A Walk in the Woods

I recently read about a state forest a little more than 30 minutes from here that, not only had I never visited? But I had never heard of it, either. After 35 years of living and hiking back in the area where I was born, I was pretty sure I knew most of the trails within an hour or so, but clearly, such is not the case. So when Heidi suggested taking Lucy somewhere for a walk in the woods, naturally, Conway Robinson State Forest came to mind.

According to the website, the property became a state forest in 1938, deeded by the Conway Robinson Memorial Park Association in memory of the late Conway Robinson. There was considerable reluctance in accepting the property, due to the belief that no one would ever use it. 

At the time of the gift, Lee Highway (Route 29) was a single-track dirt road that was difficult to traverse, particularly in wet weather. Now, the area is one of the highest populated areas in Virginia.

When we arrived on an overcast Saturday afternoon of Labor Day Weekend, the parking lot had a scatter of cars but not a person in sight. The cloud cover kept the temperature down, but it was muggy when we set off on the Blue Trail that runs the perimeter of the park. Within a few steps, we were immersed in a forest. In the still air, we heard the clear and sweet call of Eastern pewee, and as I stepped into a pine-scented glade of Loblollys, Mary Oliver's poem, "When I Am Among the Trees," came to mind.

When I am among the trees
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

"This was a great idea," I said to Heidi. "Thank you." 

Mind the Gap

I've been in a bit of a funk about my transition to retirement. 

Despite a long list of things I've long wanted to accomplish, I feel rudderless without the outside demands of a job. And I miss all the things I loved about teaching, especially the community I was a part of for so many years.

But it's really only been a little more than a week of proper retirement, and in that time, the refrigerator and ice maker have been repaired, the leaky kitchen faucet replaced, my electric ukulele restrung, my grandfather's watch refurbished, my nephew's teaching career supported, my garden weeded, and a load of donations dropped at the thrift shop.

I guess I have been productive. So why doesn't it feel like it?

Freudian Slip

 

Bringing the Heat

This afternoon, the temperature was 96, so I modified Lucy's new mid-day walk regimen. To avoid the excessive heat, we just meandered around the complex a bit, up and down grassy hills and knolls, so she could have a potty break. 

But as we strolled, we were not impressed by this potentially record-setting heat. The sun's angle tinted the light golden, which seemed less threatening than those white-hot days of July. And it was considerably cooler in the shade, perhaps because we were coming off the unseasonably lower temperatures of last week. 

At any rate, the takeaway for me is that a late August heatwave just isn't that hot. But perhaps the more significant lesson is that as our planet warms, we will probably all become climate connoisseurs and our extreme weather expertise may well be a survival skill.

Hello?

"Is that what retirement is like?" asked a neighbor as I enthusiastically described my recent visit to the Udvar-Hazy museum. "Because, if so? I might need to get a little more serious about my planning!"

I laughed. "No, that was more of a summer vacation kind of a thing," I told him. "So far, retirement has been like, Where is everybody? I ran some errands today, and I was stunned by how empty stores were."

"I know what you mean," he agreed. "I worked from home today, and when I walked down to 7-11, it was like walking through a ghost town."

"I'm sure I'll figure it out," I said. "And? I'll let you know where I find everyone!"

In Their Footsteps Part 3

A tall man in a flannel shirt with long white hair and a closely cropped beard to match waved to us as we started toward the parking lot. We had been the last car in the last group of the day, and now we were the last visitors left on the site. Around us, volunteers and employees were collapsing canopies, folding chairs, and packing up bins.

The man who beckoned us was Bob, the quarry supervisor who had first spotted these fossils back in 1989. The location had been pumped out, and as the floor dried that April morning, a path of footprints appeared. The tracks held the water just long enough for Bob to alert the crew and inform his boss, the quarry owner.

