You will go to see hypnotist at Wellesley HS fundraiser

March 11, 2019 by Deborah Brown Leave a Comment

Comic hypnotist Frank Santos, Jr. uses the power of suggestion on audience volunteers.

Comic hypnotist Frank Santos, Jr. will come to Wellesley High School’s Katherine L. Babson Auditorium on Friday, March 15, 7pm, as a fundraising event for the WHS Class of 2020.

Come and be amazed when you, your friends or strangers across the room become stars of the show, as Santos makes audience members believe that they are singers, dancers, and more. In Santos’ energetic and unique performance, the audience becomes the main attraction.

Tickets are $10 and will be sold at the door.

WHS Class of 2020 President Ryan Silverstein says, “We are raising money to help reduce the cost of Junior Boat Cruise as well as Prom and Senior Banquet. We are also raising money to make a monetary donation to a charity.”

Not everything sparks joy in our Wellesley kitchen — Marie Kondo’s influence

January 26, 2019 by Deborah Brown 5 Comments

Organizational expert Marie Kondo has put me on notice, and I’m all the more joyful for it. Like the rest of America, I was aware of Kondo’s New York Times #1 bestseller The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Unlike the rest of America, I found her easy enough to tune out. While my friends folded their shirts into weird little tents, I moved piles of laundry from Point A to Area 5. They thanked their mismatched teaspoon sets for their service, then dropped them off at the Wellesley RDF Reusables area. I rescued those mismatched teaspoon sets from Reusables and shoved them into my utensils drawer, just in case my 1/4-teaspoon measure ever got crunched in the garbage disposal. Hey, it’s happened, and I lived in fear of a repeat.

With the advent of Kondo’s Netflix series, Tidying Up with Marie Kondo, the Japanese neatness guru has got me facing down my fears. All the teaspoons, plastic lids, and ratty dishtowels in the world aren’t going to prepare me for some end-of-world scenario or keep me solvent if the world banking system collapses. I’ve just got to live in the world as it’s presented to me at this moment and hang onto only those possessions that, as Kondo says, “spark joy.” Her message is simple: if a material object doesn’t spark joy, you should thank it for its service and let it go.

So far, my kitchen spices drawer is the most joyful place in the house. Goodbye curry, so long poppyseeds, I never loved you anyway, paprika, but thanks ever so for your service.

Marie Kondo, Wellesley inspiration — These are the spices that no longer spark joy. There they are, lined up on the kitchen windowsill for their photo-op. Next, I dumped the contents into my RDF Food Waste Program bin. After that, I tossed the containers into recycling. Thanks for your service, all.

The truth has set me free. I’m never going to learn how to cook with the many spices I’ve impulse-bought and then ignored. The fact is, my family didn’t really like the recipe for curry chicken, or the way the aroma hung about the house for a couple days after. “Can’t you just go to Singh’s when you’re in the mood for Indian?” my husband asked.

As for the poppy seeds, I stirred them into the lemon loaf recipe exactly once. My family objected to the extra flossing the black specks caused, and everyone voted for going back to the regular lemon loaf, no poppy seeds, thank you very much.

The nutmeg had expired in 2015, meaning it was originally ground at least a couple years before that. I do use nutmeg on the regular, but at 1/8 teaspoon per scatter in the buttermilk crumb muffins batter or as part of the apple crisp, I should stay vigilant and replace it yearly. Same with the paprika, which in theory gets sprinkled onto the devilled eggs except for the times it doesn’t, like when I hosted Bunco last month. Everyone devoured the devilled eggs sans paprika. Paprika, you may have lost a job.

Why, oh why, did I buy another container of red pepper flakes when I already had one? Because, as Marie Kondo would gently note, I didn’t know I already had a full container because my spices drawer was crammed too full.

I know what you’re thinking. It’s amateur hour in the Brown house and this spices drawer example proves we don’t know what real clutter is. I know because I’m Facebook friends with so many of you, and you are posting really impressive pictures of your own de-cluttering progress. I’ve seen pictures of beds piled with clothes, scarves, shoes, belts, linens, toys, books, and more. At least I think those were beds under there. Send some of your pictures to [email protected] and I’ll add them to this post.

