Crazy Odds, Part 2

The shadows were getting a bit long when we pulled into Brevard, NC around 5:30 PM. Situated at 2,225 feet above sea level, the town of 7,775 is the seat of Transylvania County in the Carolina Blue Ridge Mountains. We were there for the white squirrels and their accompanying swag, but it was Sunday Night, and most of the merchants of Brevard had already rolled up their sidewalks. 

There were a few establishments open for business, though, and when we entered one of them a little after 6, I replied to the friendly greeting the clerk gave me with a terse, "When do you close?"

He laughed it off. "I'll be open for at least another 30 minutes," he said, and then waving to the sidewalk displays outside, he added," I won't even start bringing that stuff in for another half hour, so take your time."

I thanked him, but before I could follow Heidi deeper into the shop, he asked, "What brings you all to Brevard?"

"We're just passing through," I started, and then, in a quite uncharacteristic way, I filled him in on the fact that we were from the Washington area and we saw a white squirrel, so I researched them and found out about the colony in Brevard, then we were visiting my sister in Atlanta and decided to stop in Asheville on the trip back, so how could I not stop in Brevard?

He nodded politely, and when I was done he said, "My sister lives in D.C. and she has a white squirrel that she feeds. Are they common up there?"

"I don't think so," I replied. "I've never seen one before. Has your sister seen many?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "It's kind of a long story," he told me. "I've never met her before. We just connected over a DNA test."

I nodded. "And white squirrels, I guess."

"Yeah, those, too," he said, and then he started in on the flying squirrels he and his wife have at their home outside of town.

Crazy Odds, Part 1

In addition to that statue of Grant we saw on our walk around the National Mall last week, we also saw this:

A white squirrel!

The sight was so unexpected that of course, I had to do some research on the phenomena. It turns out that there are two types of white squirrels in North America, albino and leucistic. Albinism is a congenital lack of pigment in eyes, fur, and skin, and leucism is a condition of partial loss of pigmentation, and never in the eyes.

Ours was clearly albino, its eyes were pink. Albino squirrels are exceptionally rare, occurring 1 or fewer times in 100,000 births, but my research revealed that there are several places across the U.S. known for their robust colonies of white squirrels, most of which are leucistic.

Coincidentally, one of these towns famous for its white squirrel population is Brevard, N.C.-- a community right on the way from Atlanta to Asheville, a route we planned to take on the way home from our visit with my sister. No question, we had to stop!

Change of Clothes

Never mind the Halloween displays in all the stores here in Atlanta, Even though school starts Tuesday, it is still July, and it was 94 degrees today. But the blazing heat and humidity didn’t stop a group of young people standing on the corner across from the mall from wearing their North Face down jackets. 

“Kids are so weird,” Heidi shook her head as we drove past. 

No question. 

Not Just Any Will Do

"Maybe you could call him Dithers," I suggested to my sister about the new 10-week-old kitten they had adopted, who was nameless after several days in the house. The family has a bit of a history of taking their time when it comes to naming their pets.

"I would want it to be Mr. Dithers," she laughed. “Plus, we’re the ditherers, not him.”

This fortunate little guy came with the name of Lucky Charms, (all of his litter was named after cereal by the rescue organization), but despite its accuracy, we all agreed that Lucky was not his *real* name. Over the week that he's been here, he has shown himself to be compliant, never missing the litter box once, brave, exploring the house fearlessly on his own, smart and resourceful, avoiding the three dogs that just want to put his head in their mouths, and agile, leaping straight up toward the ceiling to catch the flashing stars. 

It is also clear that he is curious, calm, and affectionate-- practically a perfect kitten. No wonder it's so hard to find the name that matches!

Vacation Alliteration

On our first day in Atlanta, my sister took a break from work and she, Heidi, and I headed over to Ponce City Market for lunch. Since many of the restaurants have pretty, little shaded outdoor dining areas, we loaded Lucy into the car, too. There we enjoyed some yummy seafood sammies from Fishcamp. 

How lovely being ladies of leisure who lunch on Lobster with Lucy!

