Postcards From ME

Taste of Elmwood Park

Taste of Elmwood Park

 

            A smoky haze hung in the air as I headed towards my car at the end of the evening. Burnt bits of paper and plastic lay scattered on lawns and sidewalks like dead leaves in autumn. An occasional crackle and a rogue boom could still be heard but most of the ruckus had died down. It was the Fourth of July in Elmwood Park, my suburban, Midwest hometown.

 

            Earlier, an unfortunately timed cloudburst caused the village to postpone its fireworks display until the next day. The rain, however, didn’t last and soon the neighborhood became a cacophony of explosions in an attempt to ‘celebrate’ the nation’s independence. I’m not sure when air and noise pollution, accompanied with scattered litter, became patriotic, but then again I’m not Republican so I guess I wouldn’t understand. Sitting on the back deck of a friend’s house, ashes snowed down upon us and we had to cover our bottles of beer and glasses of wine to keep the debris out. Come to think of it, I was drinking Jamaican beer as opposed to Bud, Miller or some other watered down American brew on our most patriotic holiday – I really am a liberal Democrat!

 

            Fireworks were going off from several backyards in the neighborhood. Some were pretty impressive, especially considering these were just people’s personal displays. A neighbor across the alley put on an extended show that went on for hours. Regrettably his choice of explosives did little to inspire a sense of pride in our nation. He opted for quantity instead of quality and so we sat through a seemingly endless barrage of whistles, pops, and kabooms with minimal sparkle. I’d have called the police, fireworks are illegal after all, if I thought it’d do any good but the reality is that they tend to look the other way during the weeks that surround the holiday. Someday, someone’s garage will catch fire and then… actually, that still wouldn’t make any difference.

 

            Along with the fireworks, the rain cut short the Taste of Elmwood Park that day. The Taste is an annual event modeled after the Taste of Chicago. Local restaurants set up tents and sell their specialties. There are rides and activities for the kids and entertainment throughout the fest. I haven’t been in years though I suspect it’s still as big as ever. My friends and I had planned on attending and at first I was a bit disappointed we didn’t get a chance to go. After further contemplation, I concluded that it was probably for the best. There is always the possibility that one would run into an old classmate or neighbor and get a chance to catch up, which might be nice, or would it? Chances are they are married with kids and still live in the area. I’m single, childless, left town twenty-five years ago and never looked back. What would we have in common? As happy as I am with my life, I think a soccer mom or baseball-coach dad probably wouldn’t get it. And I’d have no desire to try and explain it to them.

 

            There are some people from my past, however, that I do enjoy keeping up with and that is what brought me to Illinois that weekend. There was a core group friends I had in high school and this was the first time in twenty-odd years that we were all together. We met at the childhood home of one of these friends. It was kind of amazing that three of the five of us still had parents living in the same houses they’d been in for thirty, forty, even fifty years. I don’t miss Elmwood Park and I doubt I’d be very happy had I chosen to live out my years there. What I do miss, sometimes, is that sense of home; I’m 48 and renting a room in someone else’s abode.  I have a recurring dream in which I start heading home at the end of the evening only to realize I don’t have a home and I don’t know where to go. I often end up back at the family house in Elmwood Park, but I know I can’t go inside because it’s someone else’s home now. Throughout the years, I’ve invested a great deal of time and energy to other people’s property, either as a roommate or a renter, and it’s starting to occur to me that doesn’t leave me much to show for all my efforts. The trade off is a sense of freedom from certain responsibilities and feeling tied down. Perhaps it’s time I start rethinking that approach to life… or not.

 

            The trip proved to be an interesting contrast between my past and present. On one hand, it was nice to see and catch up with old friends. These are the people that made high school, and the years immediately after, enjoyable for me. We have a lot of great memories and it was fun to relive some of them. On the other hand, it was getting difficult to schedule our time together. I had flown in just for this reunion, whereas for them it was as much about spending time with family. I found myself getting a little frustrated. The first night we got together, the dynamics were not quite what I was expecting. When I get together with my family, we immediately start getting silly – teasing each other, my brother and sister pound each other, and we have a grand old time, in our weird twisted way. It is a true ‘reunion’. It was different with my friends. Certainly, we talked about the old times, but it was hard to find that connection that we once had. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was disappointed; it just wasn’t what I expected.

