Ten days of note writing on Naked Thanks left! Hard to believe we’re almost done and our goal of 365 thank you notes a piece is a mere week and a half from fruition. While today, on our tenth to last entry, Karin is thanking the City of Lights, I figured I’d thank the City of Erie — not so fancy or mysterious, but a town that’s been just as important in my own life. It’s funny, I think for both Karin and me, travel has been something for which we are both so grateful. But for as much as we love to get away and experience a new city, we also love going back to the place we’ll forever think of as home. In her case: DC. In mine: Erie.
If you’ve been reading this blog, you can’t possibly have escaped my constant chatter of this little city by the lake. It’s cold in the winters, yes. It certainly has its fair share of junky dollar stores and crappy Aldi food markets. But if you look past all the city’s quirks and issues, you’ll see a diamond in the rough.
Maybe it’s some sort of chemical runoff from the lake, but I swear that city breeds good people. Loyal friends that you’ve known since birth and also acquaintances that will surprise you by popping up all over the globe. When I was in Fiji, driving through the jungle on the most ghetto looking tour “bus” imaginable, all of a sudden I looked up and realized a girl I worked with in high school was sitting in the row across from me. Another time, while browsing the produce selection at a grocery store in Santa Barbara, I realized a boy from home was picking out grapefruits next to me. Whether it’s in Times Square or Disneyland, I encounter Erie people when I’m least expecting it — like a nice little surprise gift wrapped and shipped to me from my home town.
Plus, up until now, in every city I’ve ever lived, I’ve had my Erie friends right there. Of course at Penn State the Erieites were too numerous to count. And then Philadephia had its fair share as well. But those cities are both in Pennsylvania. You’d expect that. It was when I studied abroad in Sydney and bumped into Erie folks that I started wondering if there was something more to this phenomenon. When I moved to Coronado, I still had girls with whom I played Barbies as a kid living a block away. Then when I went to Arlington, it was the same thing. Friends that I’ve know since I wasn’t even wearing bra were a stone’s throw away from me. Now in Lewes, I don’t have any Erie friends close by, but I’m sure at some point — and soon — that will change. It’s like the Law of Erie Magnetism; it’s only a matter of time before we connect!
So here’s to you, Gem City: My sincere thanks.
Grey and I sailing on the good old Lake Erie (my husband is like an honorary Erieite in my book -- I mean, the poor guy has had to listen to me talk about it forever. That has to count for something!)
I’ve been having so much fun during the last week that I’ve been here in Erie. Granted, it’s way better now that Grey has flown up to join us, but something about this place in the summer is amazing. Although really, there’s no time I don’t like being in Erie; everyone who knows me knows that I have tons of hometown pride. One of the things I especially love about my “Mistake on the Lake” (a misnomer if I ever heard one!), is that there is so much local legend circulating about this place. I mean, I know all towns have their share of lore, but Erie just seems to have way more — relatively speaking of course. Just like we supposedly have “more bars and churches per capita than any other city in the country” — I’d venture to say we also as more regional mythology as well.
Take for instance the famous Mad Anthony Wayne. Apparently he was a Revolutionary War general who had his bones boiled right here in good old Erie (because this was normal practice in the 1700s) and then transported across the great state of Pennsylvania to his final resting place. Of course, some parts got lost along the highway and now every good Erieite knows Mad Anthony’s ghost haunts the area looking for his lost femurs and metatarsals. You can’t make this stuff up.
A few of my other favorite examples of this legend include the deer man — a half man, half deer creature that haunts the local woods after midnight. And, of course, the mythical nudist colony that no one’s ever been to but sits somewhere on the outskirts of town. Then there’s Ax Murder Hollow, where some guy chopped up his wife and threw her body down a well 80 years ago, which is now inhabited by “gypsies” who will throw bricks through your car window if you drive there on Halloween. Oh and then the vampire’s grave in the Erie Cemetary — an old mausoleum that is black as night and is devoid of all writing except an upside-down “A” with wings on it (a dead give-away a blood sucker is housed there). Plus, you can’t forget the wolf-boy (who my dad swears lives over on Plum Street and who I’m convinced just needs a good brow wax) and also the Lake Erie monster (affectionately called “Bessie” by the locals).
I’m sure you could ask any Erieite and they could tell you 20 more kooky tales they “swear” happened right here. Maybe the long winters cultivate active imaginations, or maybe the name “Erie” just lends itself to weirdness — I don’t know — but I like it!
