From the Esoteric to the Mundane

 Day 2 of this school year is in the books, and just 2 more days until a long weekend. 

That's right-- our calendar this year is a little silly. As I explained to the sixth graders today, "We have four days of school, and then five days off. Then we have three days of school and two days off. Then we have three days of school and one day off. Then we have one day of school and two days off. And then? We have five days of school!"

Their heads must have been swimming. "And don't even get me started on the block schedule!" I continued, but it was too late. "We have A, B, and C days. Yesterday was a C-A day, and today is a C-B day. Tomorrow is A and Thursday is B. When we get back next week, Wednesday is a C-A Day, Thursday is an A Day, and Friday is a B Day. There are no more C Days for 2 weeks, but the next one will be a C-B Day!"

Their eyes were glazed over.

"It's super confusing," I laughed, "but you know what is even crazier than this crazy schedule?"

They shook their heads. 

"In a couple weeks, we will all understand it completely!"

No Time for Drama

During the open house last week a student stopped me. He was an eighth grader, and one of our school "ambassadors", kids who are tapped to welcome and guide visitors during special occasions. He had a woman with him, and they were both a little turned around. "Do you know where the door to the parking lot is?" he asked.

"We don't have one anymore," I frowned.

"This lady says her husband dropped her off at Door 19, and she's supposed to meet him there right now."

The woman sighed and literally drummed her fingers on her crossed arms. "I just need to know where Door 19 is!"

The question threw me a bit, because even though it's been several years since our many outside doors were numbered for easier emergency management, I never really bothered to match the doors with their designations. 

"Isn't it in the gym?" the student said.

"I don't think so," I replied, vaguely recalling that those doors had single digit numbers. "But I do have a map of the building in my room right over here," I offered. "We could look at that."

"Just take me to the door," she said to the student, and off they went toward the gym. Back in my room, I checked the map and found that Door 19 was right down the hallway. 

A little later, I saw the 8th grader again. "Did you find the door?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said. "That lady said you were causing some drama, but I just ignored her."

"What drama?" I was confused.

"The whole map thing," he shrugged. "She just wanted to go."

"Well I guess it's a good thing she's gone, then," I said.

On Our Own

Heidi had a reunion in Pittsburgh this weekend, so Lucy, the cats, and I were solo. AND we did just fine, walking and cooking and cleaning and grooming and playing and so forth. BUT it must be said that we were all very happy when she got home this evening.

Children Get Older

In the spirit of Friday Night, I decided to look for a movie to watch when I collapsed on the couch at the end of mt first full week back from summer break. What I landed on was When We Last Spoke, a film that takes place in a small town in Texas in 1967 and follows the lives of two young sisters living with their grandparents because their dad is in Vietnam and their overwhelmed mom took off. Starring Melissa Gilbert and Corbin Berenson ad featuring Cloris Leachman in one of her last rolls, the movie seemed targeted at folks like me. 

And it was pretty good, if a little predictable-- that is once I got past Melissa Gilbert playing the grandma!

Angel

I got a chance to meet most of my homeroom at our annual open house. In past years, the event has usually drawn a little less than half the rising sixth graders; the kids have already visited the school in the spring, and families are often too busy or off enjoying their last days of summer. But COVID injected more of a sense of urgency into the tradition, and in addition to the high turnout for sixth grade, many seventh and eighth graders attended as well. 

The plan called for us to meet our students outside, direct their parents to a Q&A with the administration, and then bring the kids inside for a quick ice breaker and a tour of the building. The sun shined in my eyes as I held a piece of paper with my name above my head, and one by one, a group of eleven-year-olds formed around me. I recognized one or two from the outdated pictures in my gradebook, but I asked for all of them to introduce themselves.

One guy was wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a short-sleeved button down that was a size too small, and a clip-on tie that only made it to the fourth button. There was something about him that I like right away. "How many of you guys were virtual the whole time last year?" I asked, and when he raised his hand I realized that he was wearing his good school clothes from 4th grade. 

Back in the classroom, one of the other students was struggling with the icebreaker. "Are you stuck for ideas?" I asked her, but she told me in broken English that although she understood the directions, she didn't know how to write her answers in English. 

I wrote a few sentence stems on the board to help her, but I also told her she could write her answers in Spanish if she preferred. "I'll do my best to understand,"I smiled, "and if I don't get it, you and I will be the same!"