These days Bob is a stone-writer, engraving monuments and other decorative pieces. "I'll never retire," he told us. "I love working and I love stone." He showed us the pages in notebook from the day he spotted the tracks. "I keep a record of everything," he confessed. "My truck has more than 250,000 miles on it, because I know everything I ever do with it." Then he reached in a basket and pulled out a small rock like the thousands in the pile behind him. "I engraved a tiny footprint on this," he showed us. "I give 'em to the kids who come. This is the last one, though. Guess I'll have to make a bunch more for next year."

Bob had been surrounded by other people the whole time we had been there, and we hadn't been able to get near him. Now, he seemed reluctant to let us go, the last guests of the year who would see his newspaper clippings and listen to his tale of the discovery. The rest of the crew was getting a little impatient, though, so we thanked him and headed back to the pickup.

In Their Footsteps: Part 2

And that's how we found ourselves in the backseat of a pickup truck at the end of a caravan of vehicles down to the bottom of the quarry. The water in the quarry bottom was a gorgeous clear green. "The lab tests said it was cleaner than the city water," a guide told us, "and you can see to the bottom at thirty feet. But those waterfalls," he grinned and gestured to streams cascading down the quarry face, "are only turned on once a year for this event."

We had less than thirty minutes on the site, but the experience did not disappoint. Enthusiastic quarrymen, volunteers, and geologists were on hand to curate the experience and answer any questions we might have. Many tracks were circled in blue chalk, and the staff would cheerfully spray them with water for a better view. There were also informational signs on sandwich boards. 

Through it all, we were gently reminded that we were guests on private property and a mining company owned the fossils. There was no expectation of preservation, either. "Oh, these will be visible another fifteen years or so," a guy in a yellow vest and quarry t-shirt told us. "After that? They'll probably either be blasted for rock or underwater." 

In their Footsteps: Part 1

"So I read about this place in Culpeper," Heidi's early morning dog-walking pal started, "and they have the largest collection of dinosaur footprints in the country." What followed seemed like a tall tale, and when Heidi repeated the details to me, I couldn't believe that in the many decades I've lived in Virginia, I'd never heard of Luck Stone Quarry. 

On an early April morning in 1989, a crew was preparing to blast a new layer of the 70-year-old quarry. As they pumped water over the floor, a quarryman noticed that as it evaporated, the little puddles left behind were actually footprints. The layer was made up of siltstone, which is essentially hardened mud, and further examination turned up hundreds of Triassic-era dino prints.

Despite the discovery's paleontological significance, the quarry remains private property to this day, although some of the prints are on display in the Smithsonian, the local history museum, and the mini-mall down the road. Once a year, however, the owners open the property to visitors, but only those who win a spot in a lottery.

"And I won!" Heidi's friend said. I never win anything, but I can bring a carload of people to see the dinosaur prints on Saturday!"

Get a Life, Lady!

I spent a couple hours most days this week helping my teacher friends get some of their first-week-back chores done. I set up a printer, helped with some LMS courses, hung pictures and posters, answered questions, gave advice, suggested first-day activities and room layout, and put up a bulletin board. It seemed a shame to let this skill set I've built over 30 years go to waste, especially when I knew how busy and overwhelming the first week back can be. Plus, I did love every bit of teaching; it was just that all the bits put together became more time-consuming than I was willing to sustain.

As I pitched in, I was moved by the genuine appreciation of those I was helping. Collectively, we spun a fantasy where I would be on call to lend a hand whenever necessary. We imagined that I might set up an office in one of the hall storage closets so that I could offer support on-demand, including encouragement and advice. Maybe I would even have a sign that said, "The Teacher Task-Rabbit is In," and a can for nickels.

"Can you imagine, though?" I laughed. "The new sixth graders would ask, "Who is that lady in the closet, and why is she always here?" And worst of all? They would be right!"

Rookie Mistakes

On my first day of running errands as a retiree, I was surprised to find Wegmans full of seniors lunching and shopping. It was almost as crowded as a weekend but with a slower vibe. Then, on the way home, I was stuck in traffic for 30 minutes when I took a two-lane road that goes right by a high school. It was dismissal time, and the backup was phenomenal as student drivers, parents, staff, buses, and non-school traffic tried converging on the narrow road. We were also impeded by a light at the t-junction ahead, so traffic only inched along during the green.

