You let the butter dribble on vacation

I took my kids home a few weeks ago. To the place I feel most at home. To Boston. To Hingham, the town I grew up in. To the house I grew up in and the neighborhood I loved. To the streets between my house and Jeannie's and the million and one memories that live there. To the beach, the water, the smell of the salt air and the winding roads along the coast. To the cemetery on High Street where Mitch is remembered. To the North End, Quincy Market, and my new digs in Cambridge. Up to Boothbay Harbor and back.

We went to places that meant the most to me growing up. And still, they hold strong as the places I love best. These places are the backdrop for so much of the color and texture and pattern of my life. In them I grew close to my family, made unbreakable bonds, fell deeply in love, learned the value of friendship and loyalty, had my heart broken a few times, and had more fun than any teenager should ever be allowed.

So many of my memories of these places are lost. So many are vague sort of shadows and I wonder if I remember them correctly. I wish I had those pages filled with my stories. I wish I remembered more details than I do. Not just because there was something magical about this place I got to live, but because I want my kids to know some of those stories. Not all of them, but a few are worthy of sharing.

I do remember running up the path from my house to the playground at Plymouth River School, across Harvard and Stanford to Blackhorse Lane hundreds of times. I remember smoking pot with my brother and his best friend on that very playground before our huge family dinners on Sundays where there were always at least ten extra people. (If you knew the chaos that often came with ten or more extra people, you'd have been at that playground with us.)

One Berkley Circle with overgrown hedges and the sinking walk that my dad put in by hand. 

I remember my mother's terrible pink and green wallpaper and how happy (and terrified) we were when my dad left oil on the stove one morning and the kitchen burned up so that we would never have to see it again... only, she put the same crap back up! I remember driving to school on snowy mornings and taking the turn on to Main Street a little too fast every time so that the back end of my mom's Jeep would fishtail just enough to make our little sisters pee a little.

I remember long walks down my street to the side yard that led to Ward Street. Wishing Berkley Circle were miles longer so I wouldn't have to say goodnight. (Mosty I just didn't ever want to stop making out with my boyfriend on that big patch of open grass that ruined my favorite white jeans.) I remember the night I was supposed to be at Dances With Wolves and instead had the best date in the history of dates. I remember spending more time at Jeannie's house because that's where our boys always were. And, long summer days laying by her pool with sun-in in our hair and ridiculously long discussions about summer camp and her boyfriend's smelly feet and debating whether her adopted brother was gay or not.

I remember standing on this very deck behind the Lobstermen's Co-op in Boothbay Harbor, Maine and taking a similar photo with my whole family, including Bruce and Diane. What was so amazing about this vacation with my kids was how incredibly easy they were. They fell in love with my beautiful Hingham instantly. And, they were no match for Boothbay Harbor. They are fully under the spell.

As am I.

NOW, I remember these three running up and down the street I lived on and the beaches I played on through the tiny town I spent summer vacations in. I watched them eat their first whole lobsters without worrying about the weird insides or the dribbling butter. And I watched them stand quietly over the tiny harbor in Cohasset and stare at the boats going out to the open water. It was where Molly turned and said that it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. I remember how easy they were in these places that always bring me comfort. They were happy and for a week they didn't argue or call names or whine. There will be many many more of these trips. Longer versions with more time for nothing and less driving and sightseeing. For now, though, I remember a tiny bit of perfection.

My very best memories... and theirs

I have awesome kids. I do. They are smart and funny and terribly clever.

We went to my Papa's grave a couple of weeks ago to drop off some flowers and notes and blow him dozens of kisses. I have a hard time not welling up when I visit him. I was five when he died. I remember learning how to ride a horse that day. I have very few clear memories of my childhood. But, that day feels like it was etched or carved in to me so I would never forget. Like a tattoo on the insides. It would be an image of me on a brown and white painted pony with a red ribbon braided in her white tail. And, me in my very worn and faded Harvard sweatshirt with a big huge wad of pink gum stuck in my long blond hair and a pair of dirty black boots up to my knees.

I loved him madly. He was quite possibly the most handsome man... ever. He had dark hair and was always tan and had the happiest eyes I'd ever seen. His smile lines made it look like he was always smiling. I remember him only happy, only healthy, only smiling. He had cancer. It took his life terribly fast and far too early.

While we were standing there, at his grave, Molly said "he's probably really glad he's missing this mess" and pointed to Sam. It broke my heart just a little while I sucked in a little laugh.

He would have so loved these children. These little ones I'm watching run around a campfire on the beach right this minute. Yes, I'm letting them run around a fire. We are on vacation. I'm giving the rigid mom bit a break this week. Oh wait, that's not even in my repertoire. I'm even more relaxed than normal this week.

I have smile lines like his. They only show up because I have been in the sun so much. I'll take them though. They are great reminders of this week that made my kids fall in love with the best parts of my favorite places. I don't remember everything the way I remember the day my papa died. I wish so much that I still had all of my journals that document the best days of my life so that I could share those days with my kids. The ones they ask about all the time... what my family was like growing up, what my friends were like, my first kiss, my first love, dances, dates, and heartbreaks.

I want to help them make the best memories and hear about the good ones that happen without me and help them through the times that will deliver their worst. Mostly, I just want them to have full, colorful lives. Like me. But, also, I want them to remember them!
 

I MARVEL. So will you.

I'm a packaging junkie. You are too right? You should be. Lovely Package is the first site I visit every day. I spend a huge amount of time each week thinking about, writing about, teaching about and pouring over brands, their products, their identities, and how those brands are taken to market. Packaging is fun and can be the difference between average and outstanding for a brand. Not every brand can move the market and cause a stir. Many will not. Honestly, most will not. But the lucky few will get the double-take and they will move the needle just enough to change things.

Like this....

HOXTON STREET MONSTER SUPPLIES

Fantastic right? Keep going.

It gets better. Here, in this shop that Roald Dahl would possibly wet himself to see, one can purchase things like Human Snot, Organ Marmalade, Fresh Nail Clippings, and Pickled Eyeballs.

This is the store all little boys dream of. Forget toys and candy. This is the stuff of their fairy tales. And, when they are done shopping, they can write and create and dream up those fairy tales by wandering down a secret passage in to the Ministry of Stories.

I want to go. I want to write and create with them. I want to hear their stories.

I work at an agency. I teach a branding course at a major university. And, I do a shit ton of freelance work for big brands all the time. And, I often wonder why some of these big brands don't pull the plug on half the shit they put out there and do something amazing with their resources. There is so much money spent on stupid campaigns all the time. The kind that don't net returns, improve market share, increase awareness, or anything of real value. So much that doesn't contribute to good things. But this one does. It's a keeper.

I love that one of our own, an agency, built this. This is genius. And, I marvel at their creativity, passion, and the fun happy smiles and the STORIES that they will help create.

It is so f-ing badass... I'm taking my kids to London. You coming?

To get the full details on Hoxton Street Monster Supplies visit the company behind the magic. We Made This Ltd.