A Writer’s Book of Days (01/13) – After Midnight

“After midnight” means different things to different places. If I were to step outside my front door after midnight, I’d experience the eerie calm of a bedroom community sleeping.  There aren’t many cars on the road. House lights click off one by one. You can hear sounds from miles away – a Long Island Railroad train in the distance, traffic driving down Sunrise Highway, an ambulance racing towards Southside Hospital, a dog barking. It’s peaceful, but often times unsettling.

It’s like the world’s heartbeat has gone silent and I need to know it’s alive. Sometimes I feel slightly unnerved as I walk the block home from the train station, past the dark apartment complex and houses. There are people inside of those houses, but it doesn’t feel like there’s life. The only movement is from the 7-Eleven on the corner.

One of the most interesting ways to experience that time of day is to spend an entire night in Manhattan. Lexcie and I did that two summers ago. Our trip started late in the evening, and ended when I boarded a 7 am train back to Long Island. Some neighborhoods are like my own – quiet streets, no cars, and perhaps some boat horns in the distance. Times Square is almost like a casino – you’d couldn’t tell if it was 9 pm or 1 am with all the people milling about. Diners were packed with barflies and people ending late shifts at 3 am, while the Staten Island Ferry was surprisingly packed for 4 am.  It’s certainly the city that never sleeps.

Flickr: Coffee Maker

Although it was the heartbeat I was looking for, I felt something was also unsettling about the constant movement. Would I give up the eerie, yet peaceful silence of a bedroom community for this? I’ve yet to find that happy medium.

A Writer’s Book of Days (01/11) – You Are In A Motel Room

Mom, my sister Alyse, and I watched from the window as a freight train rumbled on in the distance. Ten, 25, 50, 80 cars – we lost count after 100. The motel we stayed in was in the Mohonk Valley of upstate New York. My friend Erin was having her Sweet Sixteen party at her new home in Edmeston, a town that falls in the middle of the Schenectady-Syracuse-Binghamton triangle.  We decided to take a road trip up from Long Island.

It’s hard to believe that this was the same New York we live in. We saw green valleys for miles and miles from the hotel room. We’d gone horseback riding, explored Howe Caverns, ate lunch in a town with only one traffic light, tried sulfuric spring water in Saratoga, and passed many, many cows. It was a far cry from the ocean beaches, Long Island Railroad, and miles and miles of strip malls I was used to.

That road trip wasn’t as glitzy as many of the vacations my friends had taken – weeks at Martha’s Vineyard, transcontinental flights to California, resort stays in Mexico. We didn’t have that kind of money.

But I didn’t know that. Mom always made sure our trips – this was our first multiple-day jaunt since I’d gone to Disney World at five – were full of fun, unique, and memorable experiences, even if they didn’t cost a lot of money.

Even though our money situation has improved drastically since then, we still don’t go for the glitz. Vacations are spent meandering and exploring, sometimes throwing the map to the wind. Luckily, my fiance Lexcie shares the same traveling philosophy. Our house is full of treasures from those trips – rocks, seashells, little trinkets picked up at a small town gift store.

It’s finding a stone with the words “THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES” painted on while horseback riding in the Mohonk Valley. Eating stinky tofu in a little mining town in Taiwan. Finding a free pair of roller blades on the side of the road while taking a different route than originally planned. Buying the most comfortable hammocks ever from a seaside shack on Prince Edward Island. Visiting Islip, England just because it has the same name of your hometown.

You never know what you’ll find along the road less traveled.

A Writer’s Book of Days (01/10) – Write About A Wound

It was a beautiful summer day, so I decided to ride my bike to the youth meeting at church instead of getting driven.  Being 14, cocky, and vain, I didn’t wear a helmet. (And it was the last time I’d ride a bike without one.)

Not only was I not wearing a helmet, but blatantly disregarding the rules of the road by pedaling on the left side of the street and on the sidewalk. I pulled my bike up the intersection of Islip Avenue and Main Street, a busy intersection in my town.  There was a driver ready to make a right turn on red. It looked like he was going to go, so I waved him on, even though I technically had right-of-way. He then waved me on.

We both went at the same time.