The guy in the tie waved his hand. "I speak Spanish!" he said. 

"Great!" I replied. "If I need help, I know who to ask!"

When it came time to reading the questions the students had turned, I saw that there were some in Spanish, so I walked over and handed my volunteer the papers. 

He looked panicked. "I said I could speak Spanish, I didn't say I could read it!"

"It's okay!" I reassured him. "I can try it."

But he insisted, and after a few minutes, and consulting with the other student, he did great!

And just like that? I was ready for the year to begin.

Beginning of the End?

Late yesterday afternoon a a group of six or eight people walked purposefully by my classroom door to the dead end just beyond. There they poked their heads into Heidi's new room and the room across from hers which has been occupied by our friend Laura since 1998, murmuring and taking measurements. As I watched through the inside windows, Heidi came through the door. "What are they doing in my classroom?" she asked with alarm.

Just then, the assistant principal passed by, and never one to be shy, she stepped into the hall and asked him the same question.

"You're killing me!" I heard her say. "I just moved in there!"

"It was always going to be for just one year," he said, which was news to her-- it's taken the whole week to get the place put together and ready for students.

"It's security," I heard him explain. "In most other schools you can't get into the building without going through the office."

It was only 5 or 6 years ago that they locked all the doors, and gave staff key cards to a few entrances. All visitors have to be buzzed in, but our building is a mixed use facility, and the main entrance opens onto a large lobby with a community theater on the left and a hallway that leads to the main office and school on the right. Evidently, that's too much space: people can get buzzed in and slip into the school, bypassing the office. 

My eyebrow is raised here, too-- wouldn't the buzzer be aware if the buzzee never made it to the office? Ideally, yes, but I also know how many honest distractions there are in any given school day. Practically speaking, in the absence of is a dedicated door monitor, making visitors enter into the office is the best way to keep track of them.

And so, the powers that be have decided that the best way to secure our school is to cut through brick to create a whole new entrance and move the main office right to where Heidi and Laura's classrooms are. And although it was not directly mentioned, I really don't think there's a plan that saves my classroom, either. 

A Shift

I spent part of the day going through one of the bookshelves in my classroom. After 28 years of teaching, I've assembled a pretty nice professional library, full of what once was cutting edge philosophy, advice, and strategies. But while I've added to my collection over the years, I've never taken the time to prune it, reviewing and tossing the books I no longer need or want. 

I filled a box with discards, and I had the sense that this is how it will be moving forward: relinquishment will take the place of acquisition, as I pare my professional possessions. Oh, my students will not suffer-- I have all that I need to make my classroom a comfortable and welcoming place, plus more! in the storage closet down the hall. And I will always provide the consumables that fuel learning-- school supplies and healthy snacks for the kids and chocolate for the adults.

One Thing I Know is True

Today was the second of three pre-service days entirely devoted to professional learning and meetings. I do appreciate the model our district has adopted over the past few years, one where staff can choose from many offerings (including those we have found or developed ourselves) and document the hours we spend learning to improve our practice. And yet, these days might be a little too unstructured for the likes of me; I am most productive with some specific direction and a firm deadline (which is why I always meet the requirements by the end of the year, although sometimes with a racing heart and a sweaty brow).

But perhaps the best lesson of all is being in the learner position for a while. Just as I acknowledge a preference for structure, I know many of my students have that, too. And my appreciation for choice and voice when learning is also pretty universal. There are specific experiences, too, that I recognize must inform my practice. For example, many, many times when I am asked on the spot, in the name of collaborative learning or reflection, to express my thoughts on a complex question, I feel unprepared and even unwilling to participate. 

In fact, I exited a Nearpod activity this morning when the interaction became too stressful, and I knew for a fact that the same thing had happened to some of my virtual students on several occasions last year. Drawing a blank in a situation that you feel is high stakes is not that uncommon.

And so, with that in mind, I made sure to look at the agenda for my next meeting, and when I saw another interactive experience planned, I considered the questions in advance, and attended the meeting prepared with some ideas. What I missed, though, was the icebreaker, and when I ducked into the group a couple of minutes late because a colleague had stopped me in the hall to ask some questions, my stomach siezed and my brain froze when I realized what was happening, and that the only seat left in the room put me third in line to compose an articulate response.

