A Halloween Fright

I heard the smart tattoo of a snare drum today when Lucy and I headed out for our midday walk, and I knew the Halloween parade at the elementary school up the hill was kicking off. When we got up there, we were treated to the spectacle of hundreds of costumed kids trooping around the track, led by the high school marching band.

In truth, it was the band I was most excited to see. I scanned the group as they promenaded by to see if I recognized any former students. It was tough: their faces were shadowed by the brims of their caps and obscured by their instruments. Focused on the twin tasks of playing and marching, most of the young musicians ignored me and the rest of their audience, but there was an exception. A single trumpet player's eyes grew huge when they spotted me standing by the fence. 

"Angel!" I waved.

He blushed, looked away, and kept on marching. 

I was a little sad, but I understood. 

Sometimes, there's nothing scarier than your teacher calling on you when you're not ready.

Six More Weeks of Wondering?

Early this afternoon, my friend Ruth and I were walking and talking at a park on the Patuxent River near her home in Maryland. "I don't know how we got here," she said about the upcoming election and shook her head in dismay.

"Right," I agreed. "Who knows what's going to happen?" 

"We're not going to know on Election Day, either," Ruth sighed.

I nodded and looked across the field toward the river. "Hey! Is that a groundhog over there?"

She squinted. "Yep. He's a fat one." 

"Maybe he knows," I laughed. "He could be Phil's cousin, Patuxent Pete!"

"Is he going left or right?" Ruth played along.

"Our left or his?" I asked.

"Never mind," she answered. "He went underground." She sighed again. "That can't be good."

No Brainer

I try to be as empathetic and non-judgmental as possible when it comes to people with different opinions than mine, but Heidi and I saw a yard sign the other day that perfectly sums up my opinion on the coming election.

Fall Classic

I always used to say that the first thing I wanted to do when I retired was take a fall vacation, but with Heidi still working, such a trip was not in the cards this year. Turns out? I didn't have to go anywhere to enjoy the season.

If it rained nearly every day for the first three weeks of my proper retirement, then this October has more than made up for it. There hasn't been a drop of rain and barely a cloud in the sky for 25 days. It's been cool air, blue skies, and leaves slowly changing color, and for the first time in decades, I have been free to enjoy every minute of it. 

It's been fantastic!

Game Time

The neighborhood was bustling in the crisp October sunshine this morning. All sorts of folks were out and about walking their dogs, grabbing some coffee, and shopping the farmers' market. And the roads were busy and stores were doing a brisk business early this afternoon when we ran some errands. But when Lucy and I stepped out later for a walk, the shadows were growing long beneath blue skies, and no one else was around. I glanced at my watch and noted the time; our hometown football team, doing well for the first time in years, was about to kick off.

No Simple Highway

I was thinking of calling my aunt this evening, so I picked up my phone, and the time flashed 6:12. "Okay, okay!" I responded to what seemed like a gentle nudge from spirit. 

My aunt and I had a nice conversation, and when I hung up, a picture of my mom popped up on the memories feature of my phone screen. I tapped it and was treated to a montage of photos of her set to the Grateful Dead song "Ripple." 

I knew why the pictures showed up, but the song? Was entirely random. Five years ago today, I was adding photos to the slide show for my mother's funeral, and there they were again. She was young, she was older, she was laughing with a clown nose on, she was a teenager petting a dog, a grandmother reading to the boys, a traveler sitting in a plaza in Spain. She was dancing with my brother, then bundled up on snowshoes, and then sitting poolside in a bikini at Zaby's Motel. 

And the Grateful Dead sang

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Light Work

I was alone in our community garden today while I cleaned out my raised beds, trimmed the perennials,  harvested the sweet potatoes and the last of the peppers and tomatoes, and stacked the metal cages. And it was just me in the breezy October sunshine as I planted cover crops and spring garlic, shallots, and potatoes and then mulched the beds.

And that was fine.

Claiming Their Territory

Lucy and I were almost back to the car on our National Mall circuit this morning when a screech shattered the clear blue sky. Two hawks swooped over the rotunda dome of the National Gallery, their wings pinned in a dive. Everyone stopped and looked up. "I didn't know an animal could make that noise!" a little boy said to his mom. 

"Keeeyarrr!" one cried again as if to say, "Well, now you do!" and they soared back up toward the golden October sun to catch the autumn breeze.

