Worshipful Master, Part 1

"I don't know anything about the Freemasons," Mary said this afternoon as we drove to our latest field trip, a tour of the George Washington Masonic Temple. "I guess I'll find out today!"

The temple is a local landmark; built in the 1920s on a hill just west of Old Town Alexandria, its 333-foot-tall tower is visible from all over our neighborhoods. Anyone who lives in the area has passed it dozens, if not hundreds, of times on their way to Old Town, or the train station, or the parkway, or the Wilson Bridge, but I don't know anyone who has ever been inside. "We should go there!" Mary had pointed as we whizzed by it on our way home from Topgolf and Oxon Hill Farm, and so a plan was hatched.

We arrived early for our scheduled tour, and paused on the steps to admire the view of the west end of Old Town and the sun shining on the river beyond. As we stood, a train hissed into the station, and a plane flew low in its landing pattern, destined for National Airport. Across the river, we could see the MGM casino, the nets of Topgolf, and the hill of Oxon Hill Farm. 

"The patent office is right over there," Mary waved to the right, referring to our first field trip.

"And Planet Word is over there," I pointed to the left. "All of our former field trips have led us here. This is worth it already," I laughed as we headed inside. 

Maturity

Now that cooler weather is here, I'm in the midst of organizing the attic and getting rid of stuff we don't need. 

Today, it was a lot of sporting equipment. I gave away 2 kites, one I've had since college; 2 fishing poles we bought for Josh's 8th birthday, which we spent at a Lake House (he's 31 now); some racquetball and tennis rackets (we prefer pickleball); and a couple of wiffle bats. The hardest choice I made today, though, was to let go of my roller blades. 

I've had them since 1990, and I love them. They are as cool today as they were then, with their steel gray exterior and multicolor ratchet buckles. I can't say when I last skated; after I took that spill on the basketball court while playing roller hockey and gave myself a fat lip, it wasn't quite as fun anymore. 

Even so, I could still picture myself ratcheting those buckles, putting on my palm guards ('cause that's all I wore), and I briefly considered holding on to them for at least one more skate. But then I realized that it might be time to be done with a few things, particularly the ones that could result in broken bones that might not knit as quickly as they did 35 years ago. So I put them in the car with a sigh and dropped them off with the other donations. 

It was the right decision, but I like to think of it as growing up rather than growing old. Or maybe we can just leave it as growing wise.

Mr. T.

In all the media coverage leading up to next Tuesday's midterm elections, I somehow missed that James Talarico, the Texas Democrat running for the Senate, was once a sixth-grade English teacher. Given my history, you can imagine how keenly interested I was as I read about his experience this morning. First, I was hooked by the headline, How James Talarico’s Years Teaching Middle School Prepared Him for Politics, and only slightly disdainful when it was revealed early on that those "years" numbered two. 

The article also linked to the Facebook page he created in 2011 to document his class, and as I scrolled through, I saw solid examples of engaging assignments, a welcoming environment with aspirational language, and pictures of students who looked happily immersed in the activities. For a young, inexperienced teacher, he seemed to be hitting all the right notes.

As I read on, though, I was profoundly disappointed by what some of his former students said.

“He was too good for the school,” one was quoted as saying. “ You could tell that he wasn’t going to be a teacher in a sense that he would be more. I knew he would have no ceiling.”

Another added, “I always felt like he was going to be more than a teacher.”

To me, these sentiments reveal some of public education's biggest problems today. First, they implicitly state that being a teacher is less than; that it's a career someone would settle for, or that some are too good for. The article leaves these ideas unquestioned and certainly unrebutted. Another thing that bothers me is that those former students feel like they and other kids don't deserve a teacher of such caliber, which is sad.

So in closing, I've got a little shade of my own to throw: given the sorry state of the U.S. Senate today, even if he's elected? Talarico probably would have had a much greater impact if he had stayed in the classroom.

Rain Check!

I've been expecting it.

Since the catastrophic flash flood swept through the Grand Canyon in late August, many trails, both main bridges across the Colorado River, and all park accommodations have been closed until further notice. Even so, my coveted reservation for two nights in a cabin at Phantom Ranch, the only place to stay at the bottom of the canyon, which I won by lottery last November for a stay in January, was still on the books.

Until today. And although I was prepared for the notification, I was surprised by the number of exclamation points the message used.

What can I do but match their attempt to focus on the upside? 

At least I have more time to train!

Ya Mama

There was a bit of a Sunday afternoon rush when we stopped at the grocery on our way home from the movie yesterday. Even so, the checkout line moved quickly, and soon I was face-to-face with the cashier as she silently scanned our groceries. 

We had so much in our cart that the silence got a little awkward, so I tried to break the ice with my go-to cashier conversation starter. "Oof," I started. "Is it always so busy on Sundays?"

She nodded curtly.

"Well," I continued brightly, "this line is moving quickly, thanks to you."

She nodded again, scanned my beer, and asked for ID. As she glanced at my license, her eyes grew wide. "That's my mom's birthday, too!"

I laughed. "What year was she born?" 

"1963," she answered, "so a year after you."

I could feel the ice melting as she continued to bag our groceries, and I didn't want us to slip back into awkwardness. "Where was your mom born?" I asked.

"D.C.," she told me.

"Me, too!" I said. "What hospital?"

"George Washington, I think," she replied.

"Me, too!" I laughed, just as she placed the last bag in the cart. "Small world!"

"You all have a wonderful rest of your day," she smiled.

"Thank you!" I said. "And tell your mom I said hi!"

ISO Verbal Processing

We saw "You Can See Everything" this afternoon.

Please see it so we can discuss! 

P.S. You won't be sorry.

Some Years You Do

It's been a while since we pulled it together to decorate our outdoor space for Halloween. I'm sure you can imagine all the why-nots; even after I retired, a litany of obstacles, both real and imagined, kept me from committing to the couple of hours it takes.

Not so in 2026!

Behold the spookiness: