Bye, Franklin!

Completing the Franklin 500, Lizzie and I headed back North. Next stop, Italy!

Your weiners look beautiful in this moonlight

Years ago, Lizzie and I were driving through Woonsocket, RI, and stumbled upon this beauty. It was late at night, and the moon was indeed shining upon the house of weiners in the most radiant way. The moonlight house of weiners never left our minds, so we decided to try to find it for lunch during our trip back home. Fun Fact: If you meet anyone from Woonsocket, RI, which is a 15 minute drive from where we grew up in Franklin, they will say this: "Yeah I'm from Woonsocket. It's a total shithole, but luckily I live in the nice part." Everyone lives in the "nice part" of Woonsocket. It's quite amazing. (And it is a total shithole. Confession: my Great Grandfather is from Woonsocket). Also, a note on pronunciation. The "woon" part of Woonsocket is pronounced "Wun". They try so hard to be pretentious, but then go and name their sports team the Woonsocket Rockets. Le sigh.

Anyway, the Moonlight House of Weiners. We found it again pretty easily, and perused the menu, deciding, obviously, on weiners. (The place smelled of them, and dozens of the questionable meaty beauties lounged on metal rollers, waiting to be scooped up and dressed by the staff, who layered the dogs up the entirety of their arm to lay on the toppings) Each weiner cost a scant $1.07, and came with mustard, onions, and a 'meat sauce'. Lizzie declined the meat sauce, but you know what they say, in for a penny, in for gaining ten pounds, and I said hell yes to the meat sauce. According to the waitress, the weiners were small (that's what she said) so we each had two, plus a small order of fries for me, and a small order of onion rings for Lizzie. We also mainlined diet coke to keep our girlish figures. Verdict: Barf. Though delightfully cheap (our bill was only $14.88), the indigestion associated with our weinervana lasted ALL DAY. We ate around 1pm, and by 9pm I was sort of maybe interested in having some crackers. As we drove from Woonsocket back to Franklin, we groaned uncomfortably and released clouds of weiner vapor in delicate little belches. Tres charmant! Alas, one cannot enter unto a house of weiners, moonlight or otherwise, and expect to escape without one form of discomfort or another.

High School's Over

Lizzie and I went to Oak Street Elementary, which is actually just two wings of the high school. We’d occasionally, on our way to the field house, pass by some of the BIG KIDS who seemed somehow even older than our parents. It was bizarre coming back as the big kids (after a three year hiatus) and even more bizarre coming back now. As we rounded the circle drive in front of the main entrance, my throat tightened a little and the old fear resurfaced. High school was decidedly unpleasant for me, for while I excelled academically, as I possessed the triple threat of being poor, fat and nerdy and therefore was quite the failure socially. Lizzie and I had many of our AP classes together, but we never seemed to line up PE, meaning that the majority of my Physical Education was learning that no one wanted to be badminton partners with me. (Terrible, isn't it? I assume I'm going to win some sort of journalism award for that heart-felt revelation). Things turned around for me, as they do for many people, in college, and now look at me, sliding devil-may-care down the banisters. WHEEEE HIGH SCHOOL! THE BEST YEARS OF YOUR LIFE!!*

*No they're not.

Reginald Beaverton's Swimming Hole

Beaver Pond. Everyone who grew up in Franklin went swimming here. My sisters and I took swimming lessons, and two things stand out in my memory from that time. 1. I was too weak to pull my chubby self up on the floating dock, and 2. The "how did Beaver Pond get it's name" incident.
My mother wanted to know why Beaver Pond was so named. She assumed it had to do with the rodents, but wasn't sure. She certainly didn't want to ask such an embarrassing question herself, so she bade me to make an inquiry of the lifeguard teaching us how to swim, as I was just a little kid, and who would mind if a small child asked a silly question? I asked away, being a giant sucker, and the lifeguard worked hard, but failed to suppress his laughter. I was indeed assured that there had not been a Reginald T. Beaverton III who had donated the land to the town, and that it was, in fact, named after the rodents. There was also laughter at the double-entendre at the word Beaver, and oh-ho-ho maybe it was lady swimmers who gave it that name, but I was too young to be aware of those implications at the time. Beaver Pond had a moment in the spotlight a few years after my beaver question, when Kenneth Sequin dumped the bodies of his two young children there after brutally murdering them. Sometimes I wish that I believed in Hell, as Kenneth deserves a nice warm corner of it.

Your Monuments are so Meta

Here's a picture of the Benjamin Franklin monument outside the library, along with the monument about the monument. You're welcome. Also, the monument of Ben is sort of creepy...

Where's our Bell you Cheap Bastard?

Sign me up for the "Touch-A-Truck!"

Franklin is home to the nation’s first public library. Back in the day, the town founders were like “yo, Benjamin Franklin, we’ll totally name our town after you, how about a gift? We’d like a bell, please.” And Benjamin (who was knee deep in French Harlots) was like “Here are some books and a pithy quote instead, Sense being Preferable to Sound”.

The books are still housed in the library, which was one of mine and Lizzie’s favorite haunts. It also had NAKED LADY PAINTINGS, which are also a draw. As Lizzie and I were wandering through the reference room, we spied a rather scurrilous looking man on one of the public computers, and we decided that he must be looking at porn. We circled behind him, pretending to look at books pertaining to leasing laws in Massachusetts, and were disappointed to see he was just checking his Yahoo mail. Booooring.