Here's Mad Anthony's historical marker in Erie. But maybe more importantly is this crazy looking old lady touching it.
And of course, Bessie -- the Lake Erie Monster! Watch out!!
The dog days of June, July, and August always remind me of summers in Erie as a kid. And of course, summer just wasn’t summer without trips with my friends to the local candy store for our daily sugar fix. For those of you non-Erieites, The Nut Hut, other than holding the title for best-named establishment ever, was also a place where one could go to buy everything from Necco Wafers to Cajun peanuts. Imagine: a teeny tiny mom and pop shop that actually stayed in business with their highest priced item being chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. It still boggles my mind. Was the nut market in the 80s and 90s huge in Erie or did penny candy sales hold revenues steady for the store? I guess it’ll be a mystery since I have no clue where the proprieters of our little childhood Xanadu have ended up (if they’re still alive — they were pretty old even 20 years ago) after the store closed.
The Nut Hut was on a little strip of street next to a bike shop, a magic store, a coin emporium, and a diner (Avanti’s) that, in addition to serving breakfast all day, also sold ninja stars and machetes. Yes, old school Erie was eclecticism personified. But of all the stores a which I’ve ever shopped, The Nut Hut holds a special place in my heart. I’d go there with my three best buddies: Julie, Katie, and Sarah (on bike, of course) and we’d browse the bins of candy with the intensity of a bride choosing her wedding gown. I’m sure it was creepy as hell to watch us.
I remember I always went for the traditional candy — Double Bubble or candy cigs — while Katie liked the trendy stuff — Chick-o-Sticks and Cowtails. Sarah bought the hard shit — pixie sticks and Jawbreakers — while Julie just favored the downright nasty — lime popsicles or black licorice. Then the four of us would take our loot back to my clubhouse or a neighbor’s driveway and stuff our little sweaty, sunburned faces — all the while making summer memories that still stick with me (as I’m sure, all the preservatives from our sugar bounty).
PS: I wish I had a picture to go with this post, but sadly, all my old pictures are still packed away in a box somewhere due to our move. Plus, I scoured the Internet looking for shots of the old Hut, but I can’t find more than a Facebook mention or two about the place.
PSS: The recipients of this note are Vera and Tom (if I can even hunt them down), but this post is dedicated to the memory of my best friend, Katie, who passed away seven years ago today — gone but certainly not forgotten.
Growing up in Erie, I considered 60 degrees a hot day. In fact, if temps there reach above 53 you can count on everyone in the entire city busting out shorts and flip flops. As a young kid, I clearly remember one rare time when it was 101 degrees and I sincerely thought the whole town was going to be boiled alive. Maybe this was because my dad told me, “We’re all going to be boiled alive!!!” or maybe it was because Erie never really got that hot so I wasn’t used to temperatures so high. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I was raised as part-Eskimo and being in extreme heat really screws with my mind.
Add that to the fact that I am five months pregnant and, well, it’s just a recipe for being sweaty and miserable. And I’m not usually a sweater! Even with my last pregnancy, the heat bother me at all — and I was waaaay more pregnant in the summer since I was due in August rather than November. But this time around, I’ve actually been toying with the idea of writing a book called, They Never Tell You About the Swamp Ass: Secrets About Pregnancy You Should Know just because, well, who knew butt cheeks had so many sweat glands?
So that’s where Mr. Carrier comes into play. He invented AC back in the early 1900s and I praise his name. I love the fact that I have air conditioning to cool me off. I mean, I don’t really mind the heat if I’m submerged in water, but because let’s face it, I’m a human and not a submarine.
"What'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" Apparently, the joys of the first chiller.
A warm weather trip to Erie always includes a trip to Waldameer, the local amusement park. It’s kitsch and cheesy, and absolutely perfect. As a kid, every school year at Our Lady’s Christian (my gradeschool) would culminate with a trip to Waldameer. I’d literally look forward to this day for months. I’d plan outfits for temperatures ranging from 40 to 90 degrees (ah, Erie weather!) and save my allowance for all the funnel cake my stomach could hold before I barfed it up on the Paratrooper or Scrambler. The park was the site of my first kiss (Phil Auditori, Old Mill ride, 3rd grade, no tongue) and countless other childhood adventures.
In my humble opinion, Waldameer’s crowning jewel is the Wacky Shack, a “dark-ride” that is the quintessential haunted house. In fact, since I’m home visiting my parents, I actually just read the other day in the Erie Times News that the Wacky Shack just celebrated its 40th anniversary! Â That means generations of Erieites have passed through its doors.
