What's cooking on Facebook?

I was a social media skeptic for a long time. I figured I was in touch with everyone I need to be in touch with, and I didn’t have time for more Internet distraction.

Alas, I eventually caved and created a Facebook account. Along with finding plenty of old friends there, and several people I hadn’t even realized I missed, I’ve also made new connections that are sometimes purely social and sometimes work-related. Yes, I actually conduct work through Facebook, from posting links to copy I’ve written for various businesses to tracking down people I’d like to interview for stories I’m writing.

 

As anyone who spends even a smidgen of time navigating social media knows, Facebook and Pinterest and the rest can be one great big time suck. It’s so easy to be distracted by videos of cute puppies, or decorating ideas, or the latest political baloney those certain friends can’t help but share – without actually fact-checking the source first.

But social media has its benefits, too. For me, as a writer, the great big world of social media allows me to share my work with a larger – or at least different – audience than it otherwise might attract. It’s also a place to build my network of sources, which is especially helpful when my subject matter ranges from luna moths and hiking to Christmas trees, chamber music, and staying sane while raising kids.

A few weeks back I used Facebook to track down someone I wanted to interview for a story I’m writing for a ski magazine. We’d never met, but I had his name and a few basic bits of information, and he was easy to find on Facebook. Sent a message, got a response, and set up the interview with a few key strokes. Beautiful.

Turns out my interview subject and I had a few shared connections, or connections-once-removed. He used to ski race with a guy I used to coach with, and he’s also friends with the son of my former boss. Small (virtual) world. I used Facebook to set up two other interviews with strangers for that story, too. So, along with the given distractions of the social media world, I also got some work done that day, via Facebook.

Earlier this week, while sitting home with a sick child and grappling with the new realization that I’d be without a stove and oven for an entire week, I put a post on Facebook about my dilemma. Within minutes I had meal ideas ranging from pancakes or quesadillas on the electric griddle to crock pot chicken and pizza on the grill. One friend offered the loan of a toaster oven, another said I was welcome to use her kitchen, and my sister-in-law invited us for dinner.

The most entertaining suggestion came from a former local town official, with whom I used to speak just about every day when I worked as a newspaper reporter. I haven’t seen or spoken with him in years, other than on Facebook. He shared a link to an NPR piece titled “Coffee Maker Cooking: Brew Up Your Next Dinner.” (Check out the article here.) I don’t think I could bring myself to place a piece of salmon with ginger and garlic into my coffee pot, while steaming broccoli and cauliflower in the basket. But it was an interesting read.

So, beyond pure distracted amusement and work-related contacts, social media this week provided me with useful information, along with the whimsical meal musings of friends. Where else can you get dinner ideas from people from your past and present, down the road and across the country, new friends and childhood buddies, work colleagues and fellow preschool moms, even the local police chief? That is the wild and wacky web social media weaves.

One of the responders to my post, a woman I went to high school with half a lifetime ago, suggested I check out Pinterest for more ideas. I’m still holding out on that one. I don’t Tweet either (at least not yet), so you won’t find any hashtags in my posts. But if you’re reading this (or any of my other stuff) online and want to pass it along, by all means, click the share button!

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her blog: Writings From A Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the March 28, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Signs of Spring

I ordered my first batch of seeds for the vegetable garden this week, reminding myself that even as March snowfall blankets the ground in a clean layer of white, spring is – eventually – coming. March is notoriously fickle around here, changing from cold and snowy to warm and sunshiny, then back again. All of spring, really, is like that; last year a Memorial Day snowstorm had my flip-flop-wearing kids scrambling to find warm coats and mittens as they ran outside to build a snowman.

This year's buds, last year's leaves, and new snow.

Last week, as the season’s persistent subzero temperatures met us each morning, even my winter-loving children had had enough. “I just want it to be spring,” moaned my daughter, as her siblings agreed. When I reminded my skiing-sledding-shoveling-snow-angel-making kids that they loved winter, my son replied, “But, Mama, I like winter better when it snows.”

Lucky kid got his wish, waking up to a thin layer of snow Tuesday morning, followed by a major storm midweek. He rushed through breakfast and headed outside to shovel before going to school. As I approach the deadline for submitting this column, it’s snowing hard, with a foot or more predicted. That translates to three happy little skiers and a happy ski mom.

Of course, by mid-March, many folks are winter weary and ready for spring. Often, these are the same folks who don’t like winter in any month, and I find their choice of living in New England odd. But I admit there are days, as March stretches toward April, when I, too, long for warmer days and fewer layers of clothing.

This yearning happens to me at the waning of each season. Near the end of summer, I crave the crisp coolness and color of fall. As that color fades to stark brown and grey, I wish for the sparkle of winter’s snow and ice to brighten the landscape – and my psyche. After months of cold and winter white, I happily anticipate the return of color to the landscape.