His car hit me on the left side, throwing me into oncoming traffic on Main Street. Luckily, I wasn’t hit by another car, but my bicycle was folded in half. I got up, shaken and bleeding from my left elbow. I hadn’t broken anything, but I was pretty scraped up and dirty. A woman, who had been waiting at the intersection, allowed me to call Mom from her car phone. (If that doesn’t place this in the ’90s, I don’t know what does).

The police showed up, but I refused medical treatment. I was more embarrassed than hurt by the accident at that time, particularly because I was partially to blame by not following the rules. The driver was 18 years old and had just gotten his license a few weeks earlier. He sat on the curb, shaking and chain smoking.

It took quite a while for my elbow to heal. I have slight scarring from it, but it’s not that noticeable if you didn’t know where to look. I also had a giant purple and yellow bruise from my left shin to my breastbone.

The biggest wound it left, though, was a psychological one. I’m very frightened by vehicular traffic, particularly if I’m walking or biking (and even while following the rules). It often annoys other people, because I take a much longer time to cross the street than most people. I won’t cross until I’m 100% sure a car’s not going to shoot out from somewhere and hit me, even if  it’s obvious to other people. I’m getting  better and more daring (at least to myself), but it’s still something that bothers me to this day.

A Writer’s Book of Days (01/09) – Write About A Ceremony

I have a knack for remembering vivid details of my childhood – some from when I was as young as three.

Kindergarten – 1988, St. Mary’s School – has plenty of snippets. Like the time I burned my hand on the hot plate when my teacher, Mrs. Stephens, made tomato soup for our class. Being supremely jealous of my classmate Michelle, who had a box of 64 Crayola crayons and I only had the 24-count box. Playing “Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar?” on the alphabet carpet in room K-A. Having a tooth fall out during nap time, causing disruption for the entire class. Having the bus driver forget to drop me off at my stop. My classmate Brian yanking down his pants in front of me and getting in trouble. Playing with the giant parachute and fleece balls in gym.

One particular memory that stood out for me was my kindergarten graduation ceremony. My sister Alyse, brother Aaron, and I had just got over a bout of chicken pox. Alyse, who was a year younger then me, refused to go to her pre-school graduation because she still had a dot on her nose. I wasn’t as vain.

It felt so much more grownup than pre-school graduation. Instead of just wearing a cap, we had dark blue gowns, our school color. We marched down the aisle to “Pomp and Circumstance,” just like we had practiced in the days before, and took our balloon-adorned seats on the stage-slash-altar (Catholic schools multi-tasked). The biggest moment, besides receiving our diplomas, was the recitation of our alphabet poem. In groups of three, we walked up to the front of the stage. I was the letter E, and had to recite, “E is for exercise and a good one for you is touching your toes without bending your knees” (while doing the very same). I still remember that line clearly. Any time I exercise (particularly the stretching part), I silently recite it in my head.

I’m still friends with many of St. Mary’s classmates – and some as far back as pre-school. We spent many ceremonies together on that stage: yearly awards presentations, First Communion, Reconciliation, our fifth grade DARE graduation, Confirmation, and finally, our eighth grade commencement. I wonder if any of them still remember their kindergarten poems.

A Writer’s Book of Days (01/04) – “A Year After Your Death…”

My remains are finally delivered back to my family after a prestigious university uses what it can of my body for research purposes.

As a former cancer patient and survivor, I was a goldmine of information for scientists looking for a environmental link between pesticides used on Long Island in the 1980s and 1990s and instances of blood cancers like Non-Hodgkins lymphoma.

As a child, I would be playing outside and mosquito sprayers would drive down the street, helping to prevent another summer outbreak. (In the 1980s, there were no warnings to stay inside.) Some people suggested it might have been residue from the dust after the Twin Towers collapsed on 9/11. The particles had been partially measure in the Bronx, where I was a freshman at college. A few other students were rumored to have cancer, but I never met them.

I became paranoid in 2005, the year my cancer was discovered, I underwent treatment, and went into remission. I stopped dying my hair. Using perfumes. Eating fast food. The constant restrictions on myself was difficult, and I realized I may never know what caused my cancer.

But that wouldn’t stop me from trying to help others. In my early ’30s, when I created my first will, I went through a long process of donating my body to science if I died. My family and friends could just have a small memorial service if they wanted, but I couldn’t justify the hoopla and cost of a traditional funeral when there were still people unexpectedly getting cancer and not knowing why.