Detour

Midway through South Carolina, and about two-thirds of the way to Atlanta, the traffic slowed to stop-and-go. A sign flashed informing us that all lanes were closed about 10 miles ahead, so we bailed. Using our phones and car GPS, we navigated west through Greenville, into the picturesque little town of Easley, and on to Liberty. Then it was south on SC 178, a two-lane road shimmering with the last heat of the day. We rolled past the Slabtown Masonic Lodge, some pretty horse farms, and a sundry other rural sights, including signs for moonshine and goat milk.

It was a pretty drive, sullied only by the several stars and bars archaically waving along the way. "Who even thinks that's a good idea?" asked Heidi, shaking her head. "And why?"

Skills!

"Is that Grant?" I asked as the five of us walked around the reflecting pool at the Capitol. I was talking about the huge statue of a man on his horse. A moment later I laughed and pointed at the inscription etched in the marble base: GRANT. "So it says."

"I'm really more interested in the horse," I explained. "Grant's favorite horse, Cincinnati, was a son of Lexington, the fastest racehorse in the 1800s and then the best stud for 16 years in a row, a record that still stands today." 

From there I told the group, consisting of Heidi and our teacher-buddies, Matt and Mary, about the novel Horse, by Geraldine Brooks, a book my brother recommended to me and with which I was nearly finished. 

"The skeleton of Lexington was on display right there," I pointed to the Natural History Museum, "until he was forgotten, and it was literally moved to the attic." We regarded the domed building, and I examined the roofline with renewed interest wondering exactly where the attic might be.

"Don't worry," I reassured them, "it's on permanent loan now to the International Museum of the Horse in, wait for it... Lexington!" I finished with a flourish.

"Look at you making connections," Mary said. "What a good reader!"

Why Not?

"What's this, Babe?" Heidi asked as she gestured to 64 the torn pages scattered over the dining room table.

Surely I have one of the world's most indulgent spouses! Just the other day, I whirled my swivel chair around and noticed one of the REALLY hard puzzle books my older nephews gave me for my birthday a few years ago, and 

it.
was.
on!

This particular book has you tearing out pages, forming 4-foot by 6-foot paper grids on your table or floor in an attempt to decipher the nearly 100 rebus puzzle only to then stand on a step ladder (my strategy) and look down on your work to decipher one 6-8 letter word.

Oh, it is a wicked (and fun) pursuit that leaves your workspace (in this case our dining room and living room) trashed, as you use your wits, pencils, highlighters, and tape to solve the 10 puzzles that make up The Librarian's Almanaq. 

"It's one of the puzzle books the boys gave me," I said, studying the four images on the page in my hand.

She nodded. "Let me know if you need any help."

An Unexpected Reunion

When the doorbell rang around noon today, Heidi and I looked at each other. "Who could that be?" she said.

"You answer it!" I replied over Lucy's barking.

Heidi put Lucy in her place and headed to the door. I listened intently from my chair as she opened it, invisible to whoever might be out there. "Is it Heidi?" a woman's voice asked. "You might not remember us, but we used to live right over there. We're Jennie and Matt and Kelsey."

I jumped up and joined Heidi at the door. The people standing there had been our across-the-way neighbors when we first moved in here back in 1999. They had put their place on the market and moved down to southwestern Virginia shortly after the attacks on September 11, 2001, and we hadn't seen them for over 20 years.

I can't explain the elation I felt, but the hugs we gave each other were heartfelt and lingering. We had never been particularly close, but they were kind and friendly neighbors. Jennie and Matt used to hang out on their patio, which faced our front door, and we would chat often as we came and went. Once when Heidi's parents came for Thanksgiving, they stayed over there because Jennie and Matt were out of town for the holiday. "I still have that star-shaped basket your mom left with all the thank-you goodies in it," Jennie told us.

"That's where that came from?" asked Matt.

Back then Kelsey had been a toddler, and we watched her a couple of times. Now the 26-year-old woman standing in our hallway asked if we still had the magnetic marble run on our fridge. "It's at school!" I laughed as her mom explained that she had looked all over for one because Kelsey had liked ours so much. 

For some reason, I am often reminded of the image of their cute little calico kitten sitting in the front window meowing at me. I'm usually pretty good with names, but for the life of me, I have not been able to remember that cat's. It is exceedingly vexatious whenever I think about it, like an itch I can't scratch.

When Kelsey stooped down to pet Tibby, I took my opportunity. "Her name was Briar," Jennie told me.