I have filed the experience under live and learn. Still, as I piloted my cart around meandering shoppers and then again as I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, I did question whether this retirement situation is all it's cracked up to be.

And So It Goes

An unfamiliar number flashed on my screen this afternoon, and so I let the call go to voicemail.

Surprise!

The new fridge that was supposed to be delivered on September 2 has been delayed.

Fortunately, the old one is chugging along now that it's repaired, and the service company is on speed dial.

Preferred Pronouns

I went to school today to help Heidi set up her tech, unpack, and organize her stuff. We chatted as we worked, and I had to correct myself several times after referring to "our school," "my classroom," "my tables," or "my job." 

It's getting easier, though.

If It Is Broke

The refrigerator repairman came just when he said he would and texted a 20-minute warning as promised, too. He examined the old thing kindly, and his diagnosis was hopeful. For under 300 dollars, he could have everything fixed. It would be an hour today and a follow-up next Monday, but the fridge would be working when he left, and the ice maker would be working on Monday.

I hesitated for a moment. I needed it to work until the new one was delivered, and I didn't want to overpay. When I explained the situation to him, he gave me several options with estimates to go along with them. "It's a good machine," he commented. "They really don't make them like this anymore."

I considered my choices. What if we could keep this refrigerator from the junk heap for another few years or more? With a reliable repair company, it seemed very possible.

"Let's fix it all!" I said and crossed my fingers.

My New Life

 

Early Bird Special

We took my aunt and uncle to a matinee performance of Beautiful: The Carole King Story at a theater near their retirement community. The four of us agreed the show was terrific-- good performances and great music, although looking around at my fellow theatre-goers I noted that Heidi and I were among the youngest there.

Since we had purchased the tickets (3 seniors and 1 adult), they invited us to a meal afterward, so we found ourselves in a line of older folks waiting for a table at a nearby tavern at 4:30 PM, a good 3 hours before we usually eat. The college-age wait staff was friendly, patient, and deferential, and service was very quick; I had my salad within 10 minutes. 

Sometimes I chafe at such an interruption in my routine, and I confess to a moment of despair when I wondered if matinees and 4:30 dinners were what I had to look forward to as I approach my golden years. But tucked away in a cozy windowless booth in a corner of the restaurant, I realized that it could be any time of day or night, and I might never know unless I chose to look at a watch. 

Routines, like time, are just constructs, and it's okay to break them once in a while or even to let them evolve.

Market Share

"You have a little icebreaker activity you have to do for Monday," I told Heidi as I read her school email. (I know, I know, but I had a good reason to be on there-- I wanted to see how much money Treat will be making as a first-year 8th-grade English teacher since he was just hired for that job, and I can't access the staff resources as a retiree.)

She groaned as I turned my screen around to show her the slide she was supposed to fill in. "I'll do it for you!" I offered. "Find a picture you like, and I can do the rest."

Five minutes later, we laughed at how quick and easy it was. "I can't wait to tell the people at school," Heidi said. "They are going to be so jealous."

"It was fun!" I told her. "I love creating materials!" The truth is, I loved all the parts of teaching, but there were just too many of them. "Maybe I can start a teacher task rabbit service where I can do the things that teachers are too busy to do."

She nodded, "That would be great if only teachers could afford to hire you."

How Can I Work With This?

Maybe I was a little hasty judging the broken screeners. And, admittedly, I'm certainly biased, having never shattered mine. (🪵 knock knock knock!) But you know what I have had break? Appliances! 

Regular readers of this blog might recall many sagas involving inoperative stoves, air conditioners, and refrigerators. I can't believe it's possible, but I think we went over six months without a stove in 2008 before we finally replaced ours. Then again, we were stoveless for months in 2019 and again recently when the electronic panel went out. 

In every case, part of the situation was service, part was supply chain, but mostly it was me trying to repair instead of replace, and making do in all sorts of crazy ways. (Yes, like the cracked screen folks.) 

Just this summer, I prided myself on being able to make the HVAC unit work despite a burnt-out capacitor. I guess it's lucky that it was outside and down a flight of steps; otherwise, who knows how long I might have used my skewer to crank it up when it got too warm?

And our refrigerator drama has been going on for years. First, it leaked, and when it was too old for any repair person to consider, I used a combination of Swedish dish towels and plastic containers to capture the water while we waited for a replacement that literally never came. By then, the capture system was in place, and we put a new fridge on hold. Then, the water outage in June burst the line to the ice maker, and water leaked everywhere until we turned that off. We had a fridge delivered that wouldn't fit through the door, and then the third one we ordered was delayed, so we've been buying ice, 8 pounds at a time, all summer.

The new fridge is scheduled to come on, wait for it, Friday the 13th (of September), but today it seems like the old one might be losing its cool. I have some thermometers on order to confirm, but if it's true? That 20-year-old appliance may have finally met its end. 

And what are we going to do?

It Took a Minute

It’s taken me all summer to reconcile the notion that I will not return to school next week with everyone else. 

When she sighed in dismay because she had received her welcome back to school letter from the principal, I asked Heidi to forward it to me so I could live vicariously. I was a bit deflated when the link to the agenda for the staff meeting didn’t work for me. But soon, I realized that maybe, just maybe, not sitting in the theatre all day was a good thing. 

Then, today, for some random reason, I checked my school access again. I suppose I wondered if the start of the new school year would bring further restrictions to what I could and couldn’t see of the virtual infrastructure of my old life. Everything seemed as it had been all summer until I clicked on my grade book for the hell of it. 

There, I was stunned to see six new classes. Curious, I clicked around, just as I would have if I were returning. My homeroom was 17 students, too many for that type of class, and I remembered how much I disagreed with the model our school had put in place for remediation. 

The drop-down menu indicated two intensified classes, which had the smallest enrollment. A quick scan of the faces and names showed me groups that did not represent the school's demographics. The other classes were overloaded with English Language learners and kids with 504s and IEPs. Minimal checking also revealed many students with homerooms on other teams, which meant the middle school model was pretty loose.

I didn’t see any co-teachers or assistants listed, but it is still early in the scheduling process. (Obviously, because my name is still on the classes!) The room number had been changed to reflect that the new guy was getting an interior classroom, though. 

 “Woof,” I shook my head at the challenges facing the person who was actually going to teach those classes, and suddenly, retirement seemed like a pretty good idea after all.

No Problem

I'm always shocked when I see a shattered screen. My reaction may be improbable, given the number of young people with devices I used to spend most of my time with. Even so, the response of the person with the damaged screen is usually inverse to my own.

Years ago, I read an essay by David Sedaris about a time when he tried to put an injured mouse he had captured in his country house out of its misery. When he looked down at it in the bucket where he was attempting to drown it, it was swimming lamely, but gamely, around, despite its injuries as if to say, "I can work with this!"

I often think of that mouse when I see the lengths people will go to to avoid having their screens repaired. "You can't use the right half of the keyboard," they might shrug, "just use Siri for those letters."

As a teacher, I would deliver the hard blow without hesitation. "Give me that!" I'd tell the student, "I'm going to put a ticket in to fix it." Soon enough, the sting of being without their device would be salved by a repaired screen at no cost to them.

Out in the world, I don't have that power, and so, as I stated at the top, I'm shocked by the number of folks who use their device with a damaged screen until, well, they can't anymore. "It's fine," they routinely tell me, adding that they either don't want to pay or be without it for the repair. 

Of course, there is also the phenomenon of creeping inoperability. A couple of weeks ago, Heidi tripped and landed on her phone. She wasn't hurt, but the screen did suffer some damage. "We should have that fixed," I suggested.

"It's fine," she assured me. "Everything works."

That's no longer true, although I will hand it to her—she has found many workarounds. "Let's get that fixed tomorrow," I said a little while ago as she was scrolling through her address book to find a contact whose name she couldn't type on the broken keyboard.

"Okay," she agreed, "but I think it's probably good for my brain to have to find new ways to keep everything working!"

Name That Jet

One of the gifts we gave to Victor for his birthday was a set of tree identification cards, and we had fun at the beach going through them and quizzing ourselves and each other. I thought of those today when we visited the Udvar Hazy location of the National Air and Space Museum.

The place has been open out near Dulles Airport since 2003, but I had never been, despite the draw of Space Shuttle Discovery and an Air France Concorde. And, in fact, those two crafts were my only must see exhibits when we arrived after the 30-minute drive. 

We started in the section of the hangar with military aircraft, but they quickly became a bit overwhelming and tedious. I liked seeing some of the planes I'd heard of: fighter jets and helicopters I knew from movies, a Blue Angel jet, the record-setting Blackbird, but the sheer firepower made me a little sad.

In the end, it was the commercial airliners that made my day. At lunch, I told Victor and Treat how when we were kids, we used to be able to identify almost all the planes at the airport by make and model. Such knowledge only made sense for an airline family, but we were kind of nerds about it; geeking out with our other airline friends whenever the clock turned 10:11 or 7:47.

Shortly after that conversation, we found a display case of models of vintage commercial airliners, and I demonstrated my knowledge by correctly naming most of them. Right before we left, we went up to the museum's observation tower, and I found it unexpectedly thrilling to watch the planes landing on the two runways at Dulles as we listened to the live chatter from Air Traffic Control and the cockpits. 

Although I scanned the livery to name the airline as soon as possible, I was stumped by the type of plane, and a set of fancy flashcards would have been just right.

At the Old Ball Game

It was a gift of an August day in Washington—82, breezy, and low humidity at 11:45 this morning when Mackenzie Gore threw the first pitch of the Nats-Angels game. We were up in the third tier, right above the first baseline, with a clear view of the plate and our free jerseys in hand. 

The park was nearly empty, and not even the organist was playing. It might have been that this is a prime vacation week in this town, our team is out of playoff contention, or most of the starters were second-string. Whatever the cause, we enjoyed practically having the section to ourselves as we watched the game progress. It was scoreless until the top of the fourth when the Angels put five runs on the board. 

When the Nats could not answer them for a couple innings more, Heidi grew disgusted and went off in search of water and popcorn. She missed seeing LA bring it to 6-0 in the seventh, which was probably just as well. There was a rally in the 8th; the home team scored 2 and had the tying run at the plate with the bases loaded. Improbably, the same scenario occurred in the bottom of the ninth. The Nats had a real chance to tie or even win, but the game ended abruptly at 6-4 after the Angels turned a double play.

We were filing out with the rest of the light crowd when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Three of my 6th graders from last year folded me into a big hug. We spent a happy few minutes catching up and basking in our mini-reunion before we went our separate ways.

"Now, that was a great day at the ballpark!" I told Heidi.

Someone Who Knows

"How's retirement?" a friend's mom in from out of town asked this afternoon.

I gave my standard answer. "So far, it's just been like summer break," I laughed.

She is a former teacher and nodded knowingly. "You won't really feel it until school starts."

I knew what she meant. I definitely felt a twinge of uncertainty when Heidi got her back-to-school letter from the principal yesterday, and I eagerly read over the pre-service week schedule and agendas, wondering all along if perhaps I had made a mistake. 

"I'll be honest," she continued, "I did go through a period where I questioned my purpose. After being a teacher for so long, how could I not?"

I nodded in recognition. 

"But you know what?" she told me. "That did not last long, and I'm here to tell you that retirement is wonderful!"

It's a Wash

Tropical Storm Debby did not ruin our beach vacation. Sure, there was a little rain and some overcast skies, but there was also quality beach time and pool time. And, to be honest? We went for the company, and that did not disappoint. Neither did the food, thanks to local produce, fresh seafood, and my brother's great cooking.