Actually, I’m sure if you asked most anyone from Erie about the Shack and they’d talk about its smell. I have never in my life experiences a more distinct aroma– it’s like an entity all its own. As memorable as Chanel #5 or gasoline, one sniff of the Wacky Shack and the scent will haunt you for the rest of your life. Not that it’s a bad smell, it’s not…exactly. It’s like a mix of carmel apples, pee, sweaty kids, stale air, popcorn, and a slight hint of mildew.
Ollie, of course, is still too young for most rides at Waldameer — especially the Wacky Shack, but we still took him for a visit yesterday. Last summer we just strolled him through the park and he was oblivious to his surroundings, but this year, he had the time of his life on the Merry-Go-Round, kiddie trucks, and train. It’s like a rite of passage!
Whoops. I guess it's the "WHACKY" Shack -- as in whacked, I guess?
Tonight I’m heading to a BBQ at my friend Ingrid’s house (coincidentally with a bunch of displaced Erie people) and I can’t help but think it’s officially summer. Yeah, Memorial Day is still a few weekends away, but whatever, with temps in the 70s and people wearing white pants everywhere I look, I say SUMMER.
One thing that just screams sunny season to me is a cook-out. Growing up I remember sailing our boat to Gull Point beach on Lake Erie and scarfing down hot dog after hot dog that my dad cooked up on an old school charcoal grill. And of course, since we were good Erieites, the only hot dogs found at any of our BBQs were Smith’s.
Smith’s is a local family-owned food company that’s been filling the mouths of Erie folk with deli meat for four generations. There’s just something about a Smith’s weenie that puts all other frankfurters to shame. In addition to the fact that they’re products are all delish (don’t even get me started on the ox roast! YUM!) — I also love the fact that everyone in Erie, no matter where they are now, still has pride for the local bologna factory. Plus, I think it’s great that when I visit their website, I see testimonials about how delicious their dogs are from kids with whom I went to nursery school or dated in 9th grade. These are the kind of businesses I want to see thrive.
Like my friend Chiz so aptly puts it, “You’ll never have a weiner quite like this in your mouth!” Truly. Smith’s hot dogs are the BEST.
This picture is on their website. I wish I had a copy for the walls of my house. Not to mention the fact that I need a picture of Ollie in a white lab coat holding a gigantic log of bologna; those kids at the right are priceless.
Ah, Iowa tests. I freaking loved those things as a kid. Most students got nervous to take them. I remember one kid always barfed in her pencil case on testing day and another who would pee by coat rack. Not me! I’d bounce out of bed and go tearing off to catch the bus to school when it was Iowa testing week. I don’t know what it was about having those two sharpened #2 pencils in my book bag — but I felt powerful. Even as a kid I knew I was a good standardized test taker — and who doesn’t like doing something their good at?
It’s funny though, because I’ve always been awful at math, horrible at languages, and borderline disabled in the sciences. I mean, I only passed high school biology because my friend Julie let me copy her lab book. Plus, common sense, um, well, that’s not my strong suit either. I think I flunked my driver’s ed course three times. So why I’m good at standardized tests? I don’t know. I actually think that I simply will myself to be, and therefore I am. But gotta love the Iowas, because for years, those puppies made me feel like I was a secret genius!
Even into my twenties, I still felt like my testing scores meant I was really really smart. I remember when I first married Grey, I definitely thought I was mentally superior. This was probably due to the fact that I scored higher than him on the SATs or something equally ridiculous. No more. Not only has he graduated from business school (I would have flunked out immediately), balanced our budget for years, (um, I can’t even properly work Excel), and served as my personal technology consultant (I honestly don’t know how to turn on our TV alone), but he also can do crafty things like change the brake pads on our car and rewire light fixtures. Last night, he even installed a new toilet in our bathroom!
Granted, sometimes Grey says things like, “Where are the vanilla envelopes?” and I laugh hysterically at his petty malapropisms, but I’m beginning to think a strong vocabulary does not a smart person make. Or a good score on something like the Iowas. And though I hope Ollie inherits my ability to shine on multiple choice tests and essay exams, I really hope he has his dad’s real world intelligence too!
Hell yeah! As a kid, Iowa testing week was better than watching Miss America, having Mexican pizza for lunch, playing kickball during gym, or prank calling the Principal.
