Guest post by 13-year-old reader
Thursday, May 31, 2012
The BearBunnygate
Guest post by 13-year-old reader
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Chapter 25: The Kitten Tamer of Orange Heights
By Saturday morning, this first weekend in June, roses bloomed up and down Orange Heights Avenue. But, just as certain as the sunny days meant prying open wooden windows that had been closed all winter, it meant the neighborhood stray cats produced new crops of kittens. Dylan and Joe and Cole's dog, Daisy, were the first to discover the annual litter of orange tabbies and black and white tuxedos.
Dylan was counting the Belgian blocks between his driveway and the far end of Naomi and Boris's driveway, which was as far as he was permitted to walk alone. When Joe came outside to walk his dog, Dylan joined him without a word.
Joe and Dylan walked in companionable silence, each thinking. Joe was considering his Match.com options, dozens of women who had responded to the ad his son Cole wrote and Joe posted earlier in the week. He was overwhelmed even when he started to chart each of the entries, awarding each woman points for her replies.
"I hate to do it that way," he told Dylan, without explaining. "But I know how to quantify, to do stats, you know?"
He looked down at the boy, busy counting something visible only to himself. "I know you know," said Joe.
"See," he continued, as Dylan looked up at him. "I can calculate RBI and a batting average without, well, batting an eyelid. But I don't know what I want in a woman, how to calculate the perfect match."
Daisy, the old golden retriever walking companionably behind them, suddenly took off with a throaty bark, running to the side of Naomi's carriage house-garage. The dog sniffed in the long grass until Joe and Dylan caught up with her.
"Kittens," said Dylan and Joe nodded. The two looked down at a nest of fur and listened to the faint but anxious mews.
Life on Orange Heights Avenue was good for people, thought Joe, but not for kittens. Behind Naomi's house on the dead end were woods where residents came to let their dogs roam off their leashes. A coyote was thought to prowl at night, too. The mother cat was no safer than her kittens, he realized, equally vulnerable to attack and to illness if she ate trash.
"I like them," said Dylan. "There are five, two yellow and three black."
"I like them too," said Joe, crouching down to better see the cats and talk to they boy. "And I know how to keep them safe."
The little boy looked at Joe.
"What we need to do," said Joe gravely, "is call the Kitten Tamer of Orange Heights."
Dylan was counting the Belgian blocks between his driveway and the far end of Naomi and Boris's driveway, which was as far as he was permitted to walk alone. When Joe came outside to walk his dog, Dylan joined him without a word.
Joe and Dylan walked in companionable silence, each thinking. Joe was considering his Match.com options, dozens of women who had responded to the ad his son Cole wrote and Joe posted earlier in the week. He was overwhelmed even when he started to chart each of the entries, awarding each woman points for her replies.
"I hate to do it that way," he told Dylan, without explaining. "But I know how to quantify, to do stats, you know?"
He looked down at the boy, busy counting something visible only to himself. "I know you know," said Joe.
"See," he continued, as Dylan looked up at him. "I can calculate RBI and a batting average without, well, batting an eyelid. But I don't know what I want in a woman, how to calculate the perfect match."
Daisy, the old golden retriever walking companionably behind them, suddenly took off with a throaty bark, running to the side of Naomi's carriage house-garage. The dog sniffed in the long grass until Joe and Dylan caught up with her.
"Kittens," said Dylan and Joe nodded. The two looked down at a nest of fur and listened to the faint but anxious mews.
Life on Orange Heights Avenue was good for people, thought Joe, but not for kittens. Behind Naomi's house on the dead end were woods where residents came to let their dogs roam off their leashes. A coyote was thought to prowl at night, too. The mother cat was no safer than her kittens, he realized, equally vulnerable to attack and to illness if she ate trash.
"I like them," said Dylan. "There are five, two yellow and three black."
"I like them too," said Joe, crouching down to better see the cats and talk to they boy. "And I know how to keep them safe."
The little boy looked at Joe.
"What we need to do," said Joe gravely, "is call the Kitten Tamer of Orange Heights."