Tropical Storm Debby did, however, make our trip home rather hellish. Torrential rain, blinding road spray, a 40-minute delay due to a horrific accident, and Treat's phone blaring tornado warnings all added up to a long and grueling drive. Although the company was, once again, delightful. 

Tropical Storm Debby might have ruined our day today with drenching downpours and flood and tornado warnings, making ducking out for anything the equivalent of a cold shower. But we needed the rain so badly that it was impossible to be upset.

Walking Lucy just an hour after the sheets tapered to a drizzle, we ran into a neighbor with his own dog. "I can't believe how dry the ground is after all that rain!" he marveled, standing in the middle of a grassy common in flip flops. "My feet aren't wet at all."

But at least the grass wasn't brown and crunchy anymore.

Over Confidence

I recently read that professional table tennis players are often challenged by amateurs who are confident they can offer a competitive game. Of course, it's rare for such players to even score a point on the pros, but there's something about how commonplace ping pong tables are in basements and rec centers that makes the sport seem unrealistically accessible to the casual paddler. 

I thought of that today as I watched Lucy chase seagulls on the beach. She was confident that she could catch one, and they seemed to indulge her—swooping low before flying away so that she raced in large loops around and down the shoreline. She really believed she had a chance, but in the end, she didn't even get a feather.

Hindsight Bias

Some things never change, like sibling quibbling, for example. Take this conversation between a 62-year-old and her little 60-year-old brother.

"Harris picked Walz as her running mate," the brother told his sister yesterday morning.

"I knew it!" she said.

"No, you didn't," he replied.

"You heard me say it last night," she argued.

"But you didn't know it," he pointed out, "you only predicted it. Thinking you knew it is a logical fallacy."

"Like confirmation bias?" she asked.

"Yeah, but not that one," he said. "It's one where people think things were much more predictable in retrospect once they know the outcome."

"Hmm," she grumbled. "Maybe."

"We should go to the beach," he said. "It's not raining, even though they predicted it would be."

"I knew it!" she said.

"No, you didn't," he laughed.

"But I knew you were going to say that," she told him. "I really did."

Debby Does, or Does She?

We knew she was coming, but we decided to take our chances. Tropical Storm Debby has been pumping clouds and moisture our way since yesterday. There have been dry moments and even some sunshine, though, and that's when being 600 feet from the beach comes in handy. We spent an hour there with the dogs this morning; Bill, Emily, and Riley went back for some beach time a little later, and Heidi and I took advantage of the house pool before the rains came. And the weather cleared again at six, just in time for another dog walk on the beach. A misty marine layer obscured the beach, but we were far from the only ones there.

Sure, the prediction is rain all day tomorrow as Debby regroups off shore and then hammers South Carolina, but so what? Maybe it won't, and if it doesn't? 

We'll be ready.

As Always

 "When was the last time you were at the beach in summer?" I asked Heidi as we stepped into the warm sand.

"Last year, when I went to Rehoboth," she reminded me. "What about you?"

"I was just trying to figure that out," I told her. "I think it's been over ten years!" 

In fact, it has been 11. The last time I visited a beach in the summer was in August 2013, when Heidi and I took Isabel down to Point Lookout for the day. The last time I was at an ocean beach in the summer was three years earlier than that, when most of the family met for a week in August in Edisto, SC.

Since then, I've visited the beach at Thanksgiving, in February or March for the Oscars, in October when Heidi had a conference there, and in November for Heidi's birthday. I've been to the beach at least 20 times, just never in summer.

There was a cool ocean breeze blowing this afternoon when I made my return to summer at the beach, and overcast skies kept the temperatures below blazing. Still, there was a crowd of folks on blankets and chairs under umbrellas and the inescapable smell of sunscreen as kids ran back and forth to the surf. Super tan people clad only in bathing suits and sunglasses walked the waterline, expertly avoiding the boogie boarders that came crashing in on the waves.

It was as if nothing had changed in the last decade, and there was honestly something kind of nice about that.

