C U

It's that time of year when people's social calendars are filling up. I could really tell today because usually? At the end of bowling, everyone says, "See you next week!" But today, because everyone's schedules are both intersecting outside of the league and conflicting with our regular competition, I overheard all sorts of goodbyes:

See you tomorrow!

See you Sunday!

See you Monday!

See you next week!

If I don't see you, Happy Thanksgiving!

See you in December!

It's a lot to keep track of, so I just used my standard, if aspirational, goodbye: See you soon! 

Life Imitates Life

As usual, the end-of-season meeting at our community garden was a bit contentious. This year, there was debate over the required workdays for next season: larger-plot gardeners would be required to do two, while newer, smaller-plot gardeners would be scheduled for one. The main issue is that the county is splitting our original plots in half so more people can have one, but the policy is being rolled out gradually; those gardeners who were there before the new rule can keep their larger plots. 

Naturally, the divisions have fallen along generational lines; most of the senior gardeners are older than the newer small-plot folks. As the discussion heated up, I noticed that the combatants were mostly Boomers and Millennials; like national politics, the Gen Xers were largely unrepresented. Oh, there was me, and the two chief gardeners are probably Xers, but we were a minority. Or maybe we were all just quietly sucking it up.

Also mirroring larger issues, the Millennials based their support for the two-vs-one work day on the argument that the larger gardens were "using more resources" than the smaller plots and therefore should contribute more. In addition to their generational confidence, they had a bit of an OK Boomer tone.

But the Boomers were having none of it; they were clinging to their wealth, experience, and influence. "Can we have two votes, too?" asked one.

In the end, we weren't equipped to count votes accurately; our show-of-hands, all-in-favor-say-aye style, couldn't yield a clear result on such a contentious issue, so we pushed the issue to email in the off-season, one vote per garden.

Having been part of the community for 16 years, I have a larger plot. I find the workdays onerous, mostly because of the unpleasant leadership style, and I would love to only have to do one. Even so, I agreed with another long-time gardener when he spoke up. "We've always had to do two workdays," he said, "so I'm not being asked to do more. Some of my fellow gardeners are being allowed to do less. There is a difference."

The Hang of It

In my third year of retirement, I haven't subbed, and my coaching-consulting gig has been in limbo. And, to my surprise? I haven't minded. Instead, I have been walking a neighbor's dog and babysitting for a friend whose first child was born in late August. 

Dogs and babies? Who can complain? And in addition to my field trips with Mary, writing group, and lunch and coffee with friends, I always have bowling.

Mutually Beneficial

“We were so glad to have you back as testing coordinator last spring!” A former colleague gushed at the happy hour yesterday. 

“Thank you!” I replied. “It was really great to be back.”

“I know it must have been good for you, too,” he agreed. “I mean, after 65? If you don’t use your brain, you’re going to lose it. Cognitive decline is real.”

Obviously a Middle School Teacher

My baseball name is Scuffy McSlugger, read the sticker on one of the teachers' shirts at happy hour. 

"What does that mean?" someone asked him. "Where do you even get a baseball name?"

"I have no idea," he laughed. "I just found this sticker on the ground as I was leaving school, and I thought it was funny!"

Blame it on the Sorting Hat

"Gryffindor!" I pointed to the Hogwarts regalia one of the neighborhood kids wore at the Halloween bonfire. "Me too! I'm just not wearing my robes."

"I'm sorry to tell you that I am Slytherin all the way," Heidi informed her as she leaned over to pet Lucy. The kid looked at Heidi disdainfully.

"Not Lucy, though," I assured her. 

"What is she? Ravenclaw? Hufflepuff?" she asked. 

"Close!" I laughed. "She's actually a Hufflepup!"

The kid groaned, shook her head, and walked away.

Worshipful Master, Finally

When the tour was over, we were released on our own recognizance to explore the galleries and gift shop on the basement level. There, we found a small room tucked into the corner with an exhibit called The Form and Function of American Freemasonry. 

The information included there was a little more concrete and focused on four American leaders who were also Freemasons: George Washington, Ben Franklin, Andrew Jackson, and Harry Truman. Even so, the content was still rather opaque, and we understood that we really weren't supposed to understand what the heck was going on, at least not in any specific way. 

One display did draw both our attention, though. In the center of the room was a glass case with two cube-shaped stones, one very rough and the other polished and smooth. They were ashlars, the term for stones cut to be laid in courses. The ashlar is the central allegory of Freemasonry: the rough stone represents an individual before entering the brotherhood. 

Once a man is accepted, the masons work to refine and polish him so he may take his place in the living wall of brotherhood. The highest-ranking member of each lodge is the Worshipful Master, and he is charged with supervising the Craft using the tools of the trade: the gavel, chisel, square, and compass.

Now that metaphor was something a couple of retired English teachers could wrap their brains around.