I'm trying to stay positive, but with another heat wave bearing down this weekend, I'm not happy. I can't go to the beach or sit in a chair any lower than a throne for Queen Elizabeth--it's the hip popping problem, as I explained in earlier entry. I see some old friends are all on a Blue Cruise together off the coast of Turkey and I'm knashing my teeth, mad that the hip problems that began there well over two years ago and have plagued me ever since, are now culminating in this summer of blahness as my ligaments heal around a piece of titanium. My friend Tanya is in India and she was just bathed in milk at a yoga retreat center. Mary is in Istanbul, no doubt with a cute guy. Janice just came home from the Cape, Karen is off to the beach all week, and Linda back from her Alaskan cruise. I've got to stay off Facebook so I don't incinerate in jealousy and the hot sun blaring down on Central MA.
Meanwhile, it's the Northboro scene. I've been pawing through circulars trying to find a lawn chair I can use outside that's nice and high. There is no such thing. I've become the Queen of Geriatrics, surveying all seats as potential disaster. The fourth of July heralds all these sales for people buying kayaks for the lake or the beach, people with plans and large storage containers strapped on the tops of their cars scurrying off to enjoy the cheaper gas. I'm not one of those people! I'm a grouchy bitch!
I need a big subject to occupy my mind, my usual method of escape. I was thinking about finding a history of the Lyman School in Westboro, where my dad worked for several years before heading to the book bindery. He was in charge of the cattle, and teaching the "boys" (who ranged from homeless, abandoned kids to psychopathic killers) how to milk and care for a herd. I remember him saying that he couldn't turn his back on the kids because they could kill him, as they killed the night watchmen one evening. I wish I knew more about that era, the days when the virtues of hard work were supposed to cure young boys and adolescents. Shirley--an institution in Shirley, MA--was where young girls were sent, and our mothers sometimes mentioned that we might like to go and live there.