 

            The second evening together went much better. Again, we had originally planned on spending the whole day together, at the Taste of Elmwood Park and fireworks, but our plans took a back seat to family obligations and we didn’t congregate until the evening. By that time, however, I was over my frustration with trying to coordinate schedules; I decided to use the extra time as a chance to relax, read, go for a walk… The conversation that evening took a different twist. We continued our reminiscing but we also talked about what’s going on now, and plans for the future. We were making new connections, not just reliving the old times. I went in with different expectations, or more specifically no expectations, and just let the visit happen. As a result, I enjoyed myself and felt good about getting together.

 

            That weekend was one chapter in the story of my summer. This is not the summer I had envisioned for myself. I had planned to keep things pretty open so I could hike, read, write, and all the other things I never seemed to have time for during the school year. Little by little, my two months off was inundated with different activities. First there were the teacher workshops. Then I was asked to consider teaching summer school so I could try out a new math program. It’s only sixteen half days, not so bad. In addition, I started planning trips and visits. The trip to Chicago to see old friends, a visit to California to see the gang there with a day trip to Arizona built in to check in on my sister, an escape to Canada with some of my local friends. Plus the weekends at ‘second home’ in Greene, a visit from a Californian friend and possibly from another sister and her family. All these activities seemed to consume my summer.

 

            My frustration was rising and then I realized I needed an attitude adjustment. None of the ‘interruptions’ to my serene summer plans was that big of an imposition and they were things I enjoy and normally look forward to doing, with the possible exception of summer school of course. The problem was that I was letting the planning stages consume me; I was becoming a slave to these activities as opposed to a participant. I had to make sure that everything came together just right, to wait for everyone to respond before setting an agenda, to consider everyone else’s needs before considering my own. In Chicago, I spent way too much time fretting about the reunion before hand. Two beers into that Saturday evening, I was having a great time and left feeling glad about making the trip and looking forward to future gatherings with these friends. But I also left with realization that I did quite a bit to make that weekend happen; now it’s up to them to keep the lines of communication open. I’ll do my share and nothing more. And that is something I need to work on in all aspects of my life.

 

            My trip to Elmwood Park was significant in more ways than I fully understand at this point. It brought me back to a time when I had a home, though sitting through the fireworks reinforced what I already knew – that Illinois would never be home again. However, it also made me realize that I’ve been drifting for a long time now and maybe I need to consider settling once again. I’ve also come a long way in understanding why that’s been so difficult for me. Somehow, I became a slave to the old family house and have spent the last few decades avoiding that feeling by running every time I felt sucked into a situation. I thought I might have found a home in California, but that turned out to be more of the same. I tried to make someone else’s home my own, instead I completely lost myself in his life, a story for another time.

 

            I have a new opportunity in Maine. My first year here, I had a sense of freedom from many of those old feelings. I was working without feeling like I had to devote my life to my job. I was meeting new people and making sure the friendships developed on mutual terms, not just theirs. And I was starting to come to grips with some of my limitations, the anxiety in particular, and learning how manage them instead of letting them manage me. Now, I’m settling into a more realistic or practical, whatever you want to call it, reality. I have a good job that will allow me some financial peace of mind. I like what I do; I just have to make sure it doesn’t become too much. Teaching tends to leave me drained and I’m battling to make sure it doesn’t overwhelm me. The temptation is to move on to something less demanding, but I’ve made a commitment to try and make this work. On the home front, I’ve begun thinking about what would make the ideal home. I have some ideas that I’m beginning to explore. I know I’m not ready commit to a course of action yet, and that’s ok. I’m not going to rush into anything. As for the rest of the summer, I think I’ve had enough fireworks; now I’m ready to relax and enjoy the final weeks of semi-freedom from teaching. 

Peanut Butter and Jelly

            I’m in a writing group and the last essay I shared with them mentioned, and subsequently led to a conversation on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. One member suggested writing about that – so, what the heck…

 

            I usually pack a lunch and snacks when going on longer hikes. I am particular in what I pack, not because of gastronomic preferences, but because whatever I bring needs to be edible after bouncing around in a hot backpack for several hours. Apple – yes, banana – no; cookies – yes, apple pie – no; peanut butter – yes, mayonnaise – no. In addition, items must be easily eaten while perched on a rock taking in a mountaintop view. With this in mind, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are a logical choice. They can last for days without going bad, you can eat them with your fingers, and they might get a bit mushed but they rarely fall apart. And, above and beyond their practicality, PB&Js can be pretty tasty.

