Direct Object

Part of my vacation so far has been spent encouraging my high school-aged nephew to do his "modules," two online courses that take the place of brick and mortar summer school down in his Florida district. Consisting of standards-based pretests, subsequently tailored instructional activities, and post test, it is every teacher's nightmare of education of the future: sterile, unengaging, and yet "individualized" and oh-so-measurable, brought to you by who else? Pearson.

He has muddled through compliantly, if apathetically, scoring 70s and 80s, and to be honest, I have approached the task with little more than a check-the-box attitude myself. That is until today, when he got a 60 on an English module. Wait a minute! I thought. I'm an English teacher! Maybe I have more of a role to play here!

And so it was that this evening he read the questions out loud and we worked through them together, I clarifying any questions he had or didn't even know he had, and he choosing the best answers. Thanks to Pearson's trusty algorithm, the concepts and standards make appearances in more than one place, and so it's easy to gauge if he is actually "learning" them or not. As for true mastery or real-world application?

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Gotta Catch 'em All

So this is how viral happens.

First you read a cryptic reference to some sort of game your nephews played back in the 90s. Then you see an article from some tech blog that a friend shared on facebook. Next your nephew tells you that his other 50-something aunt has been playing the game. In addition, he seems unusually excited about going down to the city waterfront for lunch and shopping, mentioning something about water Pokemon.

On the way there, your mother-in-law shares an anecdote she heard on the Today Show about some hackers who used the app to lure a guy to a vacant parking lot to beat him up and rob him. "Ha, ha!" you quip, "he was Pokemugged!"

But, not long after that, frustrated by your nephew's inability to figure out how to find and catch a Pokemon that he insists is, "right here, somewhere!" and his misguided attempt to save battery by refusing to brighten his phone screen, you download the app yourself, and suddenly you notice all these people staring at their phones, randomly flicking their index fingers, because you are doing it, too.

On the way back to the car a young man stops across the street from you, pointing and laughing in delight. You look up from your screen just in time to hear him shout, "Are you playing Pokemon Go? For realzzz!!?"

Later that evening, both your local news website and NPR have lengthy pieces about the phenomenon, but you just skim them, because you need to level up to five so you can get to the gym. Whatever that means,

Personal History

Ten minutes north of Pittsfield is the tiny town of Lanesborough, Massachusetts. When we were searching for places to stay last night, that name rang a bell, and a quick search of our online family tree reminded me that my four times great-grandfather Lewis moved his family there from Adams, MA. in 1831. His grandson, Charles, was actually the first of our line to make his way to Little Falls, NY, the town where my dad, his seven siblings, and myriad cousins all grew up.

I have seen pictures of the small cemetery where Lewis, his son Marshall, and Charles are all buried, and being so close, I wanted to visit the site myself. The Berkshires were foggy this morning as we headed up Route 7, and I examined the houses along the way, wondering which may have been standing 150 years ago.

Lanesborough is built on the shores of Pontoosuc Lake at the foot of Mount Rockwell, the highest peak in the state. Despite its lovely setting, there are really only a few businesses and houses lining Route 7, which is Main Street through the town. The cemetery was small, and unmarked, with no parking to speak of. Since it was Sunday, we pulled into the lot of the closed realtors next door and cut across the damp lawn into the burial ground.

Built on a hill, the grass was freshly cut, but there was nothing else to indicate that anyone head visited recently. Many stones were too old to read, some were sunken, and others tipped this way and that at crazy angles. There was no directory, but I had a picture of our family marker. It still took some time to find the tall obelisk about half-way up the hill. Just as I reached it, the gray skies opened and rain poured down on me so hard that I was worried my phone would be damaged as I snapped a few quick pictures and dashed back to the car.

It was time to go, but I felt like I had some unfinished business in Lanesborough. That sense only grew when the sun came out for the first time in days not 5 minutes later. Our route took us east and up through the hills past some little farms that I imagined might resemble the farm my ancestors had. It was awfully beautiful, and I had the feeling that I would be back.

Pittsfield Pitstop

The road home from vacation has a few stops for us this time. We wanted to see our newly-retired friend Trudi in her new digs outside of Albany, and since we were traveling from Maine to Virginia via Buffalo (and why not, really? Don't teachers have the whole summer off?) this seemed as good time as any. Still, Trudi wasn't equipped to put all three of us and a dog up for the night, so we needed to find a good place to break our trip.

Since Treat is working for the summer in the Berkshires, Western Massachusetts seemed like a natural place-- 6 or so hours from Mount Desert Island and maybe one from Albany-- and we could spend an evening with him. Well, then it was obvious that Bill and Emily and Sonic should plan to stop there also, for after all he is their boy.

And so a plan was hatched, and after a few hotel misses (economical and pet-friendly on a Saturday night is not an easy find) we found ourselves on the sixth floor of a place in Pittsfield, MA, in a couple of rooms across from each other at the end of the hall. Isabel had never ridden in an elevator before, and her doubt upon entering the tiny little room turned to disbelief when the doors closed and pure shock when we started to go up.