Of the three questions I could choose from, What brings you to the school? What did you read this summer? and What is something you hope for? I could only think of one thing. 

"I came to this school a while ago," I said. "because I wanted to be a teacher, and the principal offered me a job. I think it's worked out so far."

At least that thing was true.

And Counting

 Here's a story that I wish my mom could have read.

A former student, who is going into 8th grade, stopped by my room today to introduce me to their sister who will be in my class this year. Their mom is a colleague at our school, and so I was aware of the rising 6th grader, but it was still nice to meet her in person and also really great to see her older sister, who I hadn't met in person since we went out for COVID in 2020.

"I'm excited to work with you as a writer this year!" I told my future student. 

"Me too," she said, and then nudged her older sibling. "Tell her!" she urged, sotto voce.

"Oh, yeah," shrugged Bella. "Since the 100 Day challenge, I kept going. I haven't missed a day."

"She's on five hundred something!" her little sister boasted.

"Oh my gosh!" I said, stunned. "I can't believe it! You're the only one whose ever kept writing!"

"Except you," they said.

Wink, Wink

When I was 7, my dad and Dave, a friend of my parents, took my 5-year-old brother and me to Disneyland. This was the original park in California, (Disneyworld, in Orlando was still years away). We lived in New Jersey at the time, and although our family was of very modest means, my father worked for TWA, and so travel was a luxury we enjoyed all of our lives. 

My parents are both gone now, but I wish I could ask them why we went on that particular trip then. My sister was three, and I vaguely remember some talk about her being too young to enjoy the park, but I can't figure out why they decided that my dad should take us without her and my mom. A couple years later, we all did go on another California vacation that included Disneyland, but that first trip will have to remain a mystery.

And to be honest, I don't remember much about it. I sort of recall the excitement of being on the airplane, and as both a kid int the USA in 1969 and a faithful viewer of The Wonderful World of Disney each Sunday Night, I just knew we were going to have an amazing time. But of the actual time spent in the Magic Kingdom, I vaguely recall the Mad Hatter's Teacups, Captain Hook's boat, It's a Small World, Pirates of the Caribbean, and the Flying Dumbos. I kind of remember seeing the Matterhorn, the Monorail, and the cablecars, but the one ride that really made an impression on me was the Jungle Cruise.

The red and white striped canopy of the boats, the sway of the gangplank as we boarded the boats and took our seats, the safari uniform of the guides, and the animatronic animals and "natives" are still very clear to me. Maybe it was because even at the age of seven I could get the jokey sarcasm of the "captain" as he narrated our tour down the river. Perhaps, for the first time in my young life I felt like I was part of the grown up crowd who laughed not at the jokes, but at how corny they were. 

In any case, you can imagine my interest, 52 years later, when I heard that Disney was making a live-action movie based on the ride and starring Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson and Emily Blunt. For a moment I could even smell the chlorine of the fake river and see the gaping maw of the hippo that the captain must always, always shoot with his pistol. How could anything billed as a cross between The African Queen and Raiders of the Lost Ark go wrong? And so on the first Saturday night of the school year, I suggested we check it out.

And... it was fine. Likable actors usually make likable movies, but it was merely a playful, tongue-in-cheek shadow of both the movies it was compared to, completely missing their spark and magic. And somehow? I think they knew that, just as they have down at the Jungle Cruise since 1955.

But for the Grace of God

As I approached the gate to leave our community garden early this evening, I noticed a gentleman standing on the sidewalk near the fence. He seemed to be depositing some sort of trash on the narrow strip of grass between the two, and I waited for him to finish before I exited, because I had a big box that I wanted to drop there, too. 

When he saw me waiting, he hastily concluded his business, although he did pause at the fence a little further down the walk way. My attention was drawn to him then, and although we have a large community and I don't know all my fellow gardeners by sight (especially with the COVID restrictions of the last two seasons), it seemed to me that he was not a member. 

He carried two grocery bags, one plastic and the other canvas, and I saw that he was filling them with whatever vegetables he could glean from the trash or pick through the fence. I considered my own bag, then, with a quart of cherry tomatoes and a half-dozen or more heirloom tomatoes, too, as well as the squash, beans, and pumpkins I had left in my plot for another day. 

And as I lifted my head to call to him, a metro bus pulled up, and he pulled up his mask, shouldered his bags, and was gone.