DIng Dong, Tibby Calling

Over the last few months, Heidi taught our cat Tibby to ring a bell when she wants to out on the deck for a little fresh air and cat grass nibbling. Now that she's got it, Tibby rings the bell an aggravating number of times. Recently we've noticed that she doesn't even go outside every time we open the door, and so it has occurred to us that ringing the bell is a much broader form of communication. 

Perhaps when she dashes downstairs first thing after the alarm goes off, she is ringing it to say "Good Morning." And when she jingles the bell right when we're about to leave the house, she could be saying, "Don't go!" or "Come back soon!" When she rings it at mealtime, the message is definitely, "Yay! Hurry up with that!"

We laughed about her insistent ringing with our friend when she stayed with us this weekend. "Maybe you should have bells all over the house," she suggested. "It might clarify her intentions!"

Common Casting

"It says here that the actor who played Doc was in Glee," I reported to Delaney as I reread the Playbill for Back to the Future at breakfast the morning after seeing the musical.

"What??" she shook her head in a moment of cognitive dissonance. She loved Back to the Future, she is a huge fan of Glee, and she was also excited to hear Heidi and I have been re-watching that show since May. She whipped out her phone and rapidly tapped the screen. "It says here he played a hotel clerk in 2012."

"Oh my God," I laughed. "I know just who he was." I stood up and went over to the TV. In short order, I had the final episode of season 2 on the screen. "Remember when they have the pillow fight at the hotel in New York City at nationals?" I scanned quickly through the episode, and there he was. Despite being over a decade younger and minus the mad scientist wig, we recognized him immediately.

"That's hilarious," Delaney laughed as we sat back down.

I picked up the Playbill. "Oh my gosh!" I said a minute later. "It says here that the actor who played Lorraine played Anne Boleyn in the national tour of Six!" It was a show we had seen together two summers ago at the National Theater.

"What??" Delaney said and shook her head again.

Stating the Obvious

"Do you guys have season tickets, or do you just buy seats for the shows you want to see?" Heidi's friend Betty asked. We were standing on the Kennedy Center terrace at the golden hour. A jet streaked through the bright blue sky over our heads, and the last warm light of full-day shone on us, our fellow patrons, the river, and the city.

"We rarely come at all," I confessed, appreciating the scene through the eyes of a visitor. It had taken us less than 20 minutes to get there, parking was easy, and we were set to see the national tour of the Tony-nominated musical Back to the Future.

Her eyes widened a bit, perhaps in disbelief.

"But we really should," I finished.

The Plumber

I was in the middle of shaping sourdough loaves, canning blueberry preserves, and chopping vegetables from the garden for dinner yesterday evening when a gush of water came from beneath the drawer by the sink. 

"Uh oh," I said to the empty kitchen and stooped to investigate. The drain pipe behind the drawers had come loose, and all the warm sudsy water from the bread bowl was now running onto the floor. "I need some towels!" I called to Heidi.

Once the mess was cleaned up, it took a minute to figure out what I could and could not do, given the current situation. I looked around at all my projects in progress and made a few mental calculations as to how to complete them with the least amount of water. 

Heidi put out a call to her water aerobics group for a plumber recommendation, and within minutes she had someone on the phone who agreed to come in the morning. "He's a little odd," our neighbor had said, "but reliable and reasonably priced."

When he arrived at nine, we found Brahim to be a brusque man who had some trouble fitting into the tiny space where the drawer usually goes. Within five minutes, he had given up and informed us that his colleague Roberto would be there later in the day to make the repair. Once he had gone, we tried to figure out what Roberto could do that Brahim could not. "Is he smaller?" we wondered. "Smarter? Better equipped?"

It was then that the phone rang, and Brahim told us he was on his way back to fix the problem himself. And he did! Within another five minutes of his return, the pipe was patched, and water was running again. "I figured it out, and I came back!" he told us excitedly, and I imagined him driving his van down the road with a scowl until inspiration struck.

"Thank you so much!" I told him. "I know it was harder than you thought."

"Yes," he agreed, "it was."

And as promised? His fee was quite reasonable.