Like an Old Pair of Slippers

For my debut as a volunteer field trip chaperone, I reported to school by 7:20 and stayed until 3:45. I got a chance to catch up with my friends and former colleagues and see a bunch of 7th and 8th graders I knew, too. Before we boarded the buses, I played a few card games, reminded a teacher to share the groups with her homeroom, and watched part of Ice Age. There might have been a Kahoot, but the kids had been instructed to leave their iPads in their lockers. The weather at Mount Vernon was perfect, and the kids I met were typical sixth graders, funny, silly, impulsive, and smart. I came home tired but energized and sort of happy I didn't have to go back tomorrow.

Trust the Process

 I knew the power washers were out there.

I mean, how could you not? The drone of the compressor, the spray of the water against vinyl siding, the barking of the neighborhood dogs all alerted anyone within earshot of their presence. And I was glad-- glad that they were early, glad I had drawn the curtains so that our pets wouldn't be alarmed, and glad to have a thorough cleaning underway (that I didn't have to do!), and glad I'd be able to move all my stuff back soon.

But when the din subsided and I peaked outside at our dripping but still very grungy deck, I was dismayed. Is that all there is? I wondered, and considered going to find the foreman of the crew and show him the grime in the corners. But the Surely? I moved all my outdoor possessions for more section of my brain prevailed, and I waited.

Right before lunch the racket geared up again, but then I was stuck inside as the front porch was thoroughly scoured. Fortunately that process was short-lived, but before I took Lucy out to enjoy this glorious weather, I inspected all the outdoor spaces and found them less than sparkling. Leaning over the railing and craning my neck down the way, I saw other railings and walls much cleaner that ours. Maybe it's just lunch? I surmised, and out we went.

90 minutes later we returned to a couple of extension ladders leaning against the house, and yellow foul-weather gear clad workers on our decks doing some detail work. By 2:30, they had really moved on. Compressors, ladders, and crews were all assembled at the next building to begin washing, and after my inspection, I had few complaints. 

Mamma Said There'd Be Days Like This

Unfortunately, today was one of those days retirement seems to be made for. 

I started before 8 a.m., clearing off the decks and front porch so they could be power-washed. The chore included saying goodbye to the hanging plants for the season, thanking them for their service, emptying their pots, and dragging heavy garbage bags full of organic discard to the curb. It also involved spreading out a tarp by the sliding glass door in the living room, stowing various outdoor items there, and moving several cumbersome items from the front porch to the breezeway. Finally, I charged up the leafblower and cleared away as much detritus as possible.

And then, the power-washing team didn't make it to our unit.

But I didn't know that right away because a few weeks ago when I tried to pay the property tax and then renew the registration on our second car, I was surprised to see that it was not listed under our accounts. I put in a help request to the DMV in Richmond and was pleasantly surprised when someone called me the very next day. Between the two of us, we figured out that the leasing company had reported the vehicle as sold after I had retitled it, so officially, nobody owned it. Fortunately, I had the title and registration, but unfortunately, I had to go to the DMV in person to resolve the issue. But before I could do that, I had to have the emissions checked to both clear the title and renew the registration on the same visit.

As efficient as that process might sound, it took over three hours to acquire those two little square stickers for the license plate. I did get to spend a lot of time observing a fascinating cross-section of my fellow residents, and trying to decipher the DMV's system for prioritizing and calling those of us waiting for service was also an exciting diversion.

Then, it was time to pick Heidi up from school, and as we had agreed earlier, we stopped for early voting at the community center on our way home. There, we ran into two former students and a former colleague who were variously working at the center, volunteering at the polls, and voting.

It felt great to do our democratic duty, and as we headed home, I looked forward to replacing all the items on our freshly cleaned decks.

But that will have to be tomorrow. Luckily? I don't have to go to work.

WWGWD

We took a ride out to Mount Vernon this afternoon. The day was perfect for it: azure blue skies, warm, golden sunshine, and some nice fall color in the trees. We enjoyed it all the way down the Parkway.

George Washington's estate is still privately owned, and out of respect for the first president's love of them, the Mount Vernon Ladies Association allows dogs on the grounds. In part, because Lucy is always welcome there, we hold membership passes, but in advance of the sixth-grade field trip this week (which marks my debut as an approved school volunteer), we realized that our membership had lapsed, and I was going to need a ticket.