He's the (Horace) Mann

What do you mean you’ve never heard of Horace Mann? Oh, you must not have grown up in Franklin. Seriously, ol’ Horace, the founder of Public Education, was a big hit with the teachers in Franklin, who made us recite poems on his birthday, and learn Horace Mann fun facts like that his brother drowned in nearby Uncas Pond because he went swimming instead of to church (the locals were like “ha ha! He is being punished for skipping church” and God was like “why are some of my followers such douches?”). Now Horace’s birthplace is a sad looking plaza, but look, someone left him delicious fries to eat. Also in this plaza is Wah-Sing, a crappy Chinese food restaurant which will give you food poisoning. They deal mostly in take out, so when you puke in your sink because you can’t make it to the toilet in time, they don’t have to clean it up. This plaza also marks one end-point of the “Franklin 500”. Teenagers, having nothing better to do in this rather quiet town, drive up the town’s spine (Central street, East and West) from Shaws to Stop and Shop, over and over and over again until they’re old enough to learn about drinking at Glass Hill, which is named after the broken beer bottles which line its sharp face. RIP, Horace, thanks for the education.

Get Thee to a Nunnery

Also in short walking distance from our former homes is the Mount Saint Mary’s Abbey, which is a silent order of Nuns. Living this close to an Abbey makes it very convenient for your Father to say things like “I’m going to send you to live in the Abbey if you don’t behave,” or “I’m going to stick you with the nuns until you turn 30,” etc. It’s a beautiful spot, though, and they sell delicious bread and chocolate. We purchased some of the aforementioned chocolate from an adorable (and ancient) nun, and damn (sorry) that shit was delicious. (It was wrapped in a ribbon that was covered in glitter, which got all over the place. There is a reason my friend Nick refers to glitter as craft herpes). We wondered how much longer this order would survive—living in a silent nunnery is no fun. The good jobs are all in parochial schools, where you can torture small children, a la Mrs. Hawisher.

Mount Street Mama, take me home

To your left, a picture of the "power cut" next to the house I grew up in.

Unfortunately, neither Lizzie nor my childhood homes are still in the possession of our families. (And Lizzie’s little 4-room house was knocked down and replaced with a McMansion). This makes things awkward when our rather large contingent of fans makes their pilgrimage to our youthful abodes, and the current owners are like “We’ve already called the police.” However, the farm Lizzie’s Grandparents owned, which is just a mile down the road, was foreclosed on by the bank back in the mid-eighties, and has yet to be sold. Hooray for trespassing!

The farmhouse burned down a long time ago (accursed hobos) but the lilac bush her parents used to have babysit her is still beautiful, and the remains of the chicken coop loom ominously, and legend has it that chicken ghosts still haunt it TILL THIS VERY DAY.

(IF YOU ARE MY DAD AND ARE READING THIS, STOP HERE, WATCH THIS YOUTUBE VIDEO AND THEN SKIP TO ***)

I asked Lizzie if she’d ever considered buying the property back, and she joked, “Hmm. Perhaps I could buy it and build a sex toy shop encased in a giant glass dildo you can see from the highway.” (CAUSE YOU KNOW, 'MERICA!!!!!)

And can you think of a better tribute to your family?

We discussed the logistics of the giant dildo building as we circled the property, Lizzie pausing every once in a while to tell me tales about almost getting trampled by one horse, and feeding another until it was too fat too ride. She told me the tale of when her father threw her uncle through a picture window, and another amazing story about how her grandfather went from being an undertaker to a being a farmer, which maybe involved transporting a dead body in a horse-drawn hearse which then actually turned out to be not-so-dead. The angry “dead” guy got out of the casket, and punched Lizzie’s Grandfather in the face, who then was like “PERHAPS IT IS TIME FOR A CAREER CHANGE.” (By the way, we decided that the giant dildo should be lit with fiber optics so it could change colors)

***On the way back, we noted that we had not been the only trespassers (teenagers probably drink up here all the time) as we spotted footprints which could only belong to a giant. I assume he tends to the chickens. My dainty lady foot is not match for Stompy McGhostChickenFeeder.

States of Snark: Hometown Edition

Our goal here at States of Snark is to visit all 50 states, providing commentary along the way. This weekend, Lizzie and I decided it was time to show you all around our hometown, Franklin, MA, which is about an hour south of where we each live now (which is pretty far away in Massachusetts terms). Without further ado, we present States of Snark: Where it began.

Lizzie and I met in Mrs. Hawisher’s kindergarten class. I clearly remember her crying her little heart out on the first day of school, probably because she had some prescience and knew that our new teacher hated children. Mrs. Hawisher, turning her cool gaze first to the crying Lizzie, and then to the rather nerdishly eager me, gave me a little shove in Lizzie’s direction as if to say, “Make that Stop.” And though I will forever detest Mrs. Hawisher for putting me in the corner after I got upset because Tommy Robillard stole my crayons (she wouldn’t let me out until I spelled “brown” correctly. That is a hard one for a five year old. Seriously, I have a fucking steel-trap memory; you commit an egregious infraction like stealing my crayons, and I will remember that shit until the end of time, or until I get my revenge) I am forever grateful that she chose me to comfort the sobbing Lizzie, because we've been bffs ever since.

Magically, Lizzie and I, turns out, lived a mere five minute walk from each other. Here is the intersection of Mount and Upper Union Streets. (Quick, it’s time for the ‘what would your porn name be’ game—your childhood pet and the street you grew up on—I’m Fuzzy Mount, nice to meet you.) It was a rather idyllic section of Franklin, and we spent many an afternoon wandering through the woods and looking under rocks for salamanders. Exciting, no? Please enjoy our trip through memory lane. Look out for the high tension wires.