Off Again On Again

The brain is a funny thing: so strong, yet so easily affected by circumstances and situations

A few weeks ago, my brother and I were talking seasonings: comparing our own blends of herbs and aromatics and discussing some of our store-bought favorites. "You know what mix from Penzey's I really like?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, waiting for me to answer my clearly rhetorical question, but my mind had suddenly gone blank.

"Neither do I!" I finally admitted, and we had a good laugh at the expense of my senior moment.

Today, I was in a meeting with some other English teachers talking about the new standards-based grading that our school is transitioning to. We were brainstorming assessments we could use to make sure the students have enough opportunities to demonstrate mastery and discussing how the two language arts classes, reading and English, might fit in the big picture. 

"Maybe we should combine the results and give just one overall ELA grade," I said. "That kind of makes more sense since both classes are assessing the same standards, right?"

"Let me look into it," our department chair responded, thoughtfully. "I never thought of that."

"Neither did I!" I said. "Until right now."

Repurposed

When I checked out my classroom for the first time this school year, I was genuinely pleased to see that those vintage trapezoid tables had returned. By my reckoning, they are original to the building, circa 1971, but they have been in my possession since 1993. Already 22 years old when I got them, at 50? They have been with me much longer than that, but last year, COVID social distancing requirements meant every classroom was equipped with single-seat desks, and I had to trust that the trapezoids were in safe storage.

There was something missing from my room, though. An abandoned typing desk that I adopted many years ago to provide a little technology dogleg to my teacher desk must have been moved out with the student desks. To be honest, I was a little at a loss for how to finish setting up my room without that small but crucial surface, and so once the bookshelves were moved (Teflon sliders!) and the tables and chairs were placed in their customary positions, I started a treasure hunt through the building.

Along the way, I began to feel like the little red hen, but in reverse. Everyone I asked was kindly willing to help me find my table, and by the time I ended my search, I was surrounded by 3 custodians, the director of facilities, and my sister-in-law the art teacher, all offering solutions to my dilemma. When the head custodian wasn't quite sure what piece of furniture I was looking for, the facility director tried to describe it to him. "Ms. S is old school, like me," he said. "She wants a table like they used to put typewriters on,  long, long time before they had computers"

The other guy looked blankly at him. "What for?" he asked.

"For her computer!" his boss told him.

An hour later? They brought a table to my room.

Say What You Want

When I was a kid there a lot of games whose very names were warnings: Don't Break the Ice! Don't Spill the Beans! and even Kerplunk! whose premise was not to let the marbles fall. I never really liked those games; the fact that nobody actually won because somebody lost, was not fun, and trying not to do what the rules directed was very stressful.

As a teacher, I learned back in grad school to phrase directions positively. For example, rather than tell students not to be late, it's more effective to remind them to be on time. That construction takes the whole idea of tardiness out of the conversation. Likewise, stop talking becomes please listen quietly, and so on. We remove even the thought of what we don't want and focus on what we do.

I thought of that today in my garden as I chose to shell the beans there and compost the husks right away. It was an exercise in mindfulness as I stood in my windswept plot under swirling skies with only the goldfinches for company and strung and split each pod, emptying the beans into a pint container I set on the little storage unit by the compost bin. More than once I knocked the square bin with my wrist, threatening to tip it over and into the top of the shed. 

"Don't-- !" I warned myself, and then paused and reframed my thinking. "Keep the beans in there!" I encouraged myself. And you know what? With the exception of a few errant legumes, which I quickly retrieved, I did it!

Not Gonna Lie

After 18 months of COVID chaos, going to school in-person, five days a week? Will be a tough adjustment.

Fortunately? With holidays and what-not, that won't happen until the week of September 20, three full weeks after the start of school.

So, maybe I'll be more ready then.

Nah.

My Kind of Party

It was a bit of a drive to get out there, but the invitation to wish Victor well on the eve of his departure for Iceland as well as celebrate his partner Emily's birthday was impossible to turn down, and Emily's parents were generously hosting the party on their farm in PG County.

There were steamed crabs that our host had caught the day before on the table when we walked in, and our hostess brought us seltzer water garnished with frozen blueberries to go along. As we picked the crabs, fresh salsa made from homegrown tomatoes, roasted summer squash from the garden, pears from the orchard, and a wheel of brie made an appearance. 