 

            There was a time when I couldn’t stand to look at a PB&J sandwich. In elementary school we actually went home for lunch everyday. Mom would pick us up if it were raining; otherwise we were on our own to walk. School was only five blocks away but to a young kid it might as well have been twenty miles, especially in the wintertime. We’d get all bundled up at school, trek home, strip off the winter wear, wolf down lunch, re-bundle, and trudge back to class – not exactly an efficient use of time. I believe situations like mine are the origins of the ‘when I was a kid…’ stories. Occasionally, mom would make soup, OK open up a can of Campbell’s and heat it up, or something that seemed to indicate she put some thought into lunch. More often, she would slap something together quickly and throw it at us. It was just slightly more civil than pouring food in a bowl and setting it on the floor. I can’t say I blame her. She certainly was not an uncaring mother, but probably resented having her day broken up. Can you blame her? Imagine having the whole day to yourself except for twenty minutes right in middle when you had to be sure to be home and feed the pack. No wonder the concept of eating lunch at school became so popular. Did you really think it was just the working parents behind that movement? Anyway, frequently (in my exaggerated memory it’s about ninety-five percent of the time), we had peanut butter and jelly. Not that I didn’t like it, I just got very sick of them.

 

            Now, years later, I have a nostalgic fondness for them. I couldn’t eat them everyday like when I was a kid, but they make a nice snack from time to time. One thing I should make clear is that it’s the jelly I get tired of. I can, and do, eat peanut butter all the time – right out of the jar. Forget that ‘all natural’ stuff; it’s ok, but I prefer mine processed with sugar. Reduced Fat Jif is my peanut butter of preference. In my need to appear to be a healthy eater, I see the reduced fat as offsetting the addition of sugar so Jif is just as good as natural from a health perspective. Peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and chocolate, peanut butter on a banana…peanut butter and some sort of sugar works well. It’s that perfect combination of salt and sweet like kettle corn and yogurt covered pretzels. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention unsalted peanut butter equals tasteless peanut butter as far as I’m concerned.  Many naturalists would argue with me; that’s fine, they can eat their bland paste; I’m sticking with the good stuff.

 

            The subject of PB&J reminds me of a story I used to read to my second graders. It’s about a boy who’s eating lunch with his friends at school and is quite upset because his dad made his sandwich wrong. His dad made jelly and peanut butter instead of peanut butter and jelly; he spread the ingredients in the wrong order. As ludicrous as that sounds, there is some merit to the boy’s complaint. There are some considerations that must be taken into effect when making PB&J; you don’t just slap the stuff on the bread. First one must consider the ratio of peanut butter to jelly. When I was younger I preferred more jelly than peanut butter. Now the main ingredient is peanut butter and the jelly is just a condiment. In either case, a jelly-only or a peanut butter-only sandwich would not have worked even though I preferred over the other; you have to have some percentage of both.

 

            Secondly, the jelly can make the bread mushy which is why it is helpful to start with the peanut butter. You can create a nice protective barrier between the jelly and the bread if you apply the peanut butter to both slices. Third, the choice of jelly is paramount to a successful entrée, and it’s an easy decision… grape. I used to listen to a morning program on the radio. It was the typical male-female, inane talk show. One day they got on the topic of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the woman stated that you have to use grape jelly; the others simply don’t work. I had to admit she was exactly right. I’ve tried strawberry, raspberry and others and they simply don’t taste right and those with seeds don’t feel right. Granted it’s not the key to the meaning of life, on the other hand maybe there is lesson to be learned. We seem to spend a lot of time trying to improve on things that are just fine as they are. I mean, come on, can anyone really tell the difference between Blu-Ray and the DVDs we’ve been watching for years? Finally, whereas we probably are the laziest society on the planet, combining peanut butter and jelly into one product is taking things a little too far. Opening one jar instead of two does not save that much effort. Besides it’s just far too unpredictable. It’s becomes very hard to control how much of each ingredient you end up with. I’m sorry; using that stuff gives you a random, swirl sandwich, not a true PB&J.