We renewed our membership in short order but decided to take a quick stroll around the grounds, even though we would both be back in a few days. Lucy is always fascinated by the livestock, so after the obligatory portrait on the bowling green, we headed over to the pig sty, sheep pen, and cattle fields. Then, it was through the orchard and nursery beds to see the river. 

The green expanse of the rear lawn was dotted with visitors. Most were enjoying the views, some were relaxing in the shade on blankets, and others were tossing footballs and having a catch with baseballs and mitts. "Wow!" I said to Heidi, "They really must feel at home here."

I couldn't quite let it go, though, so I continued, "But should they? Should they?"

So the Museum

The second most notable event of yesterday was the museum. Let me start by saying, "Ummm..?" and tilting my head to find the right words. (Full disclosure: This same task was so impossible yesterday that when I got home and Heidi asked how the day was, I had to find a YouTube video to explain.)

Spanning five four-story row houses on O Street, the place is a junk shop, maze, historical site, event space, and hotel combo. In addition to vintage toys, baseball cards, dishes, clothing, holiday decorations, and so forth, it also has 80 secret doors and staircases, historical artifacts, a room where Rosa Park spent a considerable amount of time, and 30 theme hotel rooms, including a 2-story log cabin with a kitchenette (just $3100 a night). 

And? Everything is for sale.

 

Coincidentally

I had my first retired friend's lunch today. A former counselor who retired a few years ago and I got together for lunch and a museum visit, but it turned out to be a crazy kind of day. 

When she texted me a couple of weeks ago, I was scrolling through part-time jobs and had just seen an opening for a museum docent. Not recognizing the address, I searched for the place and found The Mansion on O Street. After living here for 35 years, it's not often that I come across local attractions that I have never heard of before, but this was one. 

I copied the link. "How about this place?" I texted my friend.

"Looks fun," she agreed and suggested lunch at Pizzeria Paradiso. 

It had been years since I'd eaten there, but I had recently read an article about the owner and was eager to go back, and so a plan was hatched.

The two of us split a delicious salad and butternut squash pizza with goat cheese, sage, and bacon and were headed out of the restaurant and on to the museum when I heard someone call my name. I turned around and recognized a couple my sister, brother, and I were friends with 38 years ago when we lived in Virginia Beach. 

We hugged, of course, and marveled at the crazy, random encounter. We did a quick catch-up, facilitated by a sprinkling of social media posts over the years, and then we promised to stay in touch and went on our way.

As we walked toward the museum, I thought of all the coincidences and chance occurrences that led to that meeting and how a few seconds on either side would have changed everything. "How often do you think that happens?" I asked my friend, "That you are within steps of people you know but never cross paths with?"

"Probably more often than you would think," she answered. "But how can you ever know?"

A License for That

Whenever we went out to breakfast this summer, my friend Mary would update us on the license plate game she and her sister were playing. Their goal was to spot all 50 states before school started again, and by mid-August, all they needed was Hawaii.

I enjoyed following their progress, maybe because our family played the license plate game on every road trip when we were kids. My mom, who usually drove, loved the game, and although the plates were tough to spot from the backseat, we were all pretty good at it, usually compiling a list of between 25 and 30 on a 3-hour trip down the I95 corridor from Philly to DC.

Years later, my mom played the game in the parking deck at the Mayo Clinic, especially when it was crowded, and we had to wind our way up several levels to find a spot and then make our way back down after the appointment. Riding shotgun, she was very sharp-eyed and could identify cars from all over the country, probably 10-15 a visit.

Now, my sister plays whenever she drives around her hometown of Atlanta. She adds an extra challenge, too, predicting how many different states she might see on any given errand, and she's as good as my mom ever was. 

When we got stuck in terrible traffic on the way back from the beach this summer, Treat and I played. Like Courtney, he added an extra challenge, but his was not writing any of them down. Instead, he would chant them in order whenever we saw a new plate. For my part, I predicted we would find 30, and we did.

Since I retired and it stopped raining, Lucy and I have been walking 3-5 miles a day through the neighborhood, and recently, I noticed just how many out-of-state cars there are parked on the streets around here. For example, today we saw ten: Virginia, Maryland, DC, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama, Pennsylvania, Washington, and Hawaii. That's a pretty good showing by any of the standards above.

And Just Like That

The curtains are drawn, the lamps are lit, and there's a fire in the fireplace. There will be stew for dinner, and we are bundled up in flannel and fleece. We are resisting turning the heat on, but it may go below 40 tonight, and our thermostat is already at 64, so that plan may be revised.