A year after my death, there will plenty of evidence that there are environmental factors connected to blood cancer. Reform will be made on the governmental and business side. Blood cancer diagnoses and death will drop greatly. Although small, I’ve done my part.

A Writer’s Book of Days (01/02): Write About A Time Someone Said No

The best rejection I received was from my first choice for college – I was wait-listed at Villanova University. At that point, I was applying for scholarships and couldn’t hold on to the hope that I’d get in at a later date. Instead, I semi-reluctantly sent in my acceptance letter for my second choice, Fordham University. I grew much warmer to the school as August came closer, but there was still a nagging “what-if.” I’d really loved Villanova.

A week after I started classes at Fordham, a plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center and the world turned upside down in an instant. But unlike many of my new friends, I lived closed to home – something that turned out to be very important to me during that tumultuous first year of college. Many weekends were spent back on Long Island as I dealt with the stress of 9/11, a horrible roommate, and the worst two semesters of my entire educational life. This is something I wouldn’t have been able to do had I been anchored to the Philadelphia area.

I sometimes wonder if I would have stuck it out at Fordham if I didn’t have that escape. I soon found my place there by joining the school newspaper, The Ram, where I started as a news writer and quickly rose to the ranks of editor and eventually editor in chief. The latter position secured me quite a few interviews post-graduation, and I quickly settled into the world of business journalism.

I wonder where I’d be today had it not been for Villanova’s rejection. Would I have lived in New York? Would I be a journalist? Would I have had all the great experiences of the past 10 years? Would I have traveled to as many places? Would I have such a diverse, wonderful group of friends?

I wouldn’t trade what I have today for all the Villanova acceptance letters in the world.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged – life has been that crazy. So crazy that I just started fundraising for my annual Light the Night Walk, which benefits the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. As many of you know, I am a six-year survivor of Non-Hodgkins lymphoma, so this cause is near and dear to my heart. Last year, I raised over $7,700, my best fundraising year ever.

This year, I’ve created a website, Squash Lymphoma, to make donating and promotion a bit easier. It talks about my history, Team Squash Lymphoma, the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, and my fundraising efforts for the year. I will be walking at Bethpage Ballpark in Central Islip, Long Island on October 29.

To kickstart fundraising, I’m holding my first contest for the month of September. Every $10 donated to my Light the Night fundraising is an entry to win an iPod Touch 8GB. A winner will be chosen at random on October 1.

Other things to do: send out my nifty thank-you notes to last year’s donations (fashionably late, as usual with everything in my life), check out if there’s another Islip street fair this August, and pound the pavement for business sponsors.

Would you please consider donating?

I, like 99% of other Americans who played Mega Millions last night, did not win the $380M jackpot. Or even part of it.

But what the heck would I do with that much money? I can’t even decide what to do with $38 in my pocket sometimes.

Lisa Brewster

So, I thought about what I’d do (after making sure people around were taken care of properly):

1. Donate significant portions to my three favorite cancer charities: Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, Journey to the Cure, and I’m Too Young For This!
2. Donate a significant portion to Stony Brook University Cancer Center as a thank you for treating me
3. Establish scholarship funds for Fordham University and St. Mary School, so students who can’t afford to go to either school could have a chance like I did
4. Upgrade The Ram‘s office and technology, and upgrade the technology in Fordham’s Communication & Media Studies department as needed
5. Likely a pipe dream, but convince the Sisters of St. Joseph to reopen The Academy of St. Joseph and upgrade the school so it can properly compete with other private schools on Long Island
6. Buy an abandoned movie theater – preferably Islip – upgrade it, and name it “A Theater Near You” (which I thought was the name of every theater when I was three years old)
7. Buy a house, preferably with a pool and near a library
8. Make sure every food pantry on Long Island is well stocked
9. Build a shelter or transitional housing
10. Buy some commercial real estate
11. Open up my own bookstore
12. Travel the world

I’m sure I’ll think of other things. What would you do with that much money?

This morning, everyone’s favorite weatherman, Sam Champion, tweeted:

goodmorning from Times SQ! …mega millions up to 330million… ahhh retirement”

So I tweeted back:

@SamChampion Could’ve sworn you were worth billions already ”

I didn’t actually think he’d reply – the guy has over 34,000 followers. But he tweeted back:

@AmandaNMarsh hahahah NO… cause daddy would b in bed if worth 330 million!!!”

