Officially the Funniest Thing Ever

Maggie Sez...

... (very seriously, to me, without looking up from the book she's reading) House plants are not plants shaped like houses. They're just plants that are inside of houses.

Thanks for clearing that up for me, Mags. Everything makes so much more sense now.

Notes from the Nightstand: Clapton's Guitar

Clapton's Guitar is subtitled, "Watching Wayne Henderson Build the Perfect Instrument," and it is far more about the guitar maker and how he makes his world-class instruments (in addition to a variety of tangential topics both guitar-mythological and -historical) than it is about Eric Clapton. In fact, Clapton comes off as a distant and maybe somewhat pompous rock star, regarded by this clan of Appalachian old-timey flatpickers as an amusing curiosity from the outside world. There is certainly no "Clapton is God" mentality in Rugby, Va. (pop. 7), where Henderson's workshop is located.

Wayne Henderson, retired mailman and grandson of a casket maker (guitars are also just wood boxes, he says), began building guitars as a child. He shows the author the first guitar he ever built - out of a cardboard box - and the first real guitar he built as a teen out of scrap wood from a mahogany door. As a musician himself, he established a reputation for making incredible-sounding, Martin Guitars-inspired instruments among the traditionalists and bluegrassers he played with on the flatpicking contest circuit and later while he worked as a repairman for Gruhn Guitars in Nashville. The two guitars he builds over the course of the book are #326 and #327 of all the guitars Henderson has ever made over the course of a lifetime. Each is a handcrafted piece of art.

Allen St. John, the author, contacts Henderson at the beginning of the book to ask to have a guitar made for himself. All Henderson guitars are made on request and specifically personalized for the buyer. St. John quickly discovers that if you hope to receive a finished Henderson guitar in less than a decade or more, it's in your best interest to make a nuisance of yourself. Guitars get made when a buyer camps out in Wayne's workshop, plying him with pies and jokes and threatening post cards. Wayne Henderson, like any stereotypical artist, works in his own unique time frame.

So St. John plants himself on a stool in Wayne's shop with the other General Loafers, a motley crew of friends and relatives who hang around telling stories and cracking jokes and supplying bags of fast food sausage biscuits while Wayne works. The author is fascinated by Wayne's nonchalance about Clapton's decade-old guitar order, and smelling a good story in the making, convinces the luthier to shift from his own guitar to Clapton's guitar and a twin that can be auctioned off for charity.

In addition to the detailed descriptions of how a fine guitar is made, St. John covers the difference between old-time music and bluegrass, histories of guitar making and guitar makers, a discussion of tonewoods and the scarcity of Brazilian rosewood, the backstories and legends of historic guitars that pass through the shop, and a multitude of other related topics. The passion that some people have for hunting down, collecting, or even just playing these high-end and antique guitars is a constant theme. Every character in the book has an eye out for the next hidden diamond he might get his hands on.

I myself am not a guitar player. Our friend Max, who knows that Mike plays and that we are into traditional music, recommended the book to us. Mike read it first and loved it, so I just had to read it, too. It was a fascinating, quick read. It's never too dry or technical, even when the topics turn to the bending of guitar sides or the serial numbers on old Martins from the '20s. And Wayne Henderson seems like a very likeable, admirable person and a true craftsman. I always love to hear about people who can build something beautiful and useful with their bare hands. Honoring those traditions makes life feel richer and less plagued by soulless modern consumer culture. St. John decides at the end of the book that what makes a guitar great is the goodness of the guitar maker's soul, and a Henderson guitar is an act of love.

Family Adventure Day

Yesterday was beautiful, sunny and high 60's, so we decided it was the perfect day for a drive out to the seashore. We have lived here for more than a decade now and still had not ever been to Plum Island, even though we've been to Newburyport several times, so it seemed like a well-overdue outing. The girls were so excited to run on the beach that they could barely stand the hour's drive out there and practically dragged us through the parking lot and over the dunes.

It was a bit chilly and very windy out on the sand, but the sun was warm and bright and there's something nice about saltwater air and the sound of waves crashing. Maggie said, "Oh, thank you for bringing us here! It will be a great story for my Sharing Time next week at school!"

The girls immediately kicked off their shoes and began frolicking.

I have to admit that I find the ocean a bit scary and foreign. I guess I'm still just a land-locked tallgrass prairie girl at heart.  We live less than ten miles from the shore - there are usually seagulls hanging out in our Target parking lot and sometimes you get a whiff of salty air on windy days - but I almost never think about the beach. I have absolutely no desire to actually get in the water and still have never been all the way in wearing a bathing suit! The water is freezing and full of scary, scaly critters with teeth. Plus it's enormous. Scary massive. Unfathomable depths of water full of kraken. I'll stay on the sand getting burnt, thank you. Hopefully with an ice cream cone to self-medicate.