All this talk of spice drawers is actually a huge smokescreen. My true hoarding secret? Well, I can’t even speak it aloud. The picture below says it all. Go ahead and judge me. I deserve it.

Marie Kondo, Wellesley tidy — If your email is lost somewhere in there, 1,019 apologies.

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At Wellesley Rec what Matt says, goes

November 8, 2018 by Deborah Brown 2 Comments

I always knew that the Wellesley Recreation folks were the most fun people in town. I mean seriously, the word recreation — as in fun, joie de vivre, good times — is part of their very job description. They have a good time and get the job done. Way to keep your Chin up, Rec. Thanks to sharp-eyed reader PH for this great pic.

Beyond Wellesley: Theater review, Between Riverside and Crazy at SpeakEasy Stage

September 26, 2018 by Deborah Brown 2 Comments

People who live in $1,500-per-month rent-stabilized units in New York City’s Upper West Side don’t generally elicit a lot of sympathy. No matter how deep their problems run, they can never escape the undercurrent of envy from those paying three times that for a glorified closet, and a kitchen equipped with a hot plate and mini-fridge.

Speakeasy Stage, Between Riverside and Crazy — Photo credit: Speakeasy Stage

Not even if you’re a the former NYC cop and widower Pops, who was shot multiple times by a white cop and left unable to work. It was a clear-cut case of hanging out in a sketchy bar while black. The violence from that night has come to define Pops’ life, even as others beg him to settle his case with the city and move on in Stephen Adly Guirgis’ 2015 Pulitzer Prize-winning play Between Riverside and Crazy, playing at Speakeasy Stage in Boston’s South End through October 13. The action is set in a tough town where the apartment may be big, but the problems of Guirgis’ characters are even bigger.

Pop by and stay awhile

Pops, played with former-cop roughness by Tyrees Allen with a voice that growls when he’s in a good mood and spits out staccato anger when he’s not, is the lord of a manor that is slowly sliding into decay. Three young people share in/squat at his place, and they all call him some variation of “Father”. His only actual progeny is Junior, played by Stewart Evan Smith with hangdog skulk. Junior is disappointed in himself, knows Pops is disappointed in him, and is glad his mother isn’t alive to see the petty electronics thief he’s become. Pops, for his part, is a tough taskmaster who demands a purity of motive from others that he doesn’t demand from himself.

If you’re looking for a feel-good plot and characters to cheer for as they lift themselves and others out of difficult situations, this isn’t the play for you. It’s got a set-you-on-edge kind of edginess, it pushes buttons, it tests limits in a way All in the Family used to in the 1970s. Just like in Archie Bunker’s house, you can tell the same arguments have been swirling around for years, never getting resolved but still emerging, precisely because they’ve never been resolved. Frustratingly, it seems certain characters don’t want certain issues resolved. If deep problems reach resolution, if blame is assigned and accepted, then the concept of fault becomes moot. That concept of fault is a recurring theme in the play.

Realistically, there are multiple problems the play addresses that can’t be magically solved by getting sober, by keeping the “right” sort of company, by bringing the stubborn around to the “correct” way of thinking, or by cutting a big check.

Some of the issues could have been taken care of long ago, some are rooted as deeply as race and class divides in this dark, dramatic comedy. Between Riverside and Crazy is tautly directed by Tiffany Green with deep understanding of the characters, their flaws, and their need to at least try to steer their own ships in the face of gale-force winds.

[Read more…]

Wasps sting Wellesley man, and he’s buzzing all about it

September 14, 2018 by admin 1 Comment

A Wellesley man and his daughter were stung by hundreds of yellow jackets on Sunday afternoon at Boulder Brook Reservation. Paul Rogers was walking in the area with his 10-year-old daughter and the family dog when his daughter got near the nest, located inside a tree trunk, and was attacked by the stinging insects. When Rogers went to her rescue, the wasps attacked him as well.

In the melee, Rogers dropped his iPhone and was without it for a matter of hours. This is his story.

