Finding the Catskill Mountain House

We were staying at a small bed & breakfast in the mid-Hudson River Valley this week when we found out--on our last day there, of course--about a nearby site that was heralded as just the balm for sore eyes. Needing no convincing, and not daunted in the least by unfavorable weather conditions, we headed out in the direction of the Catskill Mountains toward what James Fenimore Cooper called the “greatest wonder of all creation.”

In the moist gray-blue air, this is what we got:

Then the clouds below us became a cloud around us. I could see and feel its movement as the fog crept around a corner and took over not only the land on which we stood, but also the invisible vastness in front of us.

The voice in the guidebook we’d consulted told us the view from the site of the old Catskill Mountain House was “so lovely that it transcends mere description to become a symbol of the profoundest yearnings within the soul of the beholder.” I was prepared to believe it; even in absence—the absence of the house, which was burnt down almost 50 years ago, and the absence of the view, which was hidden by all the weightless wetness of a levitating pond—there was something transcendental. And I thought, for sure, I’d be returning. I hadn’t seen what I’d hoped to, but I’d seen something.

It’s not the manifestation that keeps us coming back. It’s the promise.

Goin' Camping

The Partner, The Boss, the dog, and I rode over to Rhode Island last night to take a gander at a 1989 27' Gulf Stream Conquest motor home we discovered on Craig's List. After The Boss jumped all over the queen sized bed in the back, after I inspected each and every crack and crevice of closet or cabinet space, and after The Partner took the behemoth for a spin, hands were shaken. Words like "title," "insurance," and "license plates" floated easily through the crisp dusk air. We pledged to return the next day to bring the big baby home.

New England is now our oyster. We already have plans for one or two weekend trips in October and all kinds of dreams for a lakeside site next summer. When I really want to get grandiose, I imagine a cross country trip that a young family will never forget.

Our Gulf Stream's got a pinky-mauve velour interior. There are two seats in the cockpit and a captain's chair behind. At loft level, foam pallets come together to form a queen sized sleeping area. A table and bench convert to a bed next to the refrigerator and across from the sink and stove. There's a shower on one side and a toilet on the other. Behind it all is a traditional queen bed surrounded by narrow but serviceable closets. I can lay back in the 80s grandeur of it all and imagine that Bon Jovi just might have traveled this way.

On the way home, The Partner patted our dog Roxie's head as she nosed her way over the center console of our car and nuzzled him from her spot in the back seat. We had been talking about the placement of car seats in the camper and assorted logistics. "Roxie's going to sit in the shower," The Partner joked.

"Droxie ridin' in the shower!" The Boss sang out. Her voice was a melodic taunt. I wondered if she was evil or just enchanted with the out-of-context image of her dog bouncing around a waterproof stall beneath the shower head as New Hampshire hills flew by.

"Roxie is NOT riding in the shower," I said, running my hand over the dog's smooth forehead. I felt the scar she'd earned the morning she decided to run under a chain link fence in pursuit of the neighbor's cat.

We were silent for awhile as our mind's eyes took us beyond seating arrangements into our own personalized realms. I pictured myself in a lounge chair next to the camper. I had a book in my hand and a lake to my side. The Partner was probably envisioning the race car he'd tow each month to the RallyX events he loves to participate in.

Then we heard The Boss behind us. A maniacal giggle indicated her train of thought had not left the station. "Droxie ridin' in the show-er!"

The dog turned and gave our daughter the hairy eyeball. That long, jagged scar ended right where her pointed gaze began.

Orbiting the Evil Empire

No matter how much many of us talk about Boston and Providence as our big hubs, we all know that it is out there! A major economic and cultural center that is not only a "must see" location in and of itself, but blocks the highways that we New England Mamas need to traverse if we want to get to Sesame Street Place, Washington DC, or the Jersey Shore. Yes, I am talking about the Big Apple, New York City.

