Room For Improvement

Hello World, Happy Father's Day weekend! The time has surely come, as indeed it must, and long overdue, for us to recognize the contributions of all the wonderful men in our lives - whether actual fathers or only in spirit - without whose tireless dedication, strength of character, and inspirational leadership, this world would be a much poorer place. So on Sunday, I urge everyone to hit the ground running, pull out all the stops, spare no expense, and full speed ahead to put together a jolly good time for all the jolly good fellows in our midst, and devil take the hind-most. Of course, around our house that means plenty of catnip mice and bat-a-birds from the kitty contingent, and while Bill is always quick to accept such largesse with good grace, it cannot be said with perfect candor that it would be exactly what he had his heart set on. Actually, all that modern technology needs to do (to repeat that age-old refrain: "If they can put a man on the moon, why can't they ..... [Please insert your own pet peeve here] ?") is invent robotic cat litter that changes itself and puts itself out in the trash, and that would be the only Father's Day gift that Bill could ever want, believe me. Almost slipping by unnoticed was Flag Day on Tuesday, but fortunately The Flag Brigade is made of sterner stuff, and dutifully hoisted the colors upstairs and downstairs before heading off to work, with the patriotic strains of John Philip Souza on their lips, I dare say. Mind you, this was no mean feat with Con Edison and their subcontractors wielding their arsenal of jackhammers to chop out 100-year-old lead pipes from under the street at the time, and "The Stars & Stripes Forever" was no match for it, I can tell you that. In fact, the entire project was so disruptive that on one day when their heavy equipment had completely blocked off the end of our driveway, we found it necessary to drive over the front lawn, sidewalk, and curb just to get out of our own house, thanks not. It goes without saying that even the resourceful John Philip Souza would have been hard-pressed to come up with a tune that would have been appropriate to the words that I was muttering under my breath at the time, I shouldn't wonder. Speaking of special occasions, earlier in the month we had a hankering to see our old friends from upstate, and rather than half of us driving 3 hours to see the other half at home, we decided to split the difference and meet up in the middle at Fishkill instead. I don't mind saying that Fishkill is more of a happening burg than you would expect, and the Red Line Diner smack on Route 9 was jam-packed when we showed up for brunch with our appetites on over-drive. Fortunately, they shoe-horned us in, and it wasn't long before we were stone cold munching on heaping plates of salads, omelettes, grilled cheese, and their other signature sandwiches. When I say that Fishkill is jumping, that's no exaggeration for comic effect - our friends tried to book 2 hotel rooms over a month previously, and were lucky to scoop up what were apparently the last 2 rooms to be had anywhere within shouting distance of the place, and we despaired of whatever cast-off attic garret they might have stuffed us into as a result. In an interesting turn of events, we discovered that the Red Line Diner was on the opposite side of the same parking lot from our hotel, so we figured that it already made up in convenience what it might have lacked in amenities right there. But we needn't have worried anyway, because the Magnuson Hotel turned out to be a fine and upstanding establishment for lodging, and we had no complaints. Even better, since our friends made the reservations and not us, we didn't fall victim to our usual trifecta of hotel calamities, where they've quartered us between the clunking ice machine, the clanking elevator, and hot and cold running Shriners carousing in the hallways at all hours, thanks not. The hotel staff never realized their mistake, and in fact, could not have been nicer if they tried. What they did with the Shriners is anybody's guess at this point. I can't say what brought everyone else to Fishkill at the same time, so that there were no rooms left to be had for love or money, but our plan was to take in the sights at nearby Cold Spring, where we had been a couple of times before, and looking forward to seeing it again. Main Street in Cold Spring is well worth the trip, with quaint and curious little shops lining both sides, and no end to the limitless variety of artifacts, oddities, and collectibles to be seen along the way. Every place that you go into can't help but be interesting, many with one-of-a-kind curiosities that would never be found elsewhere, and worth a look if only for that reason alone. But it must be said that some of the spaces are so cramped and overwhelming, with such a voluminous confusion of tawdry gimcracks, that you start to feel like a suffocating spectator of the TV show "Hoarders," until you succumb to the inevitable and flee the premises with your coat-tails flapping behind you. (In vaudeville, the old joke was: "My apartment was so tiny that you had to go outside to change your mind." Rim shot, please!) It speaks volumes that such inveterate souvenir hunters as ourselves came home without buying one single solitary thing on our travels, which not only surprised us and our friends, but the President's perplexed economic advisers even more so, I can assure you. Leaving the stuffy indoors behind, down the hill and under the railroad tracks is a breathtaking panorama of the majestic Hudson River in all its glory, and the scenic vistas that greet you on all sides are nothing short of spectacular. The grandeur of nature was more than enough to revive our flagging spirits, and of course, some home-made ice cream never hurts, so it was with a jauntier step that we climbed back up the hill to resume our explorations before heading back to the hotel. Some things may change at Cold Spring over the years, but the Hudson River is a don't-miss feature that never fails to delight. After being out all day, we thought that a quiet dinner for four in the room would be just what the doctor ordered, and the helpful hotel staff were quick to recommend the local pizzeria as their go-to eatery of choice. Their free delivery made it a no-brainer for us, and in short order, we were enjoying their pizza, calzone, and garlic knots, which were as tasty as we could have hoped - although having a table would have been a handy touch, rather than eating on the bed and pressing the credenza into service as a buffet. Another nice addition would have been a pool and hot tub where we could relax after dinner, but alas, the Magnuson was notably lacking in that respect, so we had to amuse ourselves for the rest of the evening. We accomplished this (as us old geezers often do) by discussing our health issues, and solving all of the problems of the world, no thanks to these darned young whipper-snappers nowadays ("Get off my lawn!") who seem to have us all hurtling headlong to blazes in a hand-basket, and hang the consequences. (The fact that people have been saying exactly the same thing since at least the time of the ancient Greeks, I think in no way repudiates the validity of this opinion, and I don't mind saying that I am unanimous in that.) In the morning, we found the hotel's complimentary breakfast a bit on the spare side, but still better than having to go outside and forage in the wilderness for ourselves. With time on our hands after we checked out, we set our sights on a giant indoor flea market just up the road, and joined the throng of happy bargain hunters on the prowl. This cavernous building was host to hundreds of booths, laid out in a neat grid, and offering anything from the most retro vintage relics, to the very newest whiz-bang gizmos, and need I say, everything in between. There were even kiosks where you could get a haircut, manicure, or massage, believe it or not, plus vendors selling real food, like burgers and fries, BBQ, fried chicken or fish, pancakes, and assorted bakery products that smelled as good as they looked. Unlike our hotel room, they had areas with tables and chairs where people could eat comfortably, and I said to Bill that someone could actually go into this place and literally never leave. I was beginning to wonder if the hotel hadn't discovered the solution to their Shriners problem after all. All too soon, it was time to bid our fond farewells, and go our separate ways into the sunset, as it were. The trip home was uneventful, and unburdened as we were, without copious amounts of souvenirs for a change, unpacking the car was a snap, requiring no teams of Sherpas as is usually the case. The cats had been up to their usual hijinks in our absence, but not enough for the Governor to call out the National Guard, so we considered that a good sign. What they were doing with that noisy ice machine and wheezing elevator, I'm sure I have no idea. Say, who let those Shriners in here? Elle