Once in our little corner of the hotel, the dogs ran back and forth between the rooms, until Sonic drank water and promptly barfed it up on our carpet. Isabel took advantage of that distraction to head around the corner, where I found her a minute later being shooed away by an Indian family who didn't think she should go down the elevator with them. We were still hub-bubbing when Emily came up from parking the car, but, never fear, Sonic greeted her at the elevator. A little while later Treat and I carried the easy chair from their room to ours and Bill rolled the desk chair in, too. The dogs found quiet corners, and with a collective sigh, we all relaxed, happy to be together again.

Island Life

It was a misty walk down the tree-lined path to Wonderland beach this morning. As we emerged from the woods the cold Atlantic Ocean Lapped quietly at the edges the wide granite ledges that led us to a cuticle-shaped cove of nearly perfectly rounded cobblestones. While our two teenaged boys scrambled as far along the coast as they could, the dogs waded into the gentle surf, and the adults in our group admired the stones-- stacking them, skipping them, comparing them, but not collecting them-- oh no! For that would be, as we reminded each other several times, a federal offense.

Having had our fill of that natural beauty, we piled in the cars and headed northeast toward Southwest Harbor looking for a lunch location that would accommodate eight humans and two dogs. A roadside seafood shack with picnic tables was just the place, and despite the warning that our meals might take half an hour or so, we took a place near the wood stove and lobster pot. It was a chilly 60 degrees, and we welcomed the extra warmth. As we waited, the owner introduced us to Grover the goat, a tiny fellow staked on a long rope in the adjacent field. "He loves playing with dogs!" we were told, and Bill took Sonic and Isabel over to meet Grover. They were curious but rather polite, touching noses with the goat before he danced up on his hind legs and scared the bejeezus out of them. 

There was also a little wiffle ball diamond set up just past the tables, and so Kyle and Bill and I played a little ball to pass the time away. Soon enough our names were called and red and white paper baskets filled with fried seafood blanketed our table. As I returned to the pick up window to fetch some ketchup I overheard an older gentleman in conversation with one of the young cooks. "How much is a lobster?" He inquired.

"5.95 a pound," the cook replied.

"5.95 for one lobster?" The man asked.

"No, 5.95 a pound for the live lobsters," the cook told him politely.

"I can't eat a live lobster!" The man was very alarmed. 

"We'll cook it for you right there," the young man gestured toward the pot, "but we'll weigh it first."

"Can I have all I want?" The man .

"Sure," the cook said. "It's a big pot!"

A Cold Day in July

The day dawned cool and rainy, but after some discussion we decided to make the best of it by heading to The Big Chicken Barn, an impressive emporium stuffed with junk about half an hour away. There I was able to indulge my new hobby, searching 45s for recording gold. I am partial to big band and other music from the 40s, because to be honest, the scratchy quality of the vinyl actually enhances the sound. The Chicken Barn did not disappoint, and after an hour or so of poking around, we came away with a few interesting items.

From there we headed home through Ellsworth, another of our favorite towns in Maine. After a great lunch at a cute little place on Main Street, a stop at the LL Bean outlet was a requirement, because despite my jeans and double t-shirt, I was freezing! Fortunately, I found just what I needed right away, a fleece lined flannel shirt that just happened to fit me perfectly. It was so cozy I wore it around as everyone else shopped and only took it off so that the cashier could scan the tag.

After such a satisfying day, I was almost glad that it was raining.

Return Trip

We decided to take the mail boat from Northeast Harbor over to the Cranberry Islands today. Situated just a couple of miles south of Mt. Desert Island, the tiny Cranberries have had permanent residents since 1768, mostly fisherman, farmers, and artists. These days in addition to lovely clapboard and cedar shake houses, there are a few shops, a couple of casual restaurants, and some easy rambling trails that lead down to cobble stone beaches for curious mainlanders like us who are feel the pull of island life.

Truth be told, I had visited Great Cranberry Island before. Being lucky enough to have an old friend who has a summer home in these parts is what brought me up here in the first place 20 years ago. My visits were a few days in the summer, staying in my friend Ruth's guest room. How awesome it was to have a guide and hostess all in one! It was only when my nephews were old enough to bring along that I had clearly outgrown that little room under the steps and started renting a place of my own by the week.

It was in those earlier years that I last boarded the mail boat with Ruth and her husband John bound for Big Cranberry, making sure to bring plenty of water and food since there were no commercial establishments on the island. "Pee before you leave!" Ruth's mom warned me. On that trip we hiked to the end of the only road to reach the beach all the way at the opposite end from the pier. Emerging from the scrubby pine, lupine-filled fields and seaside roses, we found ourselves alone on a vast expanse of rocky beach. There we wandered for hours, filling our packs with at least ten pounds each of perfect stones.

I thought of that adventure this morning as we sat on gray benches in the small cabin of the mail boat waiting to set off. "There's a general store there now?" I asked rhetorically, reading the brochure. "Well," I shrugged, "I guess things change in twenty years." I paused, because it didn't seem possible that so much time had passed.

"Well everything except me, that is!"