Pike Lake

We’ve had almost a week now of clear blue skies, chilly mornings and nights and the start of fall color so I’m thinking about our family weekends at Pike Lake which usually happened in early October. It started in the spring of 1979 when David was 6 months old and some friends asked us to join them at Pike Lake State Park near Paint Creek just south of Chillicothe. I had great memories of state park weekends with other families when I was growing up (the photo at left was taken at Hueston Woods in May of 1962) so, naturally, we said yes.

We had a lot of fun that weekend but you might wonder how when you hear the details. Even though I swore off of word problems when I was finished with high school math (or when high school math was finished with me), I present the following word problem. After spending 1 drizzly weekend in 2 cabins with 2 bathrooms, 4 bedrooms, 5 families, 8 kids, 10 adults and 36 muddy feet, how many people would do it again next year? The answer would be zero if the people were sensible and logical. We weren’t, however, so we returned to Pike Lake with a group of families every fall for almost 20 years.

What kept us coming back? Well, for starters, we got more cabins on our return visit – a small one-bedroom unit for each family. Later we discovered that we could rent larger, two-bedroom cabins with screened porches, built around a grassy cul de sac – just like the Ritz only with thin towels, leaky showers, temperamental ovens and no room service. Here’s what else Pike Lake didn’t have: a lodge, a restaurant, a swimming pool, hot tubs, television reception or phone service which kept it from being overrun by “tourons,” my aunt’s term for tourist morons. It couldn’t have been better.

Pike Lake was truly the backwater of the Ohio State Park system and we liked it that way. It was run by a pair of polite, neatly dressed, good-old-boy park rangers – locals who combined Andy Taylor and Barney Fife with Yogi Bear and Boo Boo. The park was small by most standards, like J. M. Barrie’s description of Neverland in “Peter Pan.” It was “the snuggest and most compact; not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances between one adventure and another, but nicely crammed.” Its centerpiece was Pike Lake itself, surrounded by autumn color, small enough to hike around and big enough for fishing – little kids could walk out on the little dock and catch little fish. One year we discovered the fleet of pedal boats which allowed the kids to spread out all over the lake and dodge water balloons launched by the dads – in retrospect, not ecological and probably not safe but definitely fun. (It’s not easy being green.)

Our families graduated from the slide and baby swings to hiking on trails all within easy access of our cabins. There was Dead Dog trail, probably named for the animal remains we found one year but just as likely named for what I always felt like after that uphill climb. The Wildcat Trail, which was more popular with the kids than the moms, ended in a long mudslide and left a permanent impression on the seats of many pairs of jeans. A slightly longer walk took us to the old cemetery on the hilltop where the color was always spectacular. In the years when we had energy left after hiking, we played family soccer in the field near our cabins. That lasted until the kids got bigger and faster and the adults got older and creakier; then we relaxed under the influence of Advil while the kids played football which was the most fun when the field was muddy.

The level of excitement always cranked up a notch after dark, especially when the kids were little and used to early bedtimes. Of course, we had a campfire, the bigger the better. All the kids loved making s’mores and throwing sticks in the fire; but for a few, it was an all-consuming passion. Pike Lake alumni who are reading this may be surprised and relieved to learn that the little guy with dark, curly hair, who routinely blistered his fingertips playing in the campfire, has now become an attorney rather than an arsonist.

One night the kids were sent up the hill behind our cabins on a snipe hunt – a bright idea that ended with tears, band-aids, ice bags and two dads spending some time in the doghouse. After the kids got older, Saturday was the time for a scary night visit to the old cemetery. Several dads (who else?) would drive up there ahead of everyone else, dress up and then greet us with eerie lights, weird sound effects and other tactics designed to insure that no one would get an uninterrupted night’s sleep. One year they planned the Scariest Show on Earth featuring a dad whose four-year-old daughter didn’t know he was coming. The other kids flipped out when they saw his huge, ghostly figure in white deacon’s robes among the gravestones until his daughter said, “Oh, it’s okay - that’s just my daddy.”

A whole complex of Pike Lake traditions developed over the years. Some families couldn’t come every year so others took their places (some years, we had eight families in our group); and the traditions continued, especially with food. Friday lunch became Skyline Time, Friday night was always Italian night and all the kids showed up at our cabin for pancakes on Saturday morning. Once you stayed in a particular cabin, it was officially yours – we always stayed in cabin 23 and knew exactly which kitchen drawers stuck and how to open the hide-a-bed. Just after we drove up the big hill and headed down into Paint Creek Valley, Paul would put on the tape of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.” We always arrived first, so we could anticipate the fun to come. We always left last, seeing the quiet, empty cabins and the deserted play field and picnic tables but knowing we would be back again next year.