As cheesy as it sounds, I think that taking sailing lessons as a child influenced me tremendously. Sure, the classes were probably the root of my filthy and foul mouth (it’s true what they say about sailors), but it also sparked a lifelong appreciation of the water.
Even though my parents had taken me on their boat since I was a baby, when I was in third grade, they enrolled me in official lessons. Six of my little friends joined me and the pack of us quickly became known as the “Seven Sinister Sisters of Satan” among the instructors. Summer after summer we’d capsize boats, have dead fish fights, kiss boys behind the canoe house, and have loads of loosely supervised fun while decked in life vests and soggy Keds.
As a teen, I was hired by the Club as a sailing instructor and spent June through August teaching impressionable youth how to get minimal tan lines while laying out in a bikini on a Boston Whaler. Every once in a while I’d give a lecture on how to tie a bowline or hop on a Flying Junior to show a 9-year-old how to work a tiller. Best. Job. Ever.
Surprisingly, I was hired back even after a midnight-sail involving a few cases of Milwaukee’s Best, some instructors, and one of the member’s 50′ yachts that left the vessel with a huge hole in the bow. The Junior Sailing advisory board also overlooked an incident in during which I forgot to tie up a committee boat that was found knocking around on the rocks miles down the shore from the club. They saw my potential as an eventually-responsible person and for that I thank them.
Finally, I can credit meeting my husband to Junior Sailing, so it’s for that I’m most grateful. Here’s how: my friend Julie and I took sailing. She got really really good (I, well, I grew capable). Julie went to the Naval Academy to sail for Navy. Julie met Grey (also a sailor, though not on the USNA team). Julie introduced me to Grey. The rest is history. Ta-Da! Thanks, EYC!
EYC Junior Sailing 1991: Can you spot me? I'm wearing a t-shirt in men's size XXL and a squint. Oh wait, that's everyone in the picture...
Yesterday, my brother and I were tooling around Erie and happened to pop in Big Woody’s just for kicks. We saw the blinking sign advertising Fireworks! Jelly Bellies! Stun Guns! and just couldn’t resist seeing what sort of randomness was housed in the yellow cottage in the shadow of the electric tower alongside the highway.
We weren’t disappointed.
Big Woody’s is an store that sells everything from ninja stars to Milk Duds. It’s like every 12-year-old boy’s dream come true. I bought a “World’s Largest Pixie Stick” and toyed with the idea of purchasing a pink bejeweled tazor. My brother ogled a butterfly knife and a pack of candy cigarettes.
Oddly enough, this sort of shop is actually kind of common in Erie. Not to this extent, but random all the same. When I was growing up, the local diner, Avanti’s, kept machetes in stock along with eggs and sausage. Everyone said it was mafia run, but I don’t know. Seems like people from Erie just have a penchant for all-things-quirky. Myself included. Although the day I buy a battle mace, well, that’ll just be the day…
What amazing signage!!!I'm sure they have people burning rubber off the highway to come check out Woody's wares.
For the rest of the day, the lyrics from "IIIIII WANT CANDY!" ran through my brain.
While I’m in Erie sleeping until eleven, shopping at Gabe’s for $4 dollar shirts, seeing movies, catching up with friends, and wolfing Wegman’s cheese spreads, my husband is at home eating Baja Fresh alone in a cold dark room.Well, maybe he has the lights on. And the heat. Maybe. BUT, he is all by his lonesome for the week.
Usually, I joke with him that being a bachelor means all-he-can-eat Tony’s pizza, peeing with the seat up until his heart’s content, not having to pretend to listen to me nag him, and drinking beer that flows like the Nile. But not this time. Not only is Grey working every day, but he’s also spearheading our home-selling efforts. This means that any time, with only 15 minutes notice potential buyers and their real estate agents can pop by for a showing. Consequently, poor Grey has to constantly keep our house spotless.
Yet, as much as I miss him, and feel sorry he has to be doing this, I am also happy that I’m not! Between watching Ollie and trying to do my column, keeping things tidy is impossible. I remember as a kid watching that old movie Love Story with Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal and thinking, “Oh how nice!” when they said the famous quote, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” But now, as an adult, I realize, that line is total crap. However, after a week of Grey working his fingers to the bone, I’d like to alter that line to fit my own purposes. Indeed: “Love means never having to unload the dishwasher. Or scrub the tub. Â Or sweep the dust bunnies…Thanks, honey!
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