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Chapter 24: Guess Who's Coming to This Old House
The scream that Maureen heard was more of a shriek, or so Naomi told herself. She opened her email after the eventful morning when she was locked in her own basement.
Chapter 30: Gemma WanderLust Comes to Town
Gemma WanderLust in Concert!
NJPAC
Newark NJ
One Night Only!
Tickets on sale now at the Box Office
or online at: njpacc.org
Grammy-award winner debuts songs from her new album "Lust for Life"
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Chapter 23: Your usual scream
That was fast, thought Maureen, as she recognized Naomi's scream. How could it be that a new neighbor, less than a week on the Avenue, could be facing peril again, such that she would scream for help and be instantly recognizable?
Maureen had been dozing in a green plastic lawn chair, contemplating her tomato plants, when she heard Naomi. The Friday afternoon was warm, reassuring to Maureen, who had planted her tomatoes and peppers the week earlier. Though she never put it into words, and rarely into thoughts, her garden was important. The spring planting, the summer watering and waiting, and August bounty of tomatoes and peppers reflected order in what often looked like a random and chaotic universe. While each summer brought a challenge -- bunnies, blight, the groundhog Dylan had named Garth -- there was a certainty to the process. Seeds, sun and water yielded plants. No more, no less.
The garden plot was the same each year, the same sunny side of the yard that her grandfather had planted before her, staked out when Orange Heights was a smaller town, and very different. In the 1930s, when her great-grandfather worked for the railroad, the family lived next to the tracks. When the train whistle blew, her great-grandfather rushed out of the tiny house to release the barriers on Orange Heights Avenue, which stopped pedestrian and horse traffic and allowed the train to pass safely. The rush of the train's iron wheels on the metal tracks rattled the windows of the house, and the downtown noises of horses, carriages, and trade meant noise, always noise. No wonder he sought another neighborhood, once he had a dollar or two in his pocket.
Maureen listened for sounds from within her house, knowing that her mother was resting and Dylan dozing in front of television after the morning's adventure. Nothing.
She looked for smoke rising from Naomi's house. Nothing.
Could one woman be caught twice in the same day in her own basement, wondered Maureen. And if so, what could she, Maureen, do about it?
Nothing, she told herself, settling back into her lawn chair. She made herself comfortable, ignoring the tiny flare of conscience from within.
"She's okay, I'm sure," said Maureen aloud to a passing stray cat. "What could go wrong on Orange Heights Avenue?"
Maureen had been dozing in a green plastic lawn chair, contemplating her tomato plants, when she heard Naomi. The Friday afternoon was warm, reassuring to Maureen, who had planted her tomatoes and peppers the week earlier. Though she never put it into words, and rarely into thoughts, her garden was important. The spring planting, the summer watering and waiting, and August bounty of tomatoes and peppers reflected order in what often looked like a random and chaotic universe. While each summer brought a challenge -- bunnies, blight, the groundhog Dylan had named Garth -- there was a certainty to the process. Seeds, sun and water yielded plants. No more, no less.
The garden plot was the same each year, the same sunny side of the yard that her grandfather had planted before her, staked out when Orange Heights was a smaller town, and very different. In the 1930s, when her great-grandfather worked for the railroad, the family lived next to the tracks. When the train whistle blew, her great-grandfather rushed out of the tiny house to release the barriers on Orange Heights Avenue, which stopped pedestrian and horse traffic and allowed the train to pass safely. The rush of the train's iron wheels on the metal tracks rattled the windows of the house, and the downtown noises of horses, carriages, and trade meant noise, always noise. No wonder he sought another neighborhood, once he had a dollar or two in his pocket.
Maureen listened for sounds from within her house, knowing that her mother was resting and Dylan dozing in front of television after the morning's adventure. Nothing.
She looked for smoke rising from Naomi's house. Nothing.
Could one woman be caught twice in the same day in her own basement, wondered Maureen. And if so, what could she, Maureen, do about it?
Nothing, she told herself, settling back into her lawn chair. She made herself comfortable, ignoring the tiny flare of conscience from within.