Their place has turned over at least six times since they left, and is worth more than double what they sold it for. "They were worried we wouldn't be able to sell it at all after 9-11," Kelsey told me as we stood outside waiting for the others to join us for a group photo. She looked around and sighed. "I do remember it here a little bit," she said. "It's so peaceful and pretty." She smiled. "I'm so glad y'all are still here."

"Me, too," I said. "Me, too."

Summer Camp

There was a bit of frustration on the pickleball court with our friends this afternoon as Heidi, AJ, and I hit several winners. "You guys didn't get to do Pickleball Camp," I laughed, referencing the week the three of us spent our mornings on the court.

Later, as little Olivia's eyelids drooped and she staggered to her stroller after spending an hour with Heidi in the pool for the third consecutive day, her parents shook their heads. "Girl!" her daddy said, "You have to toughen up if you want to stay in Camp Heidi!"

It's Been a Good Day

I was pink-cheeked and sweaty as I approached the final uphill of my journey. After an hour and a half at the garden, I was carrying a bag of bounty on the last leg of the walk home when a neighbor hailed me with a swatting gesture.

I knew right away that he was asking if I'd been on the pickleball court, and I shook my head no and pointed to the bag on my shoulder. "I've been at the garden," I shrugged. "But we did play pickleball earlier."

"What's coming in now?" he asked, and I was only too happy to tell him about the eggplant, tomatoes, peppers, and okra I was carrying.

"Do you walk up there?" he asked, and when I nodded he answered, "Nice," with just a bit of a wistful sigh.

"I've been staring at a screen all day," he told me.

I regarded myself, tanned and happy, and considered the events of my day, baking bread, playing pickleball, gardening, then I smiled sympathetically and offered him a couple of tomatoes and the promise of a pickleball game tomorrow.

100% Homemade

I make a sensational summer tomato sauce, if I do say so, myself! Based on a recipe from the now-defunct pizzeria Gaffiato, it calls for a combination of chopped tomatoes and cherry tomatoes, along with shaved shallots and garlic sauteed in a big glug of olive oil, and a sprinkle of salt, some fresh basil, and rosemary. Although I make it year-round with canned and store-bought tomatoes, not surprisingly, it is at its peak of zesty perfection when prepared with fresh, sun-ripened ingredients. 

Over the years, I've intentionally cultivated more cherry tomatoes in our garden than we can put in a salad or eat out of hand for just this recipe, and it's a perfect way to use the imperfect tomatoes I can never bear to throw away. I grow my own basil and rosemary as well, so I always liked to consider this sauce as homemade as possible. 

Even so, it occurred to me last summer that I could be growing my own shallots and garlic, too, and this sauce was my motivation to plant those alliums last fall. Regular readers may recall that I have had a bumper crop of both shallots and garlic, and they are at last stored nicely, waiting to be used. And now? The tomatoes have finally come in, and this morning I was able to make my first batch of sauce all homegrown vegetables and herbs.

Perhaps I'm biased, but the results were amazing, and ever so satisfying to this kitchen-gardener. Tangy, balanced, fresh, and sweet, the sauce is like summer on a spoon.

So now? I'm wondering where to put that olive tree and seawater evaporator.

Byways

Knowing we would hit the Beltway right around 5 PM, I made an executive decision to override the map app and go rogue. "I just know we're going to get on I-70 and watch the time keep creeping up," I told Heidi as I took exit 3B and headed south to Berkeley Springs. "I hate being in stop-and-go traffic at the end of a long trip." 

Just then the traffic ahead of us slowed to a halt, and the map app insisted that we make a U-turn. I held my ground though, crossing over the C&O Canal, and 15 minutes later we rolled past the familiar sites of Maria's Garden, The Cat Cafe, the Star Theater, and the old bathhouse and pool. Then it was Tony's Butcher Block, Midway Bowl, and Capacon State Park, and clear roads through the mountains all the way to Winchester.

Our ETA stayed stable at 6:12 all the way through the horse-country towns of Delaplain and Marshall until we hit I-66, where our arrival time ping-ponged up and down by 20 minutes every few miles or so. When we were offered the option of getting on the Beltway, I resisted again and drove straight into town. We hit one more backup, but by then we were almost home, and we knew the shortcuts to take.