My girls, on the other hand, are New Englanders and beach bums down to their little sandy toes. Maggie especially can not be corralled once her feet hit the boardwalk. Despite several reminders that it is still Spring and not Summer, that the water would be extremely cold, and that we did not bring bathing suits, Maggie insisted on wading in the waves. She immediately began pushing farther and farther from the shoreline as we called her back in and warned her not to get her skirt and sleeves wet.

Less than ten minutes after we pulled into the beach parking lot, Maggie was in over her knees when a biggish wave swept in and pulled her off her feet into the water. Mike nearly ran into the ocean in his sneakers, phone and camera in his pockets, as she struggled to her feet, but she staggered out of the water in her soggy sweater just as he reached the end of the sand.

Dude, it's COLD out here in April when you're soaked in frigid seawater with no change of clothes!

We put the girls in the car to warm up while we debated whether to just go home (two hours of driving for ten minutes of fun and ten minutes of horror!) or to find someplace to buy Maggie a dry outfit. Problem was, Newburyport is picturesque and quaint but doesn't have anywhere to shop for practical items like children's underpants. I quickly found a consignment store downtown on my iPhone internet connection (yay, Technology!) where I was able to snag a Ralph Lauren polo knit dress, some pj shorts, and a pair of tights for $20. (Yay, Resourcefulness and Cash Money Problem Solving!)

Maggie said, "I don't think I'm going to want to tell my class about this part of the story."

Maggie also wore my fleece the rest of the afternoon, so I was cold. Oh, the sacrifices mothers must make for their wayward daughters! But we pressed on...

We headed back out to Plum Island to see the southern portion of the island, which is a national wildlife refuge and a state park. We couldn't access most of the beaches along the length of the island because the piping plover birds were mating (that was a fun conversation with the girls!), but we were able to get out of the car at Sandy Point State Park at the furthest end of the island.

The girls waded in the tide pools, climbed the rocks, and collected shells. Mike and I admired the frothing waves, tried to stay warm, and herded Maggie away from the surf and any deep puddles.

I'm not wearing any underwear!

Basking in her Good Child status, as smug second-borns are wont to do

Frolicking!

Puddle Jumping

Shell Hunting

Rinsing off and organizing their collection

When we finally got too cold to stand it anymore and had enough shells to feel like we accomplished something but not so many that we would look conspicuous leaving the Wildlife Refuge, we piled back into the car and headed for the mainland. Maggie requested calamari for dinner (I'm serious.) so we sort of stumbled on The Clam Box in Ipswich, which is a Massachusetts landmark. The line was relatively reasonable, so we feasted on fried fries and fried onion rings and fried clams and fried squid, with a side of ketchup for color. Kate ordered chicken fingers (sigh) while Maggie pulled the legs off her calamari and ate them one by one, gleefully and deviously singing, "I'm eating fried baby squids!!"

Watch out, you Kraken! Maggie Jane is coming for you this summer, and she ain't scared a nuthin'.

After we tallied all the points and deductions in the car on the way home, our final assessment was that it was a successful Fowler Family Adventure Day.

Katie Sez...

... Mom, what do lions eat?

Me: Lions eat raw meat. They're carnivores.

... Oh, yeah! I remember from that one show we watched: lions eat other animals because they're creditors.

Tu(n)esday

Steve Martin has made a banjo record with Edie Brickell (who is married to Paul Simon, dontcha know). Sounds pretty good, I like it!





They will be performing tonight on Letterman, if you want to check it out.

How do we get back to normal?

I haven't posted anything in a week because the last one was a doozy. The girls were both on spring break, all four of us came down with a killer head cold, and bombs went off at the Boston Marathon prompting a day-long manhunt which shut down our city.

I have dreaded returning here, feeling that I couldn't go on writing about our day-to-day without even a single nod to current events, but I just don't want to process it at that level. I have lots of thoughts and feelings about it all, but too much has already been said about it in the media and I despise the way people wallow in the drama and tumult of these kinds of events. I'll just never be the type of person who wants to get weepy and attend candle-light vigils for people I never even knew. I am human, so of course it touched me, but thankfully, truthfully, in reality, it didn't actually touch me or my family at all. I mostly just want to feel gratitude for that.

So now we are struggling to get back into the swing of our school drop-off-and-pick-up, show-and-tell-on-Tuesday and homework-due-on-Thursday schedule. Although we feel better during the day, we all do a lot of coughing in the night, and both the girls are extra tired and cranky having to get up on time in the morning and be busy all day. But it feels good to have a routine again, and they are happy to be back with all their friends on the playground.

We're doing math worksheets and laundry. We're making tacos and painting the closet doors. We're writing checks for the last month of preschool tuition and closing costs on the mortgage refi. We're playing My Little Pony. We're running errands and getting groceries. We're going to our dentist appointments. We're drinking coffee and reading books. The same old-same old never looked so good.