Later, as our hosts grilled local lamb and potatoes and okra to accompany the fresh green bean and potato salad, watermelon and feta, and orzo with fresh pesto, we were invited out to the blueberry patch to pick and chat among ourselves. After that fine meal, plenty of conversation, and a dessert of fudge-oatmeal bars and blueberry cake, we said goodnight, but not before we were handed a bag with our fresh-picked blueberries, and cantaloup, summer squash, and tomatoes.

Dread Days of August

I know I should be savoring these last days of my summer vacation, but it's tough. There was a meme going around a few years ago that went something like For teachers, the month of August is just one long Sunday night. It is sort of true; along with the excitement of a new year, there is a little sorrow at saying good bye to sleeping late and being productive in entirely different ways.

This year, of course, there is also apprehension around COVID and how it continues to impact our lives and routines. In fact, a recently retired friend emailed me the other day, subject line: A new word for your vocabulary. The word was paraskevidekatriphobia, or fear of Friday the 13th. 

Rather than boast that I already knew the word, I replied instead This year? I'm more afraid of Thursday the 19th!

And she reassured me that, like Friday the 13th, 2021 only has one Thursday the 19th, too.

The Wave

For 15 years or so, our second car was a Jeep Wrangler. Really, the navy blue soft-top with flower magnets all over it was Heidi's car; she always wanted a Jeep, and although we used it sparingly, it was fun when we put the top down, turned the radio up, and blasted around town. Heidi did most of the driving, which was fine, because whenever I drove? I could never remember to do the Jeep wave.

For those who are unfamiliar, the Jeep wave is a real thing. Whenever one Jeep passes another, the drivers acknowledge each other, usually by nothing more than lifting the fingers of their right hand off the steering wheel. Now that you know, look around, you'll see Jeep drivers waving everywhere. But that didn't happen much when I was the driver, despite Heidi's frequent reminders. Half the time I don't think it even registered with me that I was driving a Jeep, much less notice other Jeeps coming my way.

No, I am a Subaru driver; I have been for the last 20 years, and I do actually notice other Subarus on the road. Back when we still had the Jeep, I used to tell Heidi that I was going to start a Subaru wave, because after all? Subarus are equally cool, right?

We revisited that conversation this afternoon as we rolled out of our complex in our Subaru to do a few errands. At the bottom of the hill we passed some neighbors returning home in their own Outback, and I waved as they passed. 

"Was that the Subaru wave?" Heidi asked.

"No," I answered, "it was Mike and Charlene."

"Is there a Subaru wave?" Heidi responded.

"No," I told her. "Remember? I was going to start one."

"That's right!" She laughed. "What was that going to look like again?"

"Something like," I rolled my right wrist forward three or four times, "Whoop dee doo for my Subaru!"

Heidi laughed again. "That's pretty good."

"I can't take credit for the slogan," I said. "Don't you remember that old commercial?"

She did not, and so when we stopped for gas, I googled it. Midas Mufflers, 1978: they were offering the same guarantee for "foreign cars" as they did for American cars, and the owners of these alien vehicles cheered. 

It's a great day for my Datsun.

a triumph for my Triumph

a victory for my Volvo

and of course the old lady in white gloves and hat who brings it home at the end

Whoop dee doo for my Subaru!

Hard Questions

We have been more careful since the emergence of the delta variant. Masks that we so blithely tossed aside in June are back in all our bags and pockets. And as I make my way about in the world (because I haven't returned to deliveries, yet) I notice who is wearing a mask, who is not, and where they are required again. 

Despite the governor's mandate for universal masking in schools, it seems like a foregone conclusion that most of us will be exposed and infected. Just tonight, a close friend and neighbor told us that she had been exposed through a co-worker. Her rapid test came back negative, but her experience reinforced the cold truth that unless we are willing to go back to hardcore social-distancing, how can we possibly expect to avoid infection?

Mighty Mites

Many reports of worse than usual mosquito bites have prompted some investigative journalism in these parts. A hyper-local web-based news outlet broke the theory that we are being plagued (YES! Another plague!) by oak mites, tiny, invisible insects who feed on cicada eggs and whose population is booming due to the emergence of Brood X.