Pulling into our parking space at 6:08, I considered all the ground we had covered on our 400-mile journey from north to south, and grateful for our safe arrival, opened the back hatch and started unloading the car.

Every Walk a New Adventure

You might think that these quiet, tree-lined suburban streets would be calm and uneventful for more urban dog walkers like ourselves, but you would be wrong. The curving sidewalks that pass by neatly mowed lawns and cookie-cutter houses are full of hazards and distractions. 

Bunnies and squirrels of course, but we have also encountered a mother deer and her still-spotted twin fawns. In addition, the fences conceal dogs who run along and bark ferociously, triggering an equal reaction in Heidi’s folks’ dog, Briggs, every time. 

This morning an off-leash dog bounded out of his garage and straight at me and Heidi and Lucy, his owner bellowing to no avail for him to return. A big pittie, he didn’t seem aggressive, but we couldn’t really tell in the moment. Heidi and I shouted “No!” And Lucy danced in a circle on her leash as he neared us, and then circled back to his owner. No harm done, but our hearts were pounding as we continued on.

By far the most perilous jeopardy we encountered was the stray tennis ball on someone’s lawn; Lucy spotted it first and nearly dragged me down straining to retrieve it. A few houses down, I saw another one, but fortunately? I was ready, and Lucy missed it, and so our walk continued on without further happenstance.

Nothing but Cake?

Some say the spirits of your loved ones are with you whenever you are reminded of them. If that’s the case, my mom has been with Heidi all weekend. 

When we were in Rochester, MN 4 years ago for my mom’s treatment at the Mayo Clinic, Heidi and she loved the fact that there was a Nothing Bundt Cake store within walking distance of the condo. Many nights after dinner, the two of them would split a mini chocolate-chocolate chip bundt cake. I’m not a big dessert fan, but I have to admit the place makes a pretty good cake— moist and flavorful.

A few years ago the chain opened a store near us, and we’ve gone out there several times to get their “bundtinis” to celebrate friends’ birthdays. Of course every time we set foot in the place, we talk about my mom. And now? There’s a Nothing Bundt Cake right down the road from Heidi’s folks in Buffalo. 

We have passed by several times on this trip, and Heidi has been itching to stop and get the bundtini sampler, a dozen tiny Bundt cakes in all the available flavors, to share with her family. Each time, though, the store has been closed.

Finally, today, we made it in and got our pretty little box of cakes. But when Heidi opened it up to show her mom, we were dismayed to see that the signature frosting was missing. Heidi was on the phone in minute. “I was just in there,” she started, “and I got a dozen bundtinis. Aren’t they supposed to have frosting?”

What followed was a long conversation, mostly because the person on the other end couldn’t believe they would have let a box of naked bundtinis leave the store. When the situation was ultimately resolved, they offered us the option of bringing in our cakes to be frosted AND another dozen bundtinis free!

Mom would have been very pleased with that outcome.

Out to the Ball Park

Because we have a partial season ticket plan for the Nats and since Heidi’s dad is such a big baseball fan, it seemed like a fun idea to go see the AAA Buffalo Bisons play at their home field this afternoon. We bought our tickets online yesterday, on the third-base line and right behind home plate, only 10 rows up from the field. The day was warm and sunny, but there was a breeze and plenty of puffy clouds to offer shade from time to time. 

The field is right downtown, with a view of several historic buildings and the on-ramp to the Peace Bridge. Named for Sahlen’s, a local hot dog company, the food at the ball park is actually really good: in addition to Sahlen’s franks, there is beef on weck, chicken wings, and soft-serve frozen custard.

The team is doing well, just one game out from first place. The Bisons are the farm team for the Toronto Blue Jays, and they were playing the Toledo Mud Hens, Detroit’s Triple-A team. July 16 is Buffalo Day, because 716 has been the area code here since 1947, and the Bisons were wearing new, locally-made jerseys and caps to celebrate the event. There were plenty of crowd-friendly activities as well, local trivia, ice cream scooping contest, blindfolded ice cream flavor guessing, kids racing the mascot around the bags, and the “WCC” race between chicken wing, blue cheese, and carrot (today they were joined by beef on weck). 

All in all? It was a classic American summer afternoon, and despite a few snafus with our group (think health and mobility) we all had a grand time, and Heidi’s parents are napping peacefully as I write.