 

            Like peanut butter and jelly, there seems to be a number of things I grew tired of as a kid that I actually enjoy now. Shoveling snow, mowing the lawn and raking leaves are all things that often felt like drudgery growing up but now I look forward to doing. I see them as an excuse to get outside and get some air. I guess it’s all about having a choice. Where I live now there is someone who comes to plow the driveway after a snow so I don’t have to shovel. However, if I have the time I can get out there and do it and we call and cancel the plow guy. Imagine that, ‘I don’t feel like it’ is a valid excuse – couldn’t get away with that as a kid. Likewise, my landlady pretty much neglects the yard. It’s always appreciated when I mow the lawn, trim the trees, or rake leaves but there are no expectations. On a nice day I can work in the yard or go off and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the White Mountains; it’s my choice.

 

            Money wasn’t even enough to keep me inspired. When I was younger I would pick up odd jobs in the neighborhood – raking leaves, mowing lawns, etc. I would always start out gung-ho and would do an immaculate job. I knew the client was watching and I was out to impress. After time, they would come to trust me, and leave me be to do the work. I might go over, do what I had to do and leave without ever seeing them. I can still visualize being in a neighbor’s backyard cleaning up after giant oak and elm trees, cramming leaves into giant plastic bags, trying to clean up the mountain of leaves I’d raked up. Having worked up a sweat in the warm afternoon sun I’d begin to shiver as dusk set it and the autumn chill would seep into my damp cloths. Alright, I won’t go too Dickens on you, but I did feel a bit cold and lonely as plodded along on a seemingly endless task. I would get paid eventually though I didn’t really care about the money. It was the appreciation that I was after. But now my efforts were expected; it was my job. Little by little, I’d stop going on a regular basis. I’d wait till they called wondering where I was. Eventually, they’d go back to doing it themselves; they were probably just hiring me to be nice in the first place. What’s curious is that my parents rarely said much at all about it. They knew these people and what was going on yet I don’t recall them ever saying much, or pushing me to follow through. They would intervene enough to let the neighbor know what’s going on but not much more than that. I guess I never knew what they were thinking.

 

            There was one exception to the leave-me-be scenario. Our next-door neighbors were a Ukrainian couple. He was a doctor and she a housewife. My youngest sister couldn’t pronounce their foreign name and referred to them as the Socks and that became our secret nickname for them. Mrs. Socks was the stereotypical, old-world housekeeper and she kept the house immaculate at all times. She actually scrubbed the front stoop and stairs with soap and water on a regular basis. A couple times a year she’d wash the eaves and the windows around the outside of the house. That’s where I came in. It was getting to be too difficult for her to be on a ladder that much so she hired me to help her. What was different about this job is that she was usually right there with me. She’d rinse out the rags and hand them up to me to clean the eave – first the soapy rag then the rinse rag. Then we’d go around again and get the windows, ammonia water, squeegee and wipe. There was a definite routine to follow and we did together. I helped her with that for years. Even when she assigned me other jobs that I could do on my own, she was always within a stone’s throw. Usually she was cleaning inside as I was cleaning outside. She’d check in on me from time-to-time so I never felt abandoned and left to my own devices. Some people might find that intrusive, but not me. I’m a chronic daydreamer and have a tendency to get lost in my thoughts, and I don’t mean drift off for a second or two, more like search-and-rescue lost. That’s probably why I was often bagging leaves in the dark. I appreciated having Mrs. Socks check in with me and keep me focused on the task at hand.

 

            Mrs. Socks did make the mistake of leaving me completely alone one time. She had a new job for me, unfortunately, her English was a somewhat limited and she didn’t explain it quite right. She asked me to pick up the needles under the bushes along her fence. These were the little, one-inch needles that are basically impossible to pick out of the dirt. What she wanted was for me to turn the soil and bury the needles. Instead I took her literally and picked up all the needles. I tried to sift out the dirt before tossing them in the garbage but it didn’t help much. I filled two or three garbage cans full of needles and dirt. There was no way even the burliest of garbage men could have lifted them to dump the contents in the truck, not that they would have even tried, since you weren’t supposed to put yard waste into the regular garbage. The next day she apologized for her English, while probably muttering in Russian what an idiot I was, and we spent a few hours putting the dirt back bucket by bucket. From that time on she included demonstrations along with verbal instructions – just to be safe.