When they fall, or are blown about in the hot, summer breeze, they bite! And those bites can trigger a vicious reaction-- welts and even bruises in some. I couldn't tell you the last time I had a mosquito bite; it's hard to say if I/m not bitten, or I don't have a reaction, but the same cannot be said about these oak mites. I have a bunch of itchy spots on my stomach and legs.

Our neighbor has had it much worse, though. Before the story broke, she went to urgent care at the end of July because of the bruises and itching she was suffering. "I'm not even walking around the neighborhood until snows!" she told us the other day.

"You'll miss the Halloween and Christmas lights," I reminded her, knowing how much she loves those.

"Okay!" she recanted, "until the first frost!"

That *mite* do it.

Things as they Are

Things seemed to be looking up back in June, when school was ending and summer was starting. Oh sure, there were warnings about the Delta variant and the delay in the vaccine for kids younger than 12, but still... there were also blue skies and a couple of months to get it all sorted out. I crossed my fingers for a full, maskless reopening. 

One of our big summer plans was to return to seeing movies on the big screen, but at first we were traveling, and then there wasn't much to see, and then most recently, theaters didn't seem quite as safe or fun as they did a couple of months ago. So last night, we paid to watch Black Widow on TV (which compared to the screens we had growing up, is pretty big), and it was a really good summer movie: fun and funny with lots of action and girl power. 

But, spoiler alert: Natasha Romanoff is still dead, and recent guidance from the school system has made it clear that masks are still required, and we won't be going to the movies anytime soon.

Boomers

Unspeakably hot and humid daytime weather subsides to high winds, drenching rain, and thunder and lightning each early evening.

Hello August.

Starbells

Heidi has been teaching a free water aerobics course every Tuesday and Thursday evening up at our community pool this summer for the neighbors. Never one to half-ass anything, her days have been filled with making playlists, finding exercises, trying them out, and organizing them into routines. My role has been supportive spouse, making suggestions for 70s songs, driving to find pool noodles, and trying out a few of the more confusing moves in the pool to see if and where they fit in the workout. 

Today I stepped up my support: when Heidi wanted water dumb bells for some variety in the arm work, I came up with a design that was cheap and easy. A quick trip to the big box home improvement store for a couple more noodles (of the star-shaped variety), 20 feet of 3/4 inch PVC piping, and a little pipe-cutter, and 15 bucks later, we had all the makings for 20 little starbells. 

I assembled 4 to audition at the pool, but on the way up a couple of rumbles of thunder put the kibosh on that part of the plan. They are super cute, though, if I do say so myself.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

"I haven't driven since we've been here," Heidi said as she slid into the driver's seat for the first leg of our trip home yesterday. "You'll have to tell me how to go."

"You know the way," I reassured her. "It's left at the end of the driveway,  around the bend by the beach, past the F*ck Biden flag, over the railroad tracks, and a left again at the chicken coop."

She nodded, and we waved good-bye to northwestern Vermont.

Pit Stop

It's a ways from Vermont to Virginia, a couple of stops to stretch and pee at least. Usually we play it by ear, stopping when the stopping seems good, but today? A day in August when the most direct route was through New Jersey? Our last stop was planned. Before we left Vermont, I found a farm stand not far off the Turnpike and close to our childhood home in Burlington County, that promised Jersey peaches. 

And I felt more than a little thrill when at last we reached Exit 5 and we headed off into the farmlands of the Garden State. Arriving at our destination 20 minutes later, I was genuinely surprised to find a very commercialized operation, complete with petting zoo and hay rides. The farm stand was more of a gift shop with produce, but they did have softball-sized peaches from their own orchard, just like the ones we used to pick with my mom, and local corn and blueberries, too.

The place was run by teenagers, most of them updated versions of the kids I knew when I lived here. A surly-sassy-spacy girl, who was almost a ringer for my best friend Nicci, waved me toward the restroom with exasperated (and totally wrong) directions, and a friendly blond girl was my cashier.

"Have you had a good day so far?" she asked while packing my produce in cheerful yellow plastic bags.

Feeling a little road-weary, I hesitated. It had been seven hours since we rolled away from Lake Champlain, and we still had three hours to go. "Yes," I answered, and then uncharacteristically elaborated. "I just drove here from Vermont," I said. "I was on vacation there," I explained, "but I'm on the way to Virginia."

Her eyes widened a bit as I continued. "I grew up in New Jersey," I shrugged, "and I had to stop for peaches."