The animals are ready for spring after a long winter of cold, too. In our field, the deer have returned lately to the old apple orchard, traversing our ski- and snowshoe-packed tracks and scratching through the crust to reach the cold, hard apples that fell last fall. More birds are arriving at the feeder, which during the coldest months is frequented mainly by chickadees and a pair of blue jays. I’m hesitant to refill the feeder now, as I’m sure the bears, too, will emerge from their winter hideouts soon.

Spring here can be a season of strange juxtaposition. Snowbanks piled high from a March storm stand adjacent to mushy mud puddles in the driveway. Leaf buds swell on the tips of tree branches even as icicles drip from the eaves of the house. Snow boots and winter hats mingle with mud boots and ball caps in the front hall. My children these days are likely to ski in the morning, then come home and haul their bicycles out of the garage in the afternoon.

I like to think of these seasonal contrasts as holding the potential for the best of both worlds. Ski in the morning, bike in the afternoon. Roll up sleeves and uncover faces to soak in the first warm sunlight of the year, then tuck into a favorite chair by the fire as the warmth of afternoon fades to the chill of evening. Watch the snow fall, then melt, then fall some more, as we plant the first seeds of spring into pots by the window.

No matter what the weather is outside, these little seeds will sprout and grow, reminding us that spring is – eventually – coming. In the meantime, we’re heading out to play in the snow.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul,posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the March 14, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Beyond the pony slope

Birthday ski ~ heading down Zoomer.

My youngest child was born on a powder day to a family of skiers. It seemed apt, then, to celebrate her 5^th birthday last weekend with a family ski outing.

Last year I wrote about the many hours and days I had spent in recent winters on the pony slope, skiing in a snowplow, sometimes backwards, often with a kid between my knees or at least following close behind. I lamented the many times I had longed to be floating through powder or flying down groomed runs on my own. Paying my ski mom dues, I called it.

Well, all that pony lift time has really paid off, and this year is a new winter of wonder. With all three kids happily occupied in Cannon Mountain’s seasonal junior program from just after breakfast to just before lunch each weekend day, I have reclaimed my freedom to ski with other adults (mostly other ski moms). And the kids have developed into fine little skiers and, thankfully, love sliding around on the snow as much as I do.

My husband and I spent Sunday’s family ski time alternately leading and chasing our children down the slopes of our own childhood memories. Away from the snaking lines of their ski groups, the kids picked up lots of speed and showed us what they’ve learned this winter.

My oldest daughter careered down each trail with gleeful grace, daring the rest of us to keep up. My son, once a backseat-hockey-crouch skier, now makes smooth, confident turns and – gasp! – pole plants. The littlest one cruised right along like a miniature ski racer, arcing from turn to turn, not a care in the world except going fast enough to stick with the bigger kids.

From the snowfields above the Tramway’s summit station to the base area, our little skiers ducked into the trees – their “magic forests” – wherever they could, seeking fresh tracks and a feeling of adventure. I can remember sliding into those same magical, snowy, kid-sized hideouts when I was little and feeling the same joy I see now on my children’s faces.

We let the kids decide which trails to ski, and each run they seemed to go a bit faster than the last. I was simultaneously terrified and proud when they zoomed in Super-G style turns down Turnpike, then dropped into kid tucks for the straight run out at the bottom. Not to be outdone, the birthday girl held the lead through the last turn.

We had a blast, and I’m not sure there’s much that could make me as happy as skiing with my kids. Unless it’s skiing with my friends. And that’s the beauty of having paid my pony slope dues – and of having the kids in lessons every weekend. There is only so much my little skiers are willing to learn from Mom, so the lessons are for them. Really. But that time sans children also means I get to ski. With other grownups. Grownups who love to ski as much as I do (and don’t need help putting on mittens, zipping coats, and pulling up neck gaiters).

For some of us, it is our first winter in several years with the freedom to ski at our own pace. We are still wrapping our winter-loving minds around that fact. We can take any trail we like, ski as fast as we want, and take extended coffee breaks when the skiing is less than stellar. Often, on these breaks, we run into people we know – folks whose now-grown kids we used to coach, or other parents whose little ones are still in tow.

Those whose kids are older smile knowingly, remembering their own first taste of skiing freedom. The parents with kids younger than ours look at us longingly, wondering how many more winters until they’ll have the chance to ski with poles again and hang out in the lodge without dodging tantrums and coordinating ski-pant-clad toddler trips to the restroom.

Often, at the end of the morning when I collect my children from their instructors, the kids want to ski more. And so we take some runs before heading home, cruising around favorite trails. If there’s enough snow, we head into the woods, whooping happily along the way. If it’s all hard pack, we ski fast cruisers.

Sometimes the kids want to head to the handle tow – long the “pony slope” to me. There’s a mini park there, and they love to hurl their little skier bodies into the air, feel the wind in their faces and the joy of momentary flight. I’m content, those runs, to stand at the bottom, watching. No more pony slope for me, thanks; I’ve paid my dues there.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her blog: Writings From A Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the Feb. 28, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.