"She's okay, I'm sure," said Maureen aloud to a passing stray cat. "What could go wrong on Orange Heights Avenue?"
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Chapter 22: Cole and Bounce
Home from school that afternoon, Cole took milk and a sandwich to his room and closed the door. His cell phone and iPod remained downstairs, where their temptations were out of sight. Likewise, he yanked the cord that connected his computer to the virtual world, and started up a word-processing program. He lay on his bed to eat and contemplate the ceiling.
Cole reached under his bed for a book, a review copy he found on his father’s desk downstairs. Cole studied the yellow cover, and the red script that read “Bounce.”
He had picked up the book hoping for a racy read, but it wasn’t that: the book was written by Matthew Syed, medal-winning table tennis player who looked at the competition and realized that most of it came from the neighborhood where he grew up. Looking for an explanation, Syed concluded that much great success -- whether athletic or artistic -- resulted from opportunity meeting relentless practice. The author, read Cole, saw 10,000 hours of practice as a reasonable minimum for achieving success.
“No shit,” said Cole aloud, no stranger to long practice.
Cole learned years earlier that part of the secret of cool was focus, focus on one aspect of life at a time. He saw this in the athletes that his father profiled, boxers who worked on punch for a month, or a golfer who refined her swing for a season. The best athletes worked dispassionately, putting aside ego to focus on the task at hand. Then, once the swing was perfected, the same athlete would move onto the next technique. The very best strengthened one weakness at at time.
Likewise, Cole considered the skills for leadership success in high school, listing them aloud as he lay on his bed.
“Academics, social mobility, appearance, athletic prowess, knowing everybody’s name, doing good stuff like charity, and crazy self-confidence,” he said to the ceiling.
Sure, he saw other avenues to success, by way of writing, the arts, maybe running for an office. Those weren’t his skills, though, or his interests, so he put them aside, and focused on what he could do well.
What Cole also learned by observation was that without academic success, all other social gains in high school were like a castle built on quicksand; failure, especially public failure, could bring down the edifice. He did schoolwork and homework diligently, rarely complaining -- what was the point and who had the time? -- rarely passionate about the subject matter.
When Chemistry meant finding logarithms, he did so. He practiced a dozen at a time until he could effortlessly demonstrate in class. Spanish asked for the future subjunctive, so Cole did the exercises in the back of the workbook until he knew it cold, then tore the pages out. For part of his strategy was to keep such efforts under wraps.
Cole opened the book at random and read about David Beckham, now a supermodel as much as a soccer player, who spent days of his youth practicing the kick that made him famous. This made sense to Cole; how else could you convince the world watching that your achievements were effortless unless you worked hard and long hours? The trick to high school, thought Cole, was keeping those efforts a secret.
Daisy scratched on Cole’s bedroom door, so let her in and scratched her head. She licked the last sandwich crumbs from his hand.
“Here’s what I want to know,” he told the dog. “How did those guys know which thing to do? Which sport or whatever to pursue? Which is mine?”
The dog sniffed the floor, looking for more crumbs.
Cole turned to his computer and considered the list of assignments that he had posted. Calculus, check.
Spanish, not due for a week.
English, Act II of Hamlet, done.
What loomed was a History project, an architectural scavenger hunt, where the class had to find Ionic and Doric columns, Rosettes and even limestone artichokes in local buildings. The task included locating and photographing the elements, describing them fully, and connecting them to the ancient world. It was, as Cole told Daisy, “a shitload of work.”
But it had to be done, so Cole picked up the assignment sheet and walked downstairs. He took a digital camera from his father’s desk and headed to the end of Orange Heights Avenue, closely followed by Daisy.
“That shit-crazy house has all kinds of columns,” said Cole. “Let me get a couple of these checked off my list.”
Cole reached under his bed for a book, a review copy he found on his father’s desk downstairs. Cole studied the yellow cover, and the red script that read “Bounce.”