Creature of Habit

Despite the big, beautiful, fenced-in backyard that Heidi’s parents have, each morning when I get up, Lucy runs over and nudges her leash. Even if I let her out in the yard, she hurriedly pees and then returns to the door, eager for a walk.

It’s hard to blame her— a morning outing before breakfast has been the routine since she was an eight-week-old puppy. Neither do I mind taking an early walk: the Buffalo mornings are cool and quiet with the occasional rabbit or deer sighting. A quick mile loop and we’re back, Lucy literally pooped out, and I invigorated and ready for the day.

Trusting and Verifying

My sister thoughtfully gave Heidi a petcam for Christmas, but after we set it up on a living room bookshelf it turned out that Lucy and the cats pretty much spend their days sleeping a lot and stretching a little and that’s about it. 

As such, the app has gone untapped on my phone for a while, until this trip, that is. When our first-time pet sitter had some trouble with the sliding glass door, it occurred to me that I could see her on the camera and offer assistance. Oh, she was able to resolve it without any real-time help from me, but now I’ve been browsing recordings of her spending time with the cats at our house, thumbing through her phone, watching TV, eating the candy we left for her, and keeping Milo and Tibby company, just as we hoped she would.

I know it seems a little creepy, but it’s not like I watch for hours; 15 seconds is pretty much my limit before boredom sets in. I also draw the line at only viewing recordings— it’s voyeuristic enough without watching the live feed!

Climate Control

It seemed so odd that the a/c Heidi’s mom has down in the guest room of their home wasn’t cooling the space as it usually does. We turned it way down and gritted our teeth, trying to ignore the incessant drone of the fan. 

At last this afternoon I climbed up to have a look at the unit, and I could see that although it was set to 65, the room temperature was actually 75. I did a quick check of the settings and restarted the unit, but it had no effect. That’s when I passed by the other machine that was also busily humming in the corner. It was a dehumidifier, and its heating element was on, so that it was working hard to keep our area both dry and toasty. 

Once I turned it off? The room cooled considerably. It seems like the a/c has a dehumidifier, too, so I’m hoping all will be comfortable and balanced, at least until Tuesday.

Not Another Delay

“My tooth kind of hurts,” Heidi reported this morning when we woke up.

“Uhhhh,” I said. “Should you call the dentist to see if they can get you in?”

“I’d rather have a toothache than have to tell my mother one more time that we’re not coming,” Heidi laughed. 

But she was serious— we packed the car and left for Buffalo a few hours later. Fortunately? The tooth wasn’t hurting anymore.

One Buy July

We were excited to discover that the four public tennis courts right around the corner from Heidi's parents' house are all marked for pickleball.

Willow Ridge Park is one of the most popular places to play pickleball in Buffalo, NY.

There are 8 outdoor hard courts. The lines are permanent, but you'll need to bring
your own net. The courts are free. 

Bring your own net!?!

Nowhere have we ever seen such a system, but not to be discouraged, I made an exception to my July spending holiday, and we ordered a portable net and had it sent to Buffalo, where it awaits us even now. 

Little Fires

We had planned to leave for Buffalo early today, but Saturday morning I was scratching Tibby under her chin when I felt a weird bump. It was large enough for us to be concerned, but even though we called the vet as soon as they opened, the first appointment we could get was today at noon. Tibby was not behaving unusually in the least, and so, with the luxury of teachers on summer break, we moved our trip back a day.

Today at the vet they felt the sizeable lump, but could not diagnose it. The doctor tried unsuccessfully to aspirate it with a couple of needle pokes and sent the tiny specimens she got out to the lab, and then she followed up with an ultrasound to see if there was any fluid that she might have missed. There was not, but Tibby was a champ throughout the ordeal. The lab results won't be back until Friday, and as long as our little kitty isn't uncomfortable, we are hoping for the best.

Then, when we entered our house this afternoon, it was clear that our a/c wasn't working. We called the service company we always use, and they were able to come out and fix the problem right away, but thank goodness we were here to deal with this little crisis. 

"I feel like the universe is telling us not to go to Buffalo," Heidi said, only half kidding, and in light of all the drama of the day, we pushed our trip to Wednesday, hopeful that doing so was just a precaution.