I have to admit that I have slightly mixed loyalties when I lock arms with my fellow New Englanders to glare south. Not only did I live in Hoboken, New Jersey for two years while working in Manhattan, but my husband lived in and around "The City" for almost 30 years, and he still proudly calls himself a New Yorker. (In fact, he was joyfully cavorting around the house earlier today yelling something about "Only 4 games out! And at least two-and-a-half up!" for some baseball-related events that I am sure were less happily received by most of my neighbors.) But neither of our New York associations make driving through the City seem any more enticing.

My friend and her husband generously invited my family to spend the week with them in Ocean City, New Jersey. Unfortunately, my husband couldn't make the trip. I figured it would be no problem for me to take the boys by myself. However, as the trip got closer, I began to feel like I needed to breathe into a paper bag every time I thought about the drive. Being stuck in a car with a 3.5 year old and a 13 month old isn't fun at the best of times, and everyone I knew said the Jersey Shore traffic was simply a nightmare. It looked like the 7 hour drive would really be a 10+ hour drive.

Due to my complete laziness shear brilliance, we ended up leaving much later than expected. Originally I had wanted to leave at 6 am (that makes me laugh just to write it), however, that definitely didn't happen. In fact once 9 am had rolled around, I figured it was better to wait until the afternoon anyhow. We ended up leaving at around 3:15 pm. Other than some traffic delays getting onto I-84 (if my FastPass had been working it would have been no problem), there was basically no traffic on my trip. We stopped for an hour for dinner. The whole trip took us 8 hours total, inclusive of the stop. The boys slept through most of it since I wouldn't let them nap before we left.

Tonight when I am welcomed back into the arms of my fellow New Englanders as I go out with the moms from my playgroup, my first toast will be to Newark Airport. Because they overbook their airspace, there were plenty of airplanes coming and going when we drove through. The boys got a good half hour out of talking about the different airplanes and their "sizes".

Better than Valium

You know that phenomenon where you learn a word and then start to see and hear it everywhere you go?

This summer, that word has been "camp", or specifically, "day camp". While I, of course, know what this term means, now that I have a six-year old, camps seem to be everywhere I turn.

Has it always been this way or is this a new trend? In our area, there are general camps, as well as, specialized camps. If you have a soccer, dance, gymnastics, art, music or nature lover, there is a camp that fits. There is even a sort of church camp called “Vacation Bible School” which sounds about as fun as a root canal but is supposed to be fun for the kids.

I have also learned that your kids can go to camp while on vacation. I had always thought that “vacation” was synonymous with “‘fill up on family togetherness, even if you are ready to kill each other by week’s end”. So, I was a bit skeptical about how “camp” and “vacation” could co-mingle successfully. Nevertheless, I booked a week’s vacation at Smuggler’s Notch in Vermont which features camps for kids as young as three up to the age of 17.

Smuggler’s Notch bills itself as “America’s Family Resort”. In many of the brochures, families are seen happily romping around the pools or walking the trails. In reality, between the house of 10 and 4, most school-aged kids are in camp. I do not what percentage of Smuggs’ kids attend camp, but you only need to look around when camp is in session to realize that the majority of kids are not with their parents.

How did my kids like this arrangement? My oldest daughter, who is six, LOVED camp. She made a “best friend” (her words), hugged her counselors, participated in every activity, and had to be convinced to take a few days off for “family time” (she attended camp four days of seven).

My four-year-old enjoyed camp too, but the day was pretty long for her. If her big sister wasn’t so enamored of camp, I’m not sure she would’ve even attended; she went for only three days out of seven.

Our son, who is only two, was too young for camp, although the resort also has a fully staffed daycare for the youngest kids. However, seeing as he doesn’t attend daycare at home, I wasn’t about to try it on vacation.

I am not without feelings of guilt about this whole camp thing, though. I subscribe to the “vacation is about family togetherness” motto, and so I felt a little “pang” each time I dropped off a daughter. Was I being selfish?

And then we returned home from Vermont, and I felt something new. I felt relaxed.

For once, I had also had a vacation.