He had picked up the book hoping for a racy read, but it wasn’t that: the book was written by Matthew Syed, medal-winning table tennis player who looked at the competition and realized that most of it came from the neighborhood where he grew up. Looking for an explanation, Syed concluded that much great success -- whether athletic or artistic -- resulted from opportunity meeting relentless practice. The author, read Cole, saw 10,000 hours of practice as a reasonable minimum for achieving success.
“No shit,” said Cole aloud, no stranger to long practice.
Cole learned years earlier that part of the secret of cool was focus, focus on one aspect of life at a time. He saw this in the athletes that his father profiled, boxers who worked on punch for a month, or a golfer who refined her swing for a season. The best athletes worked dispassionately, putting aside ego to focus on the task at hand. Then, once the swing was perfected, the same athlete would move onto the next technique. The very best strengthened one weakness at at time.
Likewise, Cole considered the skills for leadership success in high school, listing them aloud as he lay on his bed.
“Academics, social mobility, appearance, athletic prowess, knowing everybody’s name, doing good stuff like charity, and crazy self-confidence,” he said to the ceiling.
Sure, he saw other avenues to success, by way of writing, the arts, maybe running for an office. Those weren’t his skills, though, or his interests, so he put them aside, and focused on what he could do well.
What Cole also learned by observation was that without academic success, all other social gains in high school were like a castle built on quicksand; failure, especially public failure, could bring down the edifice. He did schoolwork and homework diligently, rarely complaining -- what was the point and who had the time? -- rarely passionate about the subject matter.
When Chemistry meant finding logarithms, he did so. He practiced a dozen at a time until he could effortlessly demonstrate in class. Spanish asked for the future subjunctive, so Cole did the exercises in the back of the workbook until he knew it cold, then tore the pages out. For part of his strategy was to keep such efforts under wraps.
Cole opened the book at random and read about David Beckham, now a supermodel as much as a soccer player, who spent days of his youth practicing the kick that made him famous. This made sense to Cole; how else could you convince the world watching that your achievements were effortless unless you worked hard and long hours? The trick to high school, thought Cole, was keeping those efforts a secret.
Daisy scratched on Cole’s bedroom door, so let her in and scratched her head. She licked the last sandwich crumbs from his hand.
“Here’s what I want to know,” he told the dog. “How did those guys know which thing to do? Which sport or whatever to pursue? Which is mine?”
The dog sniffed the floor, looking for more crumbs.
Cole turned to his computer and considered the list of assignments that he had posted. Calculus, check.
Spanish, not due for a week.
English, Act II of Hamlet, done.
What loomed was a History project, an architectural scavenger hunt, where the class had to find Ionic and Doric columns, Rosettes and even limestone artichokes in local buildings. The task included locating and photographing the elements, describing them fully, and connecting them to the ancient world. It was, as Cole told Daisy, “a shitload of work.”
But it had to be done, so Cole picked up the assignment sheet and walked downstairs. He took a digital camera from his father’s desk and headed to the end of Orange Heights Avenue, closely followed by Daisy.
“That shit-crazy house has all kinds of columns,” said Cole. “Let me get a couple of these checked off my list.”
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Chapter 21: Boris, born for apartment living, owns a house
On the midtown direct train, which was stalled in the Meadowlands for a brush fire delay, Boris looked out the window at what passed for nature and looked like a set for "The Sopranos." Long, brownish-green grasses leaned sideways in the wind, the field bisected by marshes or swamps, Boris didn't know which.
Even now, having read, written and spoken English since seventh grade, there were expressions that puzzled Boris. What was the difference, he wondered, between a creek and a brook? He read the Harry Potter books on his iPod, and still puzzled over the difference between ogres, trolls, and fiends. Size? Ferocity? He made a note to find Harry Potter in Russian, to look up the words, or to ask his mother.
In other realms, Boris knew the words and concepts. He reveled in the language of finance, where precision was all. He could talk about Star Wars and Star Trek in three languages. Somewhere in the house, or in his mother's apartment in Jersey City, there was a Klingon-Russian dictionary that Boris and his brother Evan crafted in middle school.
