It’s hard to conjure your inner goddess. Actually, it’s hard to conjure your inner anything after another whirlwind Saturday morning of soccer, a fourth-grade Mars project and not nearly enough coffee. Who has time to be a goddess, or even a go-go girl when life grabs at you with its messy little fingers, always wanting more?

There is a trick, and it’s fail proof. You need to find the right environment. For me, as for most overworked, overly cerebral women, lace usually works. So do yummy smells, sexy satins, and soft lighting (and savory snacks). So what could be more perfect than a trip to Great Barrington Bra and Girl?  I’m serious, what could be more perfect, especially on a slow autumn night on the waning edge of the full moon…

Tonight, starting at 6:30, GBBG is hosting its third ever Salon Prive. Not only will you be able to feast on their gorgeous new fall collection that includes rich burgundies and greens, satin teddies, Shakespeareanesque corsets, as well as classic chemises and panties (not to mention miraculous bras for all shapes and sizes), live music will set the tone for the evening.

And, because it is GBBG, the buck (bra) doesn’t stop there. April and Danny will be handing out gift bags (which never disappoint, I got my favorite, ahem, item, from one of those bags) to those who make a $30 purchase or more.

Of course, munchies are a given, so is art and champagne and a truly good time. Also, yours truly will be reading some new erotic poetry from my “Barbaric” collection. And to top off the evening, the ladies of the Sugar Shack Burlesque will swing, sway and sashay down the runway showing off clothes from the store.

So say goodbye to the apple squeeze, finish up your tamale from the Festival Latino and shimmy over to GBBG tonight to get your groove on…or off.

We ventured out into town on a Friday afternoon. We meaning me and my children (Anna, 9 and Lucian, almost 7). Town meaning Great Barrington, which can be brutal on a Friday afternoon. But, I promised them ice cream and “something special” before the sun set on the week. Of course, I wasn’t sure what that something special was going to be, but, as always, we found it with no problem.

The ice cream actually wasn’t ice cream at all. It was gelato. Good, cheap gelato from Alex Café in the “hallway” on Main Street. For $2 a scoop (a generous scoop at that) we were treated to the heavenly rich flavors of coconut, coffee, vanilla and some rich, dark chocolate that was nearly impossible to remove from Lucian’s face. Oh, and the very kind, grandmotherly Greek woman behind the counter brought out two huge jugs of sprinkles and let the kids have at them.

“No charge,” she said. “No charge, they should have as much as they want.”

And they did. We strolled down Railroad Street almost in complete silence. The gelato was working its magic on the children. As we made our way back to the car, both of the kids stopped dead in front of the newly painted Du Bois mural.  Lucian got excited.

“Look, Ma, there’s Obama and Martin Luther King. And who’s that guy?” He was pointing to the slim-faced, spray painted rendering of W.E.B. Du Bois.

“That’s Du Bois,” I said. “If it weren’t for him, the other two probably wouldn’t even be on this mural.”

Anna perked up, veering her attention away from her ice cream.

“What’d he do? I mean, he must be a pretty big deal if Martin Luther King was inspired by him.”

I gave them my account of Du Bois as I knew it. I’d read “The Souls of Black Folk” many times ( I was a high school English teacher in a former life) and had given countless lectures

to countless teenagers on why Du Bois was so instrumental in the Civil Rights movement that followed him.

They were getting bored.

“You know what,” I said. “I’ll take you to his house where he grew up.”

They were astonished.

“Will we need to fly there?” Anna asked.

“Nope. Just get in the car; it’ll take less than ten minutes.”

We arrived at the W.E.B. Du Bois Homesite on Route 23 just as the sun was settling low on the horizon. The path to the site was ablaze with orange pine needles and the smell of autumn was unmistakable.

“Where’s the house,” Lucian asked.

“It’s gone,” I said. “It’s been gone for a long time, but this is the place where the house was.”

The air around us became still. Anna’s face turned pensive.

“I can feel why this is an important place,” she said, reading the signs along the short trail. “It’s hard to imagine him as a boy going to school and just being a kid,” she said.

“Yeah, because we’re just kids, too.”

We were all silent; the weight of the place hit us at the same time. Just think, these very children will grow to be something, maybe a Du Bois, maybe a Dr. King, maybe an Obama. And I think they will remember that golden autumn afternoon when they realized that such a thing was possible.

We live in a place rich with history. Don’t ever forget it.

I spent this last weekend with our gorgeous brother and sister mountains in the North Country; the Adirondacks. We stayed with a friend at her granddaddy’s cabin (accessible only by boat) on Saranac Lake. It was gorgeous. Every day there was fishing in crystal lakes, hiking in cool, monumental forests, napping in a hammock as the loons called to the sun. The mist on the water provided an eerie morning scene while blue herons seamlessly scooped up fish and young eagles hovered over our canoe. Needless to say, it was a rich landscape and I was hard-pressed to leave it.

On the return trip, as we slowly made our way south and got into Berkshire territory, I felt a vague sense of disappointment at the landscape. There was no cabin, no mist, no craggy mountains (not by Adirondack standards anyway) and no bite in the air.

Home was not where my heart was.

On Monday morning, I peeled myself out of bed to cover a story in Richmond. On the ride through West Stockbridge the fields shone golden in the morning sun and as I approached Richmond the farms became increasingly evident (and the farm smells increasingly potent). My disappointment was fast turning to awe as the road curved this way and that.

It was shaping up to be a perfect day except that I am stubborn and had not had the luxury of casting a line that morning.

I stopped at the store at Bartlett’s Orchard and shamelessly devoured a cider doughnut while chugging fresh coffee (don’t worry I paid for them first). Continuing on my way I decided to take a detour up Lenox Branch Road, that’s when I stumbled upon Olivia’s Overlook.

Situated between West Stockbridge Mountain and Lenox Mountain, the overlook which is owned by the Berkshire Natural Resources Council, is located on Yokun Ridge. The sight is essentially a circular parking lot surrounded first by a stone wall and then densely foliated land and then woods (there is also a path that I will be exploring most likely during the hurricane!). On a clear day, which it was, the blue oasis of the Stockbridge Bowl and its surrounding hills and mountains, can be seen through an opening (which was cleared to make room for a pipeline years ago) in the trees and landscape. Perched on the stone wall with my locally grown apple and my camera, I felt the residual disappointment of the morning wash away.

This is a beautiful place, with beautiful sights and sounds and smells, and damn good coffee and cider doughnuts. We can always learn to appreciate the view if we just change our position. So far I’ve returned to the overlook twice and I cannot wait to see the view when it is ablaze with autumn foliage.