 

            There were other times when I felt like a complete moron when working for her. I didn’t mind however, she was usually right. Sometimes my failure to grasp the obvious is a bit disconcerting. What I liked about her is she’d just correct me and move on. Like when she invited me in for a snack. She had made small butter cookies. Trying to appear polite I kept taking small bites and was getting crumbs all over the place in the process. She was clearly focused on the mess I was making and finally gestured to pop the damn things in my mouth, whole. I did, that was that, and the conversation continued. I admired that about her, she let you know if something was bothering her but in a very matter-of-fact way. I think that’s a problem most Americans have. We tend to either hold on to things, letting them fester, or make them more personal than they really are. It was surprising to hear Mrs. Socks be so abrupt, on the other hand it was sort of reassuring that you always knew where she stood. She didn’t hide much.

 

            Perhaps the most surprising example of Mrs. Socks’ bluntness happened shortly after my mom died. I don’t know how the subject came up but she commented on how my mom died long before she physically was taken. She didn’t elaborate much yet I knew exactly what she was talking about. By the time my mom was diagnosed with cancer the tumors had spread throughout her body. She was given six months to live. I think she was ready to go at that point, but she knew we, the kids, weren’t ready for her departure (dad was bedridden with advanced MS and couldn’t help much). With the help of chemotherapy she held on for two years working hard to get the family affairs in order. She had, in fact, stopped living for herself and was focused on fulfilling her role as mother. Only Mrs. Socks had the gumption to point that out. I’m glad she did as it helped me appreciate what mom had done.

 

            The last time I saw Mrs. Socks was at my dad’s funeral, about ten years after my mom died. I was a little surprised to see her; I didn’t know what connection still remained and how she found out about his passing. Didn’t matter, I was glad to see her. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk but she gave me big hug after the service. That moment was one of the mental snapshots I took that day that remains mounted in my long-term memory. In that moment I realized, she understood. She knew what I had been through and that I had done the best that I could to handle the situation. I had always liked her, however in those few seconds, she went from old-world, stuck-in-her-ways neighbor to open-minded, understanding friend. She had never meant to judge us; she was just being open and honest. Traits I couldn’t appreciate when I was younger, and have come to cherish as an adult.

 

            When I’m back in the area, I’ll drive through my old neighborhood. I used to hope to catch Mrs. Socks outside so I could stop and say hello. I guess I didn’t have the nerve to just go to the door; especially since I had no idea if they even lived there anymore. I suspected not; they were pretty elderly when we moved away and this was many years later. I drove by there this past winter. There were other people out front that clearly lived there now. It made me realize that I let too many relationships from that time drift away. Perhaps that’s why I’m much more conscientious about keeping in touch now. Like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, they’re not part of my day-to-day life anymore, but they hold a special meaning for me and are worth revisiting from time-to-time. 

 

Becoming a Hick - Aug. 2008 (revised 12/08)

I went for a beautiful hike a couple weeks ago which led to hours of reflection, as hiking usually does for me. The Franconia Notch area of New Hampshire is a phenomenal place for hiking – several trails of different degrees of difficulty wind through the White Mountains. It is a popular recreational destination, but it wasn’t too crowded with tourists that day so I had plenty of time alone on the trail. I had driven to Vermont the day before to have dinner with my brother and sister-in-law and hit Franconia on the way home. That made for several hours of driving, but I’m getting used to that in this area. Just as I was lacing my hiking boots thunder began to rumble and by the time I started on the trail it began to rain. Fortunately, the worst of the storm never passed directly overhead so I got a little damp but not soaking wet. The day revolved around this hike and I wasn’t going to let the rain put an end to the excursion, however I wasn’t excited about the prospect of trudging ten miles, soaking wet. After half an hour the rain clouds passed and the rest of the hike was dry; I was thankful for that.

 

            The trek was a little more difficult than I was expecting but that served to invigorate, not discourage me. At times I was climbing the steep rock-face with hands and feet, made more perilous by the fact that everything was still wet and slick from the rain; it was turning into somewhat of an adventure. There were two mountains to climb; this was the first one and by far the more challenging. The second was still a workout, but had a much easier path to navigate. I stopped for lunch at the top of the first mountain. As I sat there eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 4000 feet with a 360-degree view of the mountains it dawned on me that this is it – this is my nirvana.

