Where Ya Gonna Run, Ma?

“Where ya gonna run maaaaaa?” asked the man wielding the chainless chainsaw in the mountaintop room filled with green-lit fog. 13 nights at Jimminy Peak it was called or something like that, the only event that popped up as a viable entertainment option for my crew when we went out to western Mass to view a couple college options. “I’m sorry! I thought it would be fun! I’m the worst mother ever!” you can hear me saying on one of the videos I took in the middle of this adventure. “What were you thinking? I mean…what was the process??” Isaac can be heard saying, the video completely dark because we had taken the chairlift to the top of the mountain in the pitch black where our haunted experience continued from the lodge at the base. The kids had shoved me in the front as a human shield as soon as we entered and made me lead the pack. “I’m more scared than you guys!” I said. All I did was scream, the whole time, and run faster than I have run since the 100 in high school.

“You got to walk, Mom!” the kids yelled at me as we tripped over roots in the woods and screamed our way through the chainsaw room. When chainsaw man got up in my face and asked where I was going to run, I practically cried and screamed “I don’t know! Get out of my face! I don’t know how to get out of here!” The thick fog and weird green lighting was making it impossible to see anything. Chainsaw man, ready for his next victims, pointed to the exit. “My Mom is, like, legit gonna have a heart attack bro!!” Maire yelled at the clown/rabbit waiting for us outside of the chainsaw room because, of course there was. He didn’t give a fart about my nonexistent heart condition and just started to run at us, a giant ball of flame shot up in the air. “You owe me 2 Spongebob popsicles after this. You owe us ALL 2 Spongebob popsicles.” Isaac said.

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As we took the ski lift back down the mountain, we were all shaking from fear and adrenaline. Groups heading up on the other side would nervously shout out into the dark “Was it scary?” Maire just said “Not really. Like a 6,7.” If the number 67 is as prevalent in your life as it is mine, I see and salute you. Other groups yelled “Marco” at us and we yelled “Polo!” back, our favorite group had a girl that just screamed “I love you!” at least 20 times, Isaac screamed it right back each time. “Thank you!” she yelled, her voice getting more distant the further apart we got. “You’re welcome!” he yelled back. It was funny and sweet, I was just happy he was still talking. A barred owl flew past us on our way back to the hotel, we all got a good look at him in the tree. This is the second time a barred owl has marked my week, the call of “Whoooo cooks for youuuuu?” emanates from the woods here at night. I believe owls are signs, of what I have no idea.

Aside from spending a night on a dark mountain with “actors” unearthing their most buried sociopathic tendencies, the weekend was mostly fright less except for the times when the schools brought up the sticker price of attendance (and these were state schools!) Each place assured us, repeatedly, that these prices are not set in stone and that financial aid can cover a large chunk. Only one school, MCLA, convinced me that this was the truth (and I have evidence of this in family members who have attended). They pride themselves on an exceptionally small student to faculty ratio, a personalized educational journey, students graduating without or with very little debt, and employment upon graduation. I went in skeptical and left impressed. I looked around at the middle-aged parents on these tours, with their greying ponytails and beards. I wanted to ask “are you as scared as I am?” The answer is of course they are. Who wouldn’t be?

Other than schools, we visited a contemporary art museum, got some quirky Christmas shopping done in cool stores, and ate garlic knot crust pizza. Strangely, or maybe fittingly, I learned that Melville wrote Moby Dick out in Pittsfield of all places and we visited the very place where he wrote it. I told them about Dad and his book, how much he revered Melville and my and J.D.’s plans (he’s my Associate Editor) to take Dad/Grampy’s book to the next level. Hopefully, they can help us with this more than monumental task of taking an acorn and converting it to oak. We shall see. We didn’t make any crazy decisions this weekend, if anything we just ripped off a bandaid that I have been frightened of since day 1. It felt good to get out there and start this process, wherever it may lead us. In fact, the more I think about that haunted mountain frightfest, the more I realize how fitting it was for the weekend. “Where you gonna run, Maaaa?” quickly became the saying of the weekend. We cried laughing watching the videos today, they truly are priceless. To answer your question Mr. Chainsaw Man, I’m not going to run anywhere. I’m going to keep acting like the human shield my kids made me be and forge onward into all the scary unknown, treating them to SpongeBob popsicles if I need to apologize for any accidental trauma along the way. I won’t, however, be doing any more haunted houses. All set with that. And here’s the evidence for why:

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