BYLINE: PAUL ROGERS

An epic tale: Man, child and puppy v Nasty Yellow Jackets 🐝

Got an hour to waste, pour yourself a drink and read on…

1st QUARTER: THE STING

Decided to go for an explore in Boulder Brook with my 10-year-old daughter and 1-year-old dog Drake (named after the rapper, not the explorer).

It was Sunday morning, we were in shorts, t-shirts and hiking boots as wanted to climb up the big rock peak before going to the neighborhood block party in the afternoon.

Decided to take an immediate detour down to the stream below as soon as we entered the woods from Westgate Road entrance. There were some stones to climb over, which I assume sort of marked the area out of bounds but ignored that as all intrepid explorers would.

Paul Rogers, Wellesley — Wellesley came close to losing Paul Rogers in an epic man vs. nature contest. In the worst moments, he was floating away like a butterfly from the effects of over 100 bee stings. Photo credit: Rogers family.

Got down to the stream and tried crossing it by walking over the tree trunk, slipped, fell in the water.

Good start.

Spent the next five minutes criss-crossing the stream. The dog was having fun going in and out and life was good. Then I saw a big board attached to a big branch floating in the stream saying something like: “Keep out, Private property”.

As I was stepping over it, I slipped on it and fell in the stream again. Should have turned back then.

Then my daughter, who was ahead of me now, saw something bright and multi-colored a hundred feet down stream. It looked like a rainbow colored fishing net.

She ran ahead to check it out but before she got there, she screamed out loud. I didn’t think much as even a spider or a bee near her would make her scream. I shouted over to see what was up and she was screaming more now and jumping around.

She shouts out that she’s been stung and I thought, “Damn, we’ve just got here and we’re going to have to go back and deal with this rather than mess around climbing.”

Then she’s screaming that she’s getting stung more. I ran over and grabbed her and tried to swipe the wasps – which I later discovered turned out to be Yellow Jackets – off her.

She was getting repeatedly stung, and I guess I was as well but it was all pretty chaotic and although it was hurting, it was more a panic about what to do for her.

We got away from the hornet nest – apparently it was inside a tree trunk, according to my daughter, she knocked something near it or stood on the trunk, she said – but we were still getting stung.

I’d dropped my phone when I was grabbing her to get her away so my phone was on the floor near the nest and I wanted to get it, but my daughter couldn’t be left alone.

Not sure what the dog was doing – I think he just thought it was a game.

Anyway, left the phone – reluctantly – and got out of the woods onto Westgate Road.

We still had hornets or wasps or whatever they were on us and flying around us. They followed us out. I thought teenage girls could be vindictive and hold grudges but they have nothing on these the nasty little flying killers. Even out of the woods and back on Westgate Road they continued to sting us.

I had to take my t-shirt off – not something I generally do in the streets – and we had to run back to our house, about half a mile away as I couldn’t phone my wife to get us as my phone was in the woods.

So we have the three of us running – me with no top on, my daughter screaming, the dog thinking this is brilliant and running through people’s front gardens. The wasps are following us and stinging us as soon as they can land on us. They seem to like me more than her now.

Not a great situation.

Then, obviously, the dog stops to do his business on the side of the road about 200 yards from our house – I kid you not, when I stopped to bend down to bag it up, I got stung in the eye by one of our new friends.

Picking up sloppy pooh is my least favorite task in the world, getting stung in the eye at the same time is just the icing on the cake.

Wellesley bees — The Wellesley Trails Committee posted a warning: don’t go there.

[Read more…]

Bubble guy to visit Wellesley Library, August 10

July 29, 2018 by Deborah Brown Leave a Comment

Mr. Vinny the Bubble Guy is bringing his giant homemade bubble wands to the Wellesley Free Library for 60 minutes of full-on running around fun! Kids will participate in bubble chasing and bubble popping games while Mr. Vinny jokes with everyone. We’ll be outside in Simons Park next to the Library, so dress for running around outdoors. This program is appropriate for families with children of all ages. Drop in, no registration required.