"Wow," she said. "Where did you grow up?" I told her, and she nodded. 

"But you couldn't resist the peaches? You just had to stop?" She smiled, but I could tell she didn't get it.

Eh? Give it 40 years. 

Local Sports

As we drove along the Trout River yesterday and through the towns of Enosburg Falls, Montgomery, and Montgomery Center, we noticed yard signs in front of a lot of the houses and businesses we passed. Contrary to the divisive messages that so many of those signs broadcast lately, all of these had a unified focus. "Go for the Gold Elle!" they cheered.

A little research informed us that, a hometown girl, Elle Purrier-St. Pierre had qualified for the finals of the women's 1500 meter race. Furthermore, we learned, she would be in the blocks when the starting shot fired at 8:50 this morning.

It's been a bit a challenge keeping up with the Olympics here in Northern Vermont. The only broadcast TV our rented house gets is from Canada, which is only 10 miles away. Watching the Canadian coverage of the games has been refreshingly low key and without the laser focus on American athletes that NBC shills to US viewers. This morning, though, we wanted to root for Elle along with our neighbors up here, but since the Canadian women were playing for gold in soccer, there was no way that race was going to be on. So we rigged up a picture-in-picture kind of a set up, streaming the race on my laptop, while the Canadians and Swedes battled it out on TV.

Elle finished a disappointing tenth, at 4:01 flat, well slower than her personal best, but it was still fun to support her. Since she so far off the podium, NBC did not provide an after-race interview, and we turned our attention to the soccer match. What a nail-biter it was! Going past double overtime into a shootout and then sudden death? My heart was in my throat every time Stephanie Labbe stepped into the goal. And when she made that save, setting up Julia Grosso's game winning shot? Well! 

In the words of the Canadian Tire commercial we've seen a million times this week? 

We all play for Canada.

Pilgrimage to Dog Mountain

The destination was 80 miles a way, but in northern Vermont? That's over 2 hours. Still... it was Dog Mountain. And so we em*bark*ed on our journey, the fastest route of which was literally on winding country roads, across covered bridges, through tiny New England towns, over mountains on dirt and gravel roads, and up I-91, the majority of it without cell service.

Located on 150 acres on a private mountaintop spot, Dog Mountain is the former home of artist Stephen Huneck and the location of a gallery devoted to his work, as well as a giant off-leash dog park with trails and ponds, and THE Dog Chapel. 

Huneck built the classic Vermont-style chapel in 2000 and furnished it with dog-ended pews and stained glass. From the time it was opened, he invited visitors to add a picture and some words of tribute to honor the dogs they had lost. When we entered today, the walls were layered with thousands of remembrances, 

and we left, there was one more, a watercolor that Emily did of Sonic and Isabel.

Nature Dog

After three breezy days of choppy water, Lake Champlain was like glass this afternoon. The reflection of the sky on the oh-so-gentle ripples had me shucking my sneakers and cargo shorts in exchange for water shoes, gym shorts, a tank top, and of course, a kayak. 

While Heidi tossed a tennis ball and stick into the lake for the dogs, I paddled smoothly around the little inlet on the shore of our lake house. Any time I ventured past the dock, though, Lucy felt it was her canine duty to swim out and fetch me back. Eventually, with a little encouragement and a lot of treats, we got Lucy into the kayak, so that she and I could explore a little deeper water together.

It was hard to tell if she was actually enjoying the ride; she bailed out of the kayak more than a few times, but for a first attempt, I'd call it a success. And after the off-leash hiking yesterday and the kayaking today, Lucy has become quite the outdoorsdog, which naturally?

Pleases me greatly.

The Spirit Moves

Another day, another scramble through hardwoods, conifers, and over granite to make my way up a New England mountain with an expansive view. Today it was Eagle Mountain, the highest point overlooking Lake Champlain. 

It's been five years since my last summer sojourn up north, and I had almost (almost!) forgotten how much I love this terrain. I used to think that if I lived up here I would hike the mountains at least three times a week because I enjoyed it so much, but years away had me convinced that such a plan was only the result of young legs and fond memories. 