That totally made my morning. It’s the small things that amuse me. But it particularly excited me because, you see – Sam and I have a history. A history he doesn’t know about.

In elementary school, I could have been described as a goody two shoes. Always behaved, always did my homework, was a teacher pleaser, etc.

Sam was the first person to ever get me in trouble.

I was in third grade, 1991. It was one of those overcast winter days where you can just feel the snow in your bones. My teacher chastised the class for not paying attention, saying that it wasn’t going to snow until later that evening – don’t expect an early dismissal.

I piped up, “Well, Sam Champion said it was going to snow four inches by early afternoon.”

She replied that it wasn’t going to snow until that evening.

“But Sam said so!” I was adamant.

And for the first time in my school career, I had my name written on the board for misbehaving. I had contradicted my teacher, and she wasn’t happy.

Guess who had an early dismissal that day? Thanks, Sam, for providing me hope, even if others tried to dash it.

Our annual Christmas tree tradition usually means driving less than 10 miles to a lot somewhere, or if we’re really in a time crunch, Home Depot. This year, Mom and I thought it would be a grand idea to cut our own Christmas tree. After much Googling, we settled on Lewin Farms in Wading River, a town that’s at least a good 40 minutes from my house. (In fact, that’s where we purchased two 100-lb. pumpkins when I was 11 years old. There were only supposed to be two normal sized pumpkins, but my sister Alyse found a mega pumpkin, so I had to have one too. It took the help of Secret Service agent-type guys who were ferrying around a group of Italian diplomats to get the pumpkins in the car, then the help of a neighbor and a jury-rig of aluminum lounge chairs and towels to get them out at home. I digress.)

I must have visited six or seven website in regards to picking your own Christmas tree on Long Island. I remembered correctly that all trees, no matter what size you cut, were $30. I remembered incorrectly that there was no one around to help you cut or get your tree off the farm. After putting down a $5 deposit to rent a saw, we were on our own.

We had to walk through a sad looking apple orchard to get to the Christmas tree farm, which was the equivalent of about 10 city blocks. After that, we had 100 acres of trees to choose from. Great selection, right? Not when it took you 15 minutes to decide on what sandwich you wanted for lunch beforehand. It was a bit overwhelming. We headed towards a group of Douglas firs, our usual choice, and began perusing through the trees.

Lesson One: Trees look much smaller on a farm then they’ll do in your house

I thought I found the perfect Christmas tree a few times. Full branches, vivid green needles, and the perfect shape. Except I’m not good at judging height. The trees I liked were at least 8′ tall. My living room can only handle 7′. It seems like the rest of the world had already come and chopped down the perfect 7′ Christmas tree.

Lesson Two: Check the trees carefully

A few times, Mom and I yelled, “That’s it! That’s our Christmas tree!” only to discover half of the tree was brown or missing its needles in the back. You get disoriented when you’re in a field of Christmas trees as far as the eye could see.

Lesson Three: Don’t wear Skechers Shape-Ups sneakers to a tree farm

Made for strolling down the street? Yes. Made for wandering a Christmas tree farm? No. Both Mom and I wore our Shape-Ups to the farm, because walking on them is like walking on marshmallows. They are the most comfortable sneakers I’ve ever owned. Except they’re extremely impractical in navigating varying, muddy terrain and trying to avoid obstacles like stumps and holes from where trees used to be. We had a few “Whoa!” moments as we walked through the farm. After tripping over my sixth stump, I told Mom, “That’s it. If we don’t find our tree in five minutes, we’re going to a lot.” She agreed.

As we walked towards another part of the farm, I heard a little boy, about seven, stomping his feet and yelling at his father. “Dad, this is the worst day of my life! Why can’t you choose a tree already?” At least we weren’t the only ones having problems.

After searching for nearly 50 minutes, those five minutes were all we needed. We found a beautiful 7′ blue spruce tree, with perfect needles, and strong, evenly spaced branches. It was an ornament tree, through and through. We were both in awe. We knew it was “The One,” even though it was a bid wider than usual. “We can move the living room furniture around,” Mom said. “We’ll fit it.”

Then we realized that we couldn’t just haul it off.

“I’ll cut it,” I volunteered. I dropped down to my knees with the saw in hand. Awful angle. I had to lay down in a pile of dead needles from trees gone by.