Eventually the demands of high school activities and friends kept our kids and our friends’ kids from joining the weekend at Pike Lake. Once the kids were gone, the magic was gone for me. It was too hard to return to a place so full of the ghosts of kids jiggling cane poles, eating pancakes, collecting buckeyes, and sliding in the mud. David was 6 and just overwhelmed by the fun of the weekend when he exclaimed, “These are the best times of my life.” It really was a gift to have those good times then and it's nice to be able to savor the memories and to enjoy the photos that remain now.

Pick On Someone Your Own Age

Until today, I only knew of one thing my mom was afraid of and that came as a huge surprise to the entire family because she has the reputation of standing up to anything and everything from breakers twice her size to golfers who drive into her foursome to kids who want to take off to “find themselves.”  When one of my sister’s friends rocketed us across Lake Charlevoix in his boat at about 100 mph, the ride in the back seat erased my wrinkles, super-glued my contacts to my eyeballs and left me too terrified to be motion sick.  My mom, riding in the front seat, wore a huge smile on her face and ate up every wild, reckless, streaking minute of it. When my sister, also hanging on for dear life in the back, asked if I thought Mom was safe bouncing around up there, I replied, “Well, if she isn’t, at least she’ll die happy.”

Her only known Achilles heel was revealed at a family picnic the day after David and Megan’s wedding.  Everyone was relaxing in our shady, beautiful backyard; and, to make conversation, Paul told them about Henry and Henrietta, the pair of 6-foot-long blacksnakes who were spending the summer patrolling our patio, ground cover and tree trunks for bugs and mice. When he went into the garage for the croquet set, he came out waving what looked like a long, wriggling black snake and held it in front of Mom.  For awhile, it appeared that we might have to add some EMTs to our party.  The “snake” was actually some black rubber tubing Paul had used to rehab his knee and none of us, especially Paul, expected her to be as frightened as she was by that fake snake.

Now, a second awesome menace has flipped her out, done her in, put her under and sent her over the top - a computer virus.  Until Mom moved to the retirement community in Durham, her only keyboard experiences had been with a piano and the electronic keyboard we gave her one year for Christmas.  After my brother got her a computer, she fearlessly jumped into email and on-line bridge. Almost immediately she earned the title of "Cyber Menace” by pressing some keys and then, if she didn’t get the desired result PRONTO, pressing more and more keys to be sure the computer knew who it was dealing with.  (When she typed “Jump,” it was supposed to respond, “How high?”)  This created some monumental computer screen gridlock not unlike Chicago’s Dan Ryan expressway on the Friday before Labor Day until her computer picked up some speed and she picked up some patience (more of the former than the latter.)

Soon she learned how to write and edit her community’s newsletter on the computer and expanded her repertoire to include the creation of clever, original greeting cards and invitations.  She plays about 15 different types of solitaire now and who knows what else - I haven’t heard that she’s gotten into any on-line Texas Hold-Em games but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.

Anyway, last week David warned all of us, including Mom, about messages containing a virus link which were sent from her email address.  It turns out that she hadn’t understood what the problem was so she ignored it.  Yesterday she got phone calls from my uncle and several friends who had opened the link and were transported to the world of Viagra and body part enhancement.  She was shocked to learn that this virus has invaded her address book and sent this link to everyone including the Director and staff of her retirement community, out-of-town friends she rarely hears from, everyone in her Water Babies class and lots of other innocent residents of her community. Unfortunately, most of them obediently clicked on the link because, when my mom speaks, writes or emails, everyone listens.


Mom couldn’t have been more distressed if she had come home from her French class to find that someone had broken into her house and kidnapped Prince, her human-sized, metal sculpture frog and then snatched her dressy, black and white polka dot pants and her favorite red shoes to boot.  She is afraid she may become the Typhoid Mary of her community and that her future emails, like lepers, will be classified as “Unclean.”

Last night, I suggested she call the Geek Squad to deal with this virus and, while they are at it, to give her computer a general cleanup – the modern day equivalent to Hercules tackling the Augean Stables. I felt guilty that some hapless geek would be sacrificed on the altar of Customer Service and, after this experience, will probably seek an alternative career like sword swallowing, fire eating or work in a sewage treatment plant. As it turns out, her community has a computer specialist who is on the job right now – I hope he qualifies for Hazardous Duty Pay.

Even though the problem can be fixed, Mom is “mad as hell” at whatever 18-year-old had nothing more constructive to do than to sic this virus on the email address book of an 85-year-old.  She hates to play the age card except maybe to get a better seat at a Durham Bulls baseball game, but she wonders why the person who attacked her computer didn’t go after some other 18, 19 or 20-somethings and give them a challenge bigger than tweeting, twittering and twaddling this week.  I completely agree.  I know she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself; but I want to formally and forcefully say to all you hackers, spammers and cyber-jerks out there, “IF YOU DON’T LEAVE MY MOM ALONE, I’M TELLING YOUR MOM.”