 

            I continued along the path and began thinking about this past year and the things I’ve discovered about myself and what makes me tick. The first observation was that when possible and time allows, I’ve begun avoiding the interstates and taking the back roads instead. In the past, country highways tended to make me carsick; now I zip down them all the time. I did just that for this particular trip. Normally I would take the major highways to Vermont, actually going out of the way to avoid the smaller roads. This time I went straight through the mountains and even though it took longer, it was a much more enjoyable and scenic. Likewise, my new job involves a long commute, about forty-five minutes when I take the interstate. I usually do that in the morning but I’ve started exploring other ways to get home. My favorite so far runs along side a river for several miles then turns and goes right past one of the better local parks for hiking. I may have to strap a canoe to the car or bring my boots and a change of clothes and start getting some exercise on the way home. This route may take a few minutes longer, but it is a nice way to wind down after a workday.

 

            The second discovery, or perhaps confession in this case, is that I like to drive. I’m finding that I don’t mind driving an hour to get somewhere, as long as there isn’t any traffic. And by traffic I mean more than a couple cars on the road with me. On the down side it seems politically incorrect to spend unnecessary time driving, even considering I own a hybrid. I like to think of myself as being environmentally conscientious, yet I enjoy tooling around in my car. I can listen to the news or talk shows or belt out songs with the radio or a CD. When traveling greater distances I’ll listen to a book on tape. It’s ironic that I have often complained about having to drive a couple hours to get anywhere in Maine, yet often the drive ends up being a very pleasant part of the trip. When I lived in the city I preferred to use the car as little as possible; now I realize that it was traffic I was avoiding, not my car. Also, as I alluded to earlier, I like hiking. Driving and hiking are part of the reason I like living in different places as opposed to just visiting – I can hit the roads and the trails and really explore an area. 

 

            Finally, I’ve come to realize how much I like wide, open spaces. Around here the houses are pretty well spread apart unless you live right in town. I like the idea of sitting out in the backyard and looking at trees and not seeing the neighbors. I loved living in California, though now when I go back there to visit the neighborhoods seem so crowded. The noise, traffic, litter, etc. are overwhelming. Now that I’ve been here awhile, I’m beginning to envision myself in a little house out in the country surrounded by a few acres of woods and pastures. The hustle and bustle of the city holds a lot of appeal for me and I’ve always envisioned myself living in town and escaping to the country from time-to-time. Now I’m considering the opposite – living in the country and escaping to the city when I need some excitement, neighborhoods, nightlife and decent Mexican food.

 

            The back roads, a cabin in the country, mountain hikes, throw in the fact that one of my favorite social outlets is two-stepping and it becomes apparent – I’m a freakin’ hillbilly. So it’s no wonder I’ve struggled to feel settled anywhere - I’ve always considered myself a city boy when in reality I’m a closet hick.

 

            Taking this into consideration, I went on to think about my ideal living situation. First, I’m beginning to see myself in a cozy, log cabin (is that an oxymoron?). There are numerous old houses all through New England and whereas I find them charming and full of character, they also strike me as a lot of upkeep and a constant financial drain. I’d prefer something I own instead of something that owns me. Second, I don’t think I’d want to invest in a place by myself. I’m just a little leery of being too isolated and becoming one of those recluses that sends strange packages to government offices every time I feel my privacy is threatened. A significant other, one or more roommates, it doesn’t matter, it would just be nice to have someone to build a home with instead of doing it on my own.

 

            Next I began to work out the floor plan for the house. It started with a common living area in the middle. I envisioned a rustic looking, though thoroughly modern, kitchen that opens to a dining area able to accommodate at least eight people. The other half of the space would house the living room with an oversized leather sofa, entertainment center, etc. A giant fireplace would divide the two sections. It would run on natural gas both for environmental reasons as well as ease of use. There’d be two bedrooms and a bath on either side which would accommodate myself and housemates, plus a room for guests. Next I began to expand off the rear of the house. Since we’d be a ways out of a town, it might be nice to have a recreation room with a ping-pong table, a little gym, a Jacuzzi…When I started pondering where the indoor tennis court would go I realized I have a ways to go before I can say I’ve internalized the hillbilly lifestyle.