Today, a local hiker at the trail head let us know that dogs did not have to be on leash, and so Bill, Emily, Heidi, Lucy, Rosie, and I set off through grassy meadows. The sun was shining and the dogs ran up the trail and back to check in, excited by all the new sights and smells. Huge granite outcroppings and a variety of ferns defended the trail as we entered the woods and began a steeper climb to the summit. there was no view at the top, but a short path down and to the west led us to the edge of a drop-off and an open vista of the sun shining on Champlain and its islands.

We followed a loop back to the fork where we had entered the woods, and the blue sky and wide lane tumbling gently back to the parking lot were just irresistible, so even on these old legs?

I had to run.

Fearless

 Our Vermont adventures took us to Stowe today. After searching somewhat unsuccessfully for a lovely lunch spot and poking around the quaint village, we headed up Mountain Road past the turn off for the Von Trapp Family Lodge to Stowe Mountain Resort. There we pulled up to the booth to pay our way up the auto toll road to the highest point in Vermont, Mount Mansfield. As we idled at the foot of a very steep hill, a young man in a red polo, safari hat, and a name tag reading Paul ambled over to the passenger side of the car. 

"Have you all been her before?" he asked.

"No!" we answered enthusiastically.

"Welcome!" he replied. "It's 4 1/2 miles to the top, and another 3 mile hike to the summit, but you'll have 360 degree views about 10 minutes up the trail. Cars coming down the mountain have the right of way. Do you know how to put your car in low gear?"

"Um, I think so?" I said.

He smiled. "You think so? Or you do? Or you don't?" he laughed.

"How do I do it?" I asked.

"Pull the shift down to Drive and over to the left where it says M" he instructed, "then you have to use the paddles."

The paddles I knew. "These, right?" I flipped the levers on my steering wheel with my fingers.

"Right!" he smiled again. "Use 1 or 2 on your way down, instead of riding your brakes." 

After paying our toll, we started up the mountain. The road was steep, and my ears popped even before the pavement subsided to gravel a quarter of a mile up. After that, the grade was steep and the hairpin turns were harrowing, especially when we met another car coming down. My passengers, Bill, Emily, and Heidi were kind of white-knuckling it; without having to focus strictly on the road ahead, they could see the drop-offs and other hazards to either side. But I was unfazed, keeping an even foot on the gas and warily watching for oncoming traffic.

The trip to the top was worth the toll and the trouble: the views of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks to the west and the Green Mountains to the east were stunning. The trip down, in low gear, was a bit grating, but we all agreed that timing our visit for late enough in the day that there was no upward traffic was a brilliant accident.

Later, at the house, when we told our guests about the day, my brother said, "Tracey is the bravest driver I know!"

"Thanks," I replied, "but bravery is when you're afraid of something and you do it anyway." I shrugged.  I wasn't really afraid today. Maybe that makes me foolish."

"Tracey is the bravest fool I know," he corrected himself, and we all laughed, but I think there may be more truth in that than I care to believe.

C & C Part 12

This story could never be complete without mention of Debbie and Louise, the founders of the company, but now that I've reached the end, it's hard to know what to say about them. They were in their thirties when they opened the shop. Debbie was a few years younger; tall and willowy she had the reputation as the "pretty one" and "the nice one," but she could be rigid and bitchy when she needed to or had a bad day. Louise was the dynamo behind the company's success. She had a loud, outsized persona, and with a booming southern accent and an iron will, she was the incarnation of a steel magnolia. 

Because she was so volatile and exacting, the mood in the kitchen would tense immediately whenever she came down from the office. It was impossible to predict if she would ignore you, praise you, or tear you a new one. Louise was a study in opposites: stingy and generous, belittling and supportive, relaxed and stressed, you never knew who you were going to get. But she was always, always confident; whichever Louise you were dealing with, she was committed to her position, 100 percent.

And, for some reason? Louise really liked me. When I quit to move up to DC, she took me and my sister and girlfriend out to dinner at the hot new restaurant in town. "Taste this," she pushed her appetizer toward me, "what do you think is in it?" When I told her, she clapped and said, "I think you're right!" Later that evening, she gave me a huge, beautiful copper skillet, made in France. It must have been worth over a hundred bucks in 1989 money.

A few months ago, my sister and I were talking and the topic of our days in the catering/cafe business came up. I did a quick Google search, found a recent picture of Louise, and texted it to my sister. "Oh," she said, "Louise is an old lady now."

Proof that it happens to everyone, in case there was any doubt.