Lesson Four: Humans are not physically designed to cut a Christmas tree laying down.

Laying down is the most impractical position for cutting down a Christmas tree. You don’t have the same strength to move the saw back and forth. This was taking a lot longer than I expected. Mom cheered me on with “Look, you’re halfway done!” and “C’mon, you can do it!” I said a few unholy words at the tree. It took me over 10 minutes to cut through a trunk that was only about 8″ in diameter. As I made the final cut, I heard someone’s chainsaw in the background. Wimps.

Lesson Five: Dress properly for a Christmas tree farm.

Jeans, a sweater, mittens, and a jacket aren’t going to cover it. You need a least five layers of each to stop the needles from poking at you like little daggers. After our tree fell, I got up and brushed myself off. Needles were stuck to me on every part of my body, and sap ran down my coat. Blue fir needles are much sharper than Douglas fir needles, I learned. Sharp enough to go through your skin like a splinter. After picking a few of them out of my bloodied hand, I moved on to picking the needles out of my hair. It was worse than removing the 62 bobby pins from my up-do after my high school senior prom.

Lesson Six: Trees look much lighter than they are

Now it was time to carry the Christmas tree back. Around us, men picked up the trees effortlessly, hauled them on their shoulders, and carried them to the main road, where  a John Deere towing a flatbed would pick them up and bring them to the bundling machines. I told Mom, “I’ll grab the trunk, you grab the top of the tree.” The tree was barely four inches off the ground before we dropped it. The thing must’ve weighed over 100 lbs.

So, the only practical idea was to drag the tree to the main road. It was still too heavy, and the needles were digging into our double-mittened hands. I then had the genius idea of wrapping my fake-from-a-NYC-street-vendor pashmina scarf around the bottom branches and dragging it that way. We walked about two feet before some leftover stumps prevented us from moving the tree further.

Lesson Seven: Farms don’t have maps

“Okay, go back to the main entrance and see if you can find help. I’ll stay here with the tree,” Mom said. So I trudged to the main road, which I couldn’t see over the trees, but was able to hear from the John Deere chugging along. After walking through acres and acres of trees for an hour, I was extremely disoriented. The sun was in the middle of the sky, so that didn’t help with finding my direction either. I had to play pioneer and pick natural landmarks to find my way back. When I got to the road, the entrance was nowhere to be found. Apparently, the roads through the farm curved around and around. I gave up and walked back to the tree. At least Mom was wearing her brightly colored patchwork sweater, or else I would have never found her among the trees.

While I was gone, Mom shaved the needles off the bottom branches, which allowed us to then sort-of-pick-up and drag the tree towards the main road. We stopped every 10 feet, and it took us about 10 minutes to get there, but we made it just as the John Deere pulled up.

The driver looked at our very-wide tree and said, “You’re gonna have to wait for the next one.”

Ugh.

Finally, the next  tractor came, and we hopped on the attached wagon for a ride back with our tree. We realized as we pulled up to the tree bundlers that we had walked at least a mile to find our tree. We would have never been able to drag it back by foot!

Lesson Eight: Everybody’s cranky by the end of the day

Our tree was bundled, and we dragged it back through the apple grove, stopping every 10 feet. We paid for the tree, returned our saw, and Mom went to go find the car so we could pull it right up to the entrance and put the tree in the car. Everyone else was doing it. I waited, and waited. People cursed at me since I couldn’t hold the tree upright and they had to walk around it. Nearly 15 minutes later, Mom pulls up in the car. Someone had blocked in our car, and she wasn’t able to pull out of the space.

As I motioned for her to back up, a man came up to me and said, “I’m sorry that you think you’re more important than everyone else, but your car is blocking my family from getting to our car.  We’re going to have to walk around your car.” Poor baby, having to walk an extra three feet out of your way. I replied, “No need to be nasty, I’m trying to get this tree in the car as quick as possible.” He grunted and walked away.

So, the tree’s home now. Still inside the car – we’ll deal with it in the morning. All we wanted to do was change out of our needle-infested clothes, put on warm pajamas, and take a Tylenol (and perhaps a shot of scotch). My body is aching and I’ve got a few unexplained bruises (inner thigh?!), while I’m still picking needles and balls of sap out of my hair.

Lesson Nine: Next year, we’re going back to the lot.

We’ll let someone else do the dirty work. The end.