Boris thought about the boxes and the big house, his big, old house on Orange Heights Avenue. There was no question that he and Naomi had bitten off more than they could chew, a favorite expression of Boris and his brother, suggesting as it did a glorious excess. Nothing had prepared him for owning a house. Born in Moscow, raised in a massive apartment complex, Boris had known no other life -- everyone he knew lived the same way -- until he was 13 years old.
Still, Boris sometimes woke at night imagining himself in the Moscow airport -- he could see the Cyrillic letters painted on the wall in grey -- sitting on a suitcase next to his brother. The two of them waited silently, among another 50 travelers to find out their destination, whether New York or Tel Aviv. The resettlement agents charged around the waiting area waving sheafs of papers at Soviet officials, calling names, calling again, then sending families to either one boarding gate or another. Boris remembered watching passengers disappear down one long hallway, sometimes turning around for a last look, others rushing towards the plane.
His mother and father hoped for New York, where two uncles and a dozen cousins already lived.
"Greenpoint," Boris and Evan said aloud, when his parents talked about the move. "We live in Greenpoint."
"Not yet," said his mother, eager to ward off the ill temper of fate. "Don't even think it."
But how could he not, wondered Boris. The doorway was framed with postcards from Manhattan, a nighttime view of a bridge, gaudy buildings, the iconic Statue of Liberty. Boris drew the same images in the corners of his school notebooks; his hopes, too, lived in Manhattan.
As the New Jersey Transit train lurched forward, Boris shook his head and returned to the present.
"Next stop, Penn Station," said a conductor over the loudspeaker. "The end of the trip, last stop, final destination."
If only that were so, thought Boris, thinking of Orange Heights. That's my final destination now.
Even now, having read, written and spoken English since seventh grade, there were expressions that puzzled Boris. What was the difference, he wondered, between a creek and a brook? He read the Harry Potter books on his iPod, and still puzzled over the difference between ogres, trolls, and fiends. Size? Ferocity? He made a note to find Harry Potter in Russian, to look up the words, or to ask his mother.
In other realms, Boris knew the words and concepts. He reveled in the language of finance, where precision was all. He could talk about Star Wars and Star Trek in three languages. Somewhere in the house, or in his mother's apartment in Jersey City, there was a Klingon-Russian dictionary that Boris and his brother Evan crafted in middle school.
Boris thought about the boxes and the big house, his big, old house on Orange Heights Avenue. There was no question that he and Naomi had bitten off more than they could chew, a favorite expression of Boris and his brother, suggesting as it did a glorious excess. Nothing had prepared him for owning a house. Born in Moscow, raised in a massive apartment complex, Boris had known no other life -- everyone he knew lived the same way -- until he was 13 years old.
Still, Boris sometimes woke at night imagining himself in the Moscow airport -- he could see the Cyrillic letters painted on the wall in grey -- sitting on a suitcase next to his brother. The two of them waited silently, among another 50 travelers to find out their destination, whether New York or Tel Aviv. The resettlement agents charged around the waiting area waving sheafs of papers at Soviet officials, calling names, calling again, then sending families to either one boarding gate or another. Boris remembered watching passengers disappear down one long hallway, sometimes turning around for a last look, others rushing towards the plane.
His mother and father hoped for New York, where two uncles and a dozen cousins already lived.
"Greenpoint," Boris and Evan said aloud, when his parents talked about the move. "We live in Greenpoint."
"Not yet," said his mother, eager to ward off the ill temper of fate. "Don't even think it."
But how could he not, wondered Boris. The doorway was framed with postcards from Manhattan, a nighttime view of a bridge, gaudy buildings, the iconic Statue of Liberty. Boris drew the same images in the corners of his school notebooks; his hopes, too, lived in Manhattan.
As the New Jersey Transit train lurched forward, Boris shook his head and returned to the present.
"Next stop, Penn Station," said a conductor over the loudspeaker. "The end of the trip, last stop, final destination."
If only that were so, thought Boris, thinking of Orange Heights. That's my final destination now.
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