Last Game of the Week

One of our neighbors has been off all week. His accounting firm looked at the Tuesday Fourth of July holiday and the congressional calendar and called it a wash. That worked out great for me and Heidi since AJ joined us for pickleball every day. He was more than willing to play for a couple of hours with us on the empty courts, deserted by all those who were either at work, out of town on vacation, or put off by the heat and humidity of July in the DMV. 

We ruefully tapped paddles at the end of our last game on Friday, sorry that our week of fun had ended, but when the thunderstorms let up late this Sunday afternoon, I turned to Heidi. "How about some pickleball?"

She nodded. 'The courts will probably be open," she said.

We quickly changed our shoes and shirts for a sweatier occupation and headed out the door. On the way we passed AJ's place. The door was open, and Heidi knocked on the storm window. She pointed her index finger inside and then at the paddle in her hand. "Are you in?"

"My friends are going to play pickleball," we heard him call to his fiance, "and I'm going to join them!"

Why I Need a Barn

I've got a bumper crop of shallots and garlic. From the bulbs I planted late last fall, I've harvested several pounds of both. My trouble is in the step that comes next, curing the alliums. For that familiar papery skin to form before storing them, members of the onion and garlic family need to be laid in a single layer in cool, dry conditions for 2-4 weeks. 

My first thought was to find a place in the house, which we keep air-conditioned to the low 70s in the summer. I did not take into consideration the pungent odor of my crop. Heidi is tolerant of almost all of my wacky pursuits, but having our house smell like onions was not going to fly. As an alternative, I placed them in a single layer in some shallow cardboard boxes and put them in the guest bathroom. We were going out of town for a week, and I figured that would be time enough to cure most of the smell away.

Upon our return, the odor was gone, but there was a curious infestation of fruitflies, just one or two, here and there. We could not figure out where they were coming from, but the mystery was solved a few days ago when I finally got around to checking on the shallots and garlic. I quickly shut the box and took it out on the deck. 

I had had some good luck pre-curing the second harvest of garlic by leaving it on a grate in the garden for a few days. After that, I was able to brush the outer layer of soil and grime off, revealing a pretty purple and white skin beneath. My idea was to give the other bulbs the same treatment, but out on the deck. 

Unfortunately, we have had a stormy week, and the shallots and garlic have not dried at all. If anything, they are moister than before. So I spent a good 40 minutes or more this morning going through my bounty, trimming the roots, peeling the dry skin, and laying them on racks in the kitchen. "What's that smell?" asked Heidi when she got up.

Back to square one, I peeled the smallest of the shallots and pickled them, and I packed the rest in brown bags and placed them in a covered bin. So far? The smell and the fruitflies are gone. 🤞

No Buy July

When I took my car in to get serviced yesterday, the shop informed me that I needed new brakes. I did a little research and found that 50,000 miles, 5 and a half years, with mostly in-town driving, was a reasonable lifespan for brakes, and so agreed to the extra work. The job was going to take extra time, too, so rather than have me wait, as I had been planning to, my service advisor offered me a free loaner. 

This convenience is one of the benefits of taking my car for maintenance and repair to the dealership where I purchased it, and I have enjoyed tooling around in a new Subaru several times over the years. Yesterday was no exception; when they pulled a 2023 Outback with only a couple thousand miles around to the front and handed me the keys, it was a little thrilling to climb behind the wheel. I savored the newness of the vehicle as I adjusted the automatic seat and mirrors and paired my phone easily with the huge display. The trip home was fun: the car was familiar, but the ride and the handling were smoother and more responsive.

Oh, they know what they're doing over there at the dealership; I'm sure more than a few courtesy loaner customers come back with a hankering for a new car, and I might have, too, were it not the 7th month of my "holidays" from things I might over-indulge in sometimes. This time? It's purchasing anything that is neither consumable nor a gift. Brakes fit the description, a new car does not.

Or does it?

Not Just a Kernel of Truth

I picked four little ears of silver queen corn from my garden and cooked them for dinner. The kernels were small, but tender and sweet, and based on our satisfaction with them, I already consider the corn-growing enterprise a win this year. 

I don’t grow corn every year; and I can’t say that it’s ever been a very successful crop in our garden. I’ve done three-sisters planting a few years, and while the beans and squash did pretty well, the corn has always been a little disappointing: weak stalks that tumbled in the wind, ears too small or too buggy. 

