blessings in life, when provided with too many of them, these blessings can very quickly transform into a curse. Just figuring out where to eat dinner with three friends on a Tuesday night in New York can become an unbelievably stressful task unto itself. That is if you can even find that many people free in one night. Getting four people together for a meal in Manhattan generally takes months of planning. Then there’s the picking of the restaurant.

What kind of food? What neighborhood? Is that place expensive? You saw whom there? It’s called Sweat? Why would anyone name a restaurant Sweat? I’ve never heard of that chef. No, I don’t really feel like Bangladeshian food tonight, also, the F train is too far from my apartment. Can we just grab some pizza? Obviously not. It’s just too much!!!

I think it is this abundance of possibility that gives people the feeling they will be missing out on an entire lifetime if they leave Manhattan for even five minutes. However, with so many things to do, see, and eat at all hours of each day, I feel like I am constantly missing out on something anyway just by making a simple choice of which party to go to on a Friday night (generally I am invited to hundreds, as you may expect). It doesn’t matter where I go or what I do, there is always something better, more exciting, and, for sure, much cooler than what I am doing at any given moment. And, God forbid, I choose to stay in one night with a cup of tea and The Little Mermaid. That is pretty much considered suicide in Manhattan.

I fully understand that such a world of endless possibility can actually be incredibly exciting and creates an undeniable energy that buzzes through every inch of this city. However, the fact that it makes my head spin on a daily basis is exactly the reason I should not be living in Manhattan. There are many people who were built for such a place, and at one point in my life, I may have even been disguised as one of them. However, it’s time to admit it. It’s time to say the one thing you are never supposed to ever say in Manhattan.

I can’t keep up.

Just Another Blog

Another blog. Just what the world needs, right? Someone else adding to the clutter of this already overpopulated digital world. What's worse, I haven't even come up with something shiny and new to add to the collection. It's just another blog. Everyone and their mother has a blog these days, and pretty much any subject you could think of is already being blogged about. The other day I came across a blog that was all about edible arrangements. Not that I have anything against edible arrangements - especially if they involve cookies or chocolate (although flowers made of melon freak me out a little). However, if there is a blog completely dedicated to edible arrangements, I have to assume that pretty much all subjects are being covered. What could I possibly have to say that isn't already being said? Truthfully, I'm not really sure. I haven't yet come across a blog about the migration patterns of the South American Fruit Fly, but that's not really a subject I am too interested in covering. I also have not found any blogs dedicated to the happenings of Garry Coleman's daily life, but that would take a lot of research and I don't want to violate my restraining order...again.

So if everyone and their mom is already blogging about everything and anything that could possibly be blogged about, and I am not really sure what I would have to say, then why am I even bothering with starting a blog in the first place? I think there are a few reasons.

For factors that are far too long and complicated to get into here, I have landed myself back in New York and in a job that, at least by my standards, is completely uncreative. I essentially spend my days trying to sell bits of paper, and use a calculator far more often than I would ever care to. Considering the current state of the economy, I am aware of how lucky I am to even have a job, however, I figure that is no reason to stop pursuing my passions; or more accurately, to call off the search for what exactly I am passionate about.

Writing is something I have always loved. At times, I have even been told I am good at it. However, for one reason or another, I have never really let myself consider writing as something I could do, like, for real. Or maybe even for, like, money. I have made attempts here and there, but when I finally sit down at my computer, after a nice solid self pep talk and a few shots of whiskey, it only takes a few sentences before those pesky judgmental thoughts start crawling around in my brain. In fact, that's exactly what's happening right now.

This is a terrible idea. Edible arrangements? Really, Aly? That's not funny. And I think I misused that semicolon back there. Is that even a sentence? Is this even making sense? Did I remember to record So You Think You Can Dance? I really need to start cleaning my computer screen. A real writer would keep her computer screen clean. That rhymes. Haha. Okay, that's not really funny either. Nobody is going to read this crap. How self-indulgent am I? I should have never started a blog!!!

A few weeks ago, I decided that I needed to find a way to stop the questions and see, once and for all, if I really wanted to spend my days writing, and moreover, if I was actually any good at it. Then I found my inspiration. Dave had just enrolled in a bankruptcy and restructuring class at NYU. Not that there is anything particularly inspirational about bankruptcy, or restructuring, for that matter. It was the class part that got me thinking. That's not such a bad idea! After a little look-around on the NYU website, I found a ten-week creative writing course, and signed myself up!

As part of the course, I have to write SOMETHING everyday. It doesn't really matter what form it takes, what it's about, or even what language it's in (actually, I will have to double check on that last bit). All that matters is that I write words down and that I do it each day.

Of course, most people in the class opted to write a journal if they were not already doing so. However, I have never really been able to keep up a journal. I know this is strange coming from someone who is actually considering spending a good portion of her time writing, but I just can't seem to do it. I have made many strong efforts, but inevitably, after a few days, the journal ends up lost under a pile of People magazines next to my bed. One time I even purposely hid it from myself in order to have an excuse not to write in it. How could I write in my journal if I didn't even know where it was?

This is where the blog comes in. I tend to be better about writing when I know someone is actually going to be reading what I write. Not that I am expecting many people to read this blog, but the possibility of a reader could just be enough to make me put some effort into it. And, actually, I am confident that I can pull in at least a few followers.

My mother will surely read my blog, as she has just recently discovered the computer and will find pretty much any excuse to use it. My boyfriend and I live together so he has to read it, as I don't think he wants to deal with the ramifications of not having an answer when I ask him each night what he thought about my blog that day. My professor will probably read it a few times to make sure I am, in fact, writing every day before kicking me out of his class due to complete lack of competence. My siblings may also check in just to have something else to give their little sister a hard time about. Not to mention, their kids will surely be looking for any opportunity to tell their Auntie Aly she said a bad word...again. So there you have it, my family, my boyfriend-slash-roommate, and my teacher. A fairly strong subscription list, I think. Or I would like to think. Or I will keep telling myself.

As you may notice, this is not, in fact, a completely new blog. I actually started this blog last year to give a sampling of some of the writing I did while Dave and I were traveling. Since we were going to be spending a large portion of our time away in Israel, I decided an appropriate title for the blog would be Stories from the Promised Land and Beyond. While, I considered starting a completely fresh blog with a completely fresh title, after some thought, I realized that the title was actually appropriate for this journey of self discovery I was about to embark on. That, and I was just too lazy to re-register with Blogspot.

Despite the title, you should know that I am actually not promising a thing out of this blog. I don't promise it will be meaningful or prolific. I don't promise it will be funny. I don't promise that it will make sense. I don't promise intelligence, insight, or inspiration. I don't promise to solve any world problems or cure any diseases. I don't promise it will stop CNN from considering Kim Kardashian's last twitter about her cellulite is a worthy piece of news. I don't even promise that in a week's time I won't decide this was a terrible idea and choose to fully focus on my ABC gum collection instead. And I certainly don't promise it will be any good.

What I can offer are my stories, my thoughts, my observations, and my attempts at humor. And yes, I am aware that I find myself funnier than most other people do, but that's part of my charm, isn't it? I think it is. Mostly, I want to use this blog as a place to hone my voice and see how other people respond to it.

With that said, here I go into this little corner of the world wide web. I hope you will come for a visit and see what I have to show. I do please ask that you share your thoughts, as your feedback is my most valued measure to see if I do, in fact, have a voice that people would like to hear more of.

And with that, I leap...