Occasionally, someone will ask me where I get the ideas for my blogs. I will inevitably fight the accompanying eye roll and repress the sigh before answering, honestly, "The blog writes itself." I will simply be walking around, minding my own business, when suddenly I find myself in the middle of a blog. Believe me, I don't look for idiocy. Idiocy finds me.
I was delighted to discover that our hotel overlooked Boston's serene Charles River. That morning, I watched from my window as slender shells sliced through the water as individually captained crew members maneuvered their oars like the long legs of water bugs. Annoyingly athletic people jogged parallel, caught up in a concrete current. Ducks and geese hugged the shore. The Charles was calling.
But Boston was waiting so it would be hours before I could return to the water.
"What are you doing?" my daughter Savannah asked after we had returned from a day of exploring Boston's historic places. I was sitting outside the hotel, trying to be brave enough to cross several lanes of city traffic to get to the river. "I'll go with you," Savannah generously offered.
My destination was a bench I'd spotted on the opposite side of the Charles as we'd departed that morning. Even though it was getting close to dark, Boston was still sweltering. No need for a marathon here.
We enjoyed the view from our bench...a quiet breath in a bustling city. Happy, I rose, ready to return.
Wait. I just realized. This was all Savannah's fault. Whew! Usually, I'm the one to blame for these little fiascos.
Savannah wasn't ready to walk back yet. There was a boat house further down that she wanted to see. Yeah. I guess. Okay.
Then there were some pretty yellow flowers that lured me further down the river.
I stood, transfixed, before a baffling tree that boasted two different-shaped leaves. Surely, this couldn't be. I unraveled branches to determine if two trees had grown together. Was one a vine? Savannah could have cared less. I held up the two distinctly different leaves for her inspection and almost screamed with frustration when she shrugged. Thank goodness I now know how to
Google circle and search. It was a mulberry tree which is polymorphic, meaning that it naturally grows two distinct leaves on the same branch. There was no stopping me now. The mulberry tree was introduced to America in the 1700s to promote the silkworm industry that flourished in its boughs given the right climate. The mulberry tree produces leaves and berries that can be consumed along with a mildly hallucinogenic sap. Their sprawling root systems are not ideal for city-scapes. Male mulberry trees also produce high amounts of airborne pollen. "Wait," Savannah interrupted after she had desperately tried to ignore my excited sidewalk education of the mulberry tree, "are you telling me that there are girl trees and boy trees?" I decided to refrain from telling her that pollen is essentially tree semen. I changed the subject to the children's rhyme. The mulberry bush may have been used because of its central location in a 19th century English prison. Female inmates and their children would get their daily exercise by walking around this bush and the woman invented rhymes about daily chores to entertain the kids. "All around the mulberry bush" and "Pop
goes the weasel" eventually meld together over the years. More fun symbolism: "Pop" was another word for "pawn" while "weasel" referred to a coat. Poor folk would pawn their Sunday best on Monday and then buy them back on payday. This reflected the never-ending cycle of poverty. My own interpretation, not even remotely based on fact, has the monkey representing addiction. "You cannot foist your own interpretations into a children's rhyme," Savannah argued.
We were, at this point, very far from the bridge that got us here.
"It appears that we are equidistantly-placed between two bridges," Savannah observed as I exclaimed happily over some discovered mushrooms.
"I don't talk like that," Savannah interrupted. "I just said we should go back."
The magical appearance of a bedtime bunny at a little park led us further on into Wonderland.
"As in I
wonder if we'll ever make it back to our hotel again," Savannah muttered.
We were now closer to the second bridge so I decided that we might as well complete the rectangle way rather than retreat.
Savannah sighed in resignation, looked back wistfully, like Lot's wife, and reluctantly followed me.
She did not turn into a pillar of salt.
She did, however, keep us from being assaulted.
It was now dark.
I was tired.
To access the trail leading to the river path, we would have to descend into a densely wooded area, along some tracks that were now bracketed by hastily put-up tents and lean-to's, punctuated by small fires. Shadowy figures eagerly awaited our arrival. They looked friendly enough.
I had read about the Hoovervilles that had sprung up during the Great Depression and I knew the hobo-code. Savannah and I would surely be welcomed to a communal burning barrel and offered a refreshing beverage in a small tin cup. We would sing some songs together. Exchange life stories. And then we would be sent on our way with canned chili and Vienna sausages wrapped in cloth and attached to a stick to be slung jauntily over our shoulders.
For some reason, Savannah was a real party-pooper about this life-changing experience.
"You mean life-ending," muttered Savannah as we, instead, crossed the bridge, maneuvered our way across several lanes of traffic and entered a comforting zone of capitalism. Hello, CVS!
As we trod tiredly along the sidewalk, we could see the silhouette of our hotel...shining like a beacon in the distance. But this was the Washington Monument Conundrum all over again. No matter how far or how long we walked, we never seemed to get any closer. The towering structure mockingly beckoned us.
Savannah kept tapping her phone like it was the Star Trek walkie-talkie that Spock used. I was fine with it. I was ready to be "beamed up" or rendered immobile by the Vulcan neck grip at this point.
"There is no safe way to get to our hotel this way," my daughter informed me, "We're going to have to Uber."
Amy Mosiman does not "Uber" home from a walk. We were simply going to have to walk the long way back.
Savannah sighed. "A: Walking will take another hour. B: Dad will kill me if I walk you to death. and C: An Uber costs five bucks."
Sold.
Putting two fingers in my mouth, I whistled shrilly. Lifting my arm above my head, I faced on-coming traffic and yelled, "Taxi!"
Savannah yanked my arm down, waving her Star Trek communicator in my face. "Mom, I called an Uber."
"I hope it comes soon," I sighed, sinking down onto a bench. "I'm not fare-ing" well."
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