I did harvest a half dozen promising ears four years ago. It was near the end of July, and we were driving out to stay with my mom in Minnesota, so I packed the corn in a cooler for the 2 day drive. When we arrived, I offered to make dinner and eagerly put corn on the menu. 

Unfortunately, the kernels on those ears were starchy and tough. I did not consider the dish a total loss, though, since I had cut the corn off the cob and sautéed it with fresh lime beans for summer succotash. When our meal was over, I asked my mom what she thought. “Did you like the corn?” I said.

She looked a little stricken at the question, and I could almost see the wheels turning behind her widened eyes before she gave up trying to find a tactful reply. “No!” She shook her head.

I laughed. “Thanks for your honesty, Ma!”

Pick of the Season

Oh summer vacation and its choice choices! 

Today I spent my morning playing pickleball and my afternoon picking vegetables in my garden. Maybe next I'll pick a movie to see tomorrow.

Rings a Bell

After seeing the trailer yesterday for the latest Mission Impossible movie, Heidi declared that we should watch the previous six before catching the seventh on July 12. Why not? I thought, but as I searched our streaming options, I proposed that we watch number six first, and then work our way backward.

"I don't think we've seen that one," I said, "so there's that."

Heidi agreed, and as we watched the opening scene, I was certain I was right: there was nothing familiar about the primitive cabin Ethan Hunt was holed up in, or the messenger who came to his door. And I undoubtedly did not recall any of the exchanged codewords or the mission description on the reel-to-reel tape which predictably self-destructed in five seconds.

But when, in the next scene, the deal for three orbs full of plutonium went sideways because Hunt would not sacrifice a member of his team, a tiny neuron in the back of my memory fired, and by the time Angela Bassett and Henry Cavill were on screen, I knew we had seen the movie, and I even recalled several vital details about the plot. 

Soon I was recalling a hot summer day, and a third person with us at the theater, but when and who? Conveniently, my movie theater rewards membership keeps a record of all the movies I have seen in their theaters, and it didn't take much to scroll back several years to July 30, 2018, when we saw the movie at noon. Next, I clicked through the archive of this very blog to find that it was Josh who went with us. He was still living in the area, and having a flare-up of his chronic IBS, so we got him to come to stay with us for a week so that we could nurse him back to health.

I think I dozed off not long after that, secure in my refreshed five-year-old memories, but a little bored by the movie whose novelty had been negated.

Been Away Awhile

I struggled to manage my expectations as I slid into my swanky recliner seat in the Dolby-equipped theater. We were there to see the new Indiana Jones movie, but first, of course, there were the trailers. In the next 15 minutes or so we saw Tom Cruise destroy a train that he had built for just that purpose, Captain Marvel and a couple of her colleagues destroy several things, and lots of horror previews, replete with screams and jump scares. Each trailer boomed through the theater, shaking our seats.

"It's soooo loud!" I shouted to Heidi, who was sitting next to me.

"It's the movies, Babe," she answered with a smile and returned her attention to the screen.

Recovery Time

So often I have heard people sigh some variation of, "Oof! I need a vacation from my vacation!" 

I know what they mean: anytime we take an extra day or two during the school year to get away for some fun, coming back, without the downtime that a weekend usually offers, can be brutal. 

I thought about that this morning on our first day home from our recent vacation. As we walked to the farmer's market, the whole day stretched before us-- heck! more like the whole week, if not the whole summer-- and I sure was grateful.

And So It Grows

The clouds were heavy and thunder rumbled as I spun the numbers on the garden gate's lock this afternoon. In the first hours home from a summer vacation there are always a couple of must-dos, pet the cats, open the mail, unpack my part of the travel supplies (downstairs and the kitchen), and check on the garden. 

This time of year, being away is always a thrilling balance between worrying about the well-being of the plants and being eager to see what growth there has been in the time we've been gone. Today was a particularly rewarding check-in: I harvested a quart of green beans, a couple of zucchini and a yellow squash, and 10 cherry tomatoes. In addition, I clipped a pretty bouquet of purple coneflower, orange mini sunflowers, and red zinnia. 

As the first fat drops of the impending thunderstorm began to fall, I hastened to the gate, grateful for both the crops in my hands and the rain that was about to nourish my garden.