Guess Who Came to Dinner ? (and Breakfast and Lunch . . . )

We have named our current house “The Spa” because it is such an easy, comfortable place to entertain house guests.  So, the entire Spa staff just spent a highly charged Labor Day weekend trying to impress our latest guest, 3 ½ month-old Willem, who also happens to be our grandson.  Everyone was anxious to be on his or her game for this seasoned traveler who has already flown to North Carolina, ridden in a car to Vermont and taken the subway from Brooklyn to New York Presbyterian Hospital on the outskirts of Harlem this summer.  We were very much aware of the stiff competition.

Naturally, a choice of rooms was available to a guest of Willem’s stature.  At check-in he was offered either a standard room with a Queen sized bed or the businessman’s suite with a desk, a FAX, a copier and internet access including Skype.  Both rooms were equipped with a porta-crib borrowed from Maria and Chris’s high-end Bed and Breakfast in Indiana and endorsed by some of the cutest, smartest and most discriminating babies from L.A., Boston and Cincinnati.

The Spa prides itself on its amenities which extend well beyond terry cloth robes and bottles of designer water.  It goes without saying that our valet service included laundry pick-up and delivery.  After much thought, Mickey and Minnie Mouse diapers were chosen primarily because they were the right size although

there was considerable debate among the staff over whether Willem would prefer something more literary like Harry Potter or more macho like Superman in a diaper.   Our porta-crib source also supplied a baby bathtub so comfortable and luxurious that Willem was tempted to conduct most his day’s business from the bath, like Winston Churchill, although, unlike Winnie, he declined a morning cigar.

During his leisure hours, Willem hung out with our diverse recreational staff (above) made up of a turtle, an elephant, a koala,

a lion, a pig, a woolly mammoth and a raccoon, none of whom are great conversationalists except the pig, who squeaks. The elderly lion surprised everyone by still being able to play “You Are My Sunshine,” and he received the same rave reviews from Willem that he had gotten from Willem’s dad 31 years ago.  They all put out their best effort and, as you can see from the photo, Willem actually played himself into a stupor one morning.

The Spa staff searched the archives relentlessly until they found the legendary “Banana Man,” buried in a box with baby moccasins, a Davy Crockett shirt, Mrs. Tiggy Winkle dishes, and a huge Ernie that Granny knit for David.  Willem developed an intense relationship with Banana Man; and, over the course of the weekend, they went about 16 rounds during which Willem scored two headlocks and five take-downs.  Banana Man tends to get rambunctious though; and he had to take several time-outs when the movement of the boink-y balls all over his body was a little over the top for Willem.

For quiet times, The Spa’s library put everything from “Pat the Bunny” to “Peter Rabbit” to “Watership Down” to “Rabbit Run” at Willem’s disposal.  He appeared to find the facility adequate although his taste ran more to “Max’s New Suit” and “Panda Cake” than to “War and Peace” and “Crime and Punishment.”  Unexpectedly, he passed up the chance to use The Spa’s Nautilus equipment and elliptical machine, preferring his own work out routine involving a lot of kicking for the quads and arm flailing for the delts and pecs to maintain his svelte physique.

The concierge, well versed in local attractions, provided suggestions for outings although Willem preferred lounging on The Spa’s deck.  He did manage a short meet-and-greet with the neighbors and with Paul’s office staff; and he greatly enjoyed his first visit with his Great Grandma.

Naturally eating was a major focus of Willem’s day.  He declined to sample Skyline Chili, even indirectly, but did react positively to other people’s enjoyment of home brew, raisin pumpernickel bread and Graeter's Raspberry Chip ice cream.

All in all, Willem, aka the “good mood dude,” appeared to enjoy his visit despite the fact that he failed to fill

out the Comment Card in his room and he neglected to leave a tip for the maid. (That will not be a surprise, however, to those who have seen the maid's housekeeping skills first hand.)  We are all waiting to see whether Willem will give The Spa a Five Silver Rattle rating on Trip Advisor and whether he will book himself in when he returns to Cincinnati.  We certainly hope so.

P.S. Thanks to Megan for the four photos at the top of this post and the photo of Willem and great Grandma.

Back to School

I wanted to do a back-to-school post and considered topics like buying school supplies, homework and teachers when I hit on the perfect subject.  Why not write about everyone’s favorite part of the school day, lunch?

First grade brought a number of firsts for me, including my first experience with a school cafeteria.  The upcoming week’s menu was printed in the paper so you knew in advance if it was going to be a good week.  Friday was the wild-card day because the public schools didn’t serve meat in a heavily Catholic city like Cincinnati.  On a good week that meant grilled cheese or macaroni and cheese; on a bad week, it meant dried-out fish sticks or something called a coney island.  I’m not sure what was in those coneys but I never found a hot dog there.  (Don’t ask me how you can have a coney without a hot dog - this was the 50’s so the Communists were probably behind it.)