Mr. Vinnie the Bubble Guy
Friday, August 10
4:30 – 5:30
Simons Park, next to the Library

Sponsored by the Friends of the Wellesley Free Library.

Here in Wellesley — graffiti at the Farms train station, a commentary

July 26, 2018 by Deborah Brown 2 Comments

First off, I’m a little afraid of the Wellesley Farms commuter rail station depot. It’s dark and scary in there. There are cobwebs in the rafters, and dead leaves fill the corners. When the wind kicks up the leaves swirl, tornado-like, lending an even spookier atmosphere to a place that already has a Scooby-Doo air of decay and abandonment.

Still, when I’m in that area curiosity gets the better of me, and I always peek inside the depot. This time, emboldened by the sunshine and warmth of summer, I took it a step farther and dared to enter. Not to brag, but it was a matter of minutes before I emerged. It wasn’t bravery that kept me there, exactly, it was the interior walls which, unsurprisingly, have been used as a graffiti canvas. There was one wall in particular that got me, serving as it did as part art gallery, part art critic’s platform.

Graffiti, Wellesley Farms station — The message “Come as you are,” greets Wellesley Farms commuter rail users who peek into the old depot.

The artist had a simple message, perhaps Nirvana inspired. The words “Come as you are,” captioned a smiley face with the eyes x-ed out. To the side of the art, carefully written, was the art critic’s assessment: “This is stupid.”

Sure, it wasn’t nice to say the work was stupid, but critics don’t have a reputation for being nice, and are beholden to no one. What struck me was not so much the assessment but the way in which the critic visually presented the message. The critic, opinion notwithstanding, took pains to avoid marring the art. Instead, in an act of respect for the work itself, the review was wrapped around a concrete corner, clearly separate from the image.

So which was shallow, unimaginative, and banal? The graffiti or the critic’s response to it?

Graffiti, Wellesley Farms — The comment, “This is stupid,” in response to the image on the wall of the depot.

That depends on how you think of graffiti. Some say it’s vandalism, pure and simple. Others elevate its status to art in its own right. The more politically minded see graffiti as a weapon used by the front lines of neighborhood foot soldiers pushing back against gentrification. The locals want to keep an area gritty and so grit it up even more, but often to no avail. Once the area attracts the attention of rich colonizers looking to snap up real estate bargains, it’s goodbye bohemia, hello “utopia.”

If you think of graffiti as vandalism, then both the critic and spray-painter are guilty of nothing less than crimes against private property. In this view, there is no “artist” or “critic” here. There are only perpetrators bent on destruction. Find them, give them some cleaning solvent and a paint scraper, and make them remove the damage.

If you think of graffiti as art, congratulations, you’re a liberal. Perhaps with the comment “This is stupid,” the critic is suggesting that graffiti is a waste of bother in Wellesley, a place that’s been proudly gentrified since 1881 when we split off from Needham, a gritty place if ever there was one. With that act of secession, Wellesley forevermore gave up all rights to urban swagger and delusions of street smarts. I think it’s in the original charter. There are no neighborhood foot soldiers here, pushing back against anything. The rich colonizers are welcomed with open arms. Real estate bargains? Hah. “This is stupid,” indeed.

Or maybe the critic was literal-minded, offended by the obvious haste with which the artist worked. Time always works against spray-painters, jumpy types who hear sirens in their minds and are always scouting for the quickest exit. Tough working conditions. But those problems are not the critic’s, who likely wrote, “This is stupid,” under similar circumstances. If the critic had only that one comment and meant it plainly, then there’s the superficial player in this drama. It matters not if we suspect the critic wanted to say more but was interrupted. We must judge based only on what we are presented with — image, and comment.

The artist and critic are long gone, these itinerant communicators of provenance unknown, one off to the next project, the other on a continued quest for that which pleases. Meanwhile, Wellesley is left with nothing but their makeshift gallery, and a creepy one at that. One that could use a Caffe Nero, like that nice one up at Wellesley Hills. One that could use some colonization.

Why the MBTA has cut down hundreds of Wellesley trees

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