I liked most of the food – my friend Emmy’s grandma was the head cook and she was great – I know she is long gone but I’d love to have her recipe for barbeque or Chuck Wagon Chowder.  I usually ate everything which was lucky because, back then, membership in the clean plate club extended to school, and the janitor, Mr. Snyder, was the enforcer. He sounded gruff and looked scary with an iron gray, spiky crew cut and eyes magnified by thick glasses like some malevolent bug. He towered over the lunch tables, a huge Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon in overalls, deciding whether you had eaten enough to go out to recess. It was always a relief when he gave you the nod to take your tray to the dirty dish drop-off.  One of my friends was a picky eater – she made hiding uneaten food an art form – peas crushed under the rim of the plate, cornbread crumbled and scattered over the tray, bread crusts and green beans stashed in her empty milk carton and any other leftovers smooshed and smeared around the plate.  I learned some valuable techniques from her.

After lunch you could take a penny and buy a cookie or one of those big pretzel rods.  I learned how to skin

a pretzel from a girl named Cheryl.   You suck on it until the brown crust is soft, then you scrape it away with your teeth, being careful not to break the pretzel – if you’re good at it like she was, you can wind up with a totally naked pretzel which, for some reason, tastes better than the conventional kind. I still do that some times but only in private because my mom always said you should never play with your food.  Don’t try this, however, if you’re missing your front teeth.

The cafeterias in junior high and high school offered lots more choices, but none of the items that today’s schools are supposed to include.  No salad bars.  No baked sweet potato wedges.  No veggies with low fat ranch dressing.  No fresh fruit –the closest we got was canned peaches or that thin orange drink, which has no nutrition and not even the body and personality of Sunny Delite. I ate French fries, mayonnaise-y coleslaw, meat loaf, turkey and dressing, steak burgers and pie or peanut butter cookies almost every day.  They also served these big, soft , yellow rolls, colored with something that has since then been shown to make mice into social deviants.  I loved the mashed potatoes in junior high but stopped eating them in high school because kids routinely tossed their used chewing gum into the potato mashing equipment when the lunchroom ladies were busy adjusting their hairnets.

When I was in college, I ate most of my lunches at the sorority house.  I know Georgia, the cook, prepared delicious meals for us; but all of my memories have been blurred and overshadowed by the powerful image of those magnificent, colossal, stupefying platters of store-bought cookies she served every day.  The selection ranged from semi-healthful oatmeal raisin cookies and Fig Newtons  to solid standbys like Coconut Chocolate drops  and Pecan Sandies, to outrageous frou-frou cookies with vanilla wafer bottoms and pink, coconut covered marshmallow tops. Finally, there was the piece de resistance, the ne plus ultra, the rama-rama-ding-dong of cookie-dom – a confection the size of my fist with a graham cracker base, a marshmallow center and a thick, hard outer coating of dark chocolate.  I think reasonable people will understand the passion that drove my friend Sue and me to pick the cookie closet lock with a credit card one night and make off with our own private stash while our housemother dozed over “Marcus Welby, M.D.”

When David started first grade, I was happy to find out that, in addition to a great Montessori program, the tuition included lunch everyday.  Each child brought a piece of fruit to share but packing lunch wasn’t even an option –talk about mother-friendly!  The school’s goal was to provide nutritious lunches free of additives and sugar and to introduce the kids to a variety of foods. That was fine with the boys when the variety included tomato basil soup and macaroni and cheese and not so fine when it included Brussels sprouts and soy cheese on pizza.  One year, just the mention of school lunches sent John off on a ten minute tirade, although, at a certain age, complaining about school food is every kid’s favorite indoor/outdoor sport, no matter what is on the lunch menu.

Regardless of what the boys said, I always looked forward to those lunches on the days when I volunteered at school. After John moved on to junior high, I joined the school staff and continued to enjoy coming into the building in the morning to the promising aroma of teriyaki chicken or turkey chili.  Myra’s baked fish, sprinkled with herbs, her thick crust pizzas, her tempting salads and her chicken pot pie made my day.

The summer of 2009 ended my 15th and final year on the school staff.  Since then, I’ve found plenty of activities to fill in the time I spent there; but I do still miss two things – the people I worked with and the lunches. If I want some of Myra’s Asian chicken salad with cashews or her spinach burgers or her cauliflower quiche, I have to make them myself.  Well, nothing lasts forever.

P.S. I didn’t have any school lunch photos so I’ve included some first-day of school photos – me, my brother and our neighbors - September 1959, David’s first day of kindergarten and John starting first grade.