It's fall, ya'll!

Kindness is Quicker

I was carefully picking tiny cucumbers from the bin of picklers at the farmers market when I noticed someone waiting patiently to my left. "I'm sorry," I said. "Am I in your way?"

"Yes," the market worker answered, nodding to the crate of cukes he was waiting to add. But before I could step aside, he pulled a little cucumber of just the right size from his crate. "How about this one?" he asked.

"Perfect!" I answered, "Thank you!"

From there, it was quick work for the two of us to fill my bag. "I appreciate your honesty when I asked you if I was in the way," I laughed, "and it was really nice of you to help me! Thanks again."

"You're welcome," he said, dumping his cucumbers in the bin.

The Linus Effect

When I was a toddler, my older cousin and her husband offered to babysit me at their apartment one evening. I have a vague recollection of Mr. Ed on the black and white TV, but what I most remember was that there was a satin comforter on the bed. I don't know how it happened, but when my parents came to get me, I got to keep the comforter, maybe because I loved it so much. 

In fact, I loved it so much that I kept it with me and slept with it every night well into my teens. I wore a hole in it, but my mom cut that part away and sewed a new seam, so I had a smaller version. The smooth, cool sensation of that blanket could relax me immediately. In time, even the smaller blanket got a hole in it, and although I kept the tatters for a while, eventually, I realized it was time to give up my security blanket.

We were shopping at Costco a few weeks ago when we happened down the bedding aisle. Not in the market for any such thing, I could have kept on going, but a comforter caught my eye. Labeled a "cooling blanket," there was a sample of it next to the shelf, and when I reached out to touch it, I gasped. Just brushing my fingers against it stirred a visceral memory of my old blanket. I couldn't believe I had found another one after so many decades. We purchased it immediately and put it on our bed, and I have slept soundly ever since. When I wake up in the middle of the night and feel it, I go right back to sleep. That thing literally puts the comfort in comforter. 

A few days later, I realized my cousin's birthday was coming up. The same cousin who once babysat me was turning 79. I found a version of the same comforter and sent it to her. "Thank you," she wrote. It's beautiful and silky, and I keep it on my couch for my day-napping luxury.

I know! I got a couple smaller ones for our own couch, and I hope never to be separated from my blankets again.

Made With Love

Emily's Birthday Menu

Bite-sized Fried Green Tomatoes with Pimento Cheese Cream and Baby Basil
Mini Sourdough Tarts with Cherry Tomato Confit
Pickled Green Beans
Assorted Olives

Handkerchief of Pumpkin Pasta
Green Squash, Shaved Purple Beans, Corn, Prosciutto
Goat Cheese and Preserved Lemon Cream Sauce

Fall Salad Greens
Warm Pickled Shiitakes
Roasted Sweet Potatoes
Miso Mustard Dressing

Cioppino with Carolina Shrimp, Atlantic Scallops, Little Neck Clams, and Icelandic Cod
Housemade Sourdough Bread

Blood Orange and Olive Oil Teacake with Chocolate Glaze
Dark Chocolate Gelato

Mid-Atlantic Lights

My phone was blowing up with news reports and social media notifications-- the Northern Lights were visible from Arlington! I was disappointed when I stepped out on the upstairs deck and faced north, though. The sky was not alive with dancing lights. I had read that the Aurora might be more visible with a camera, so I pulled out my phone. Sure enough, I got a faint glimpse of the glory when I looked at my screen. It wasn't the light show I hoped for, but it was still kind of cool.

Vanity Plates

A few months ago, the license plate reader at the car wash stopped letting me in. I bought an annual pass back in salt, mud, and crow poop season, so technically I have prepaid to wash my car every day for a year. The expense was less than you might think, and the concept is that I can simply drive up, the gate will open, I'll proceed to the washing shed, and then I'll relax as my car is vigorously rinsed, washed, rinsed again, and dried. But waiting for an attendant to punch in my license plate number really spoiled the easy in/easy out vibe. 

Then, when I renewed my registration, I noticed a warning that when a plate is unreadable, it must be replaced, otherwise, it is considered a traffic violation. I went out and took a hard look at my plates. They were definitely showing their 14 years; the blue was peeling off most of the letters and numbers. That's why the car wash wouldn't let me in.

Still, I'm a stubborn sort, and I didn't really want new plates; I felt like I had just learned those, and it seemed my only option was a specialty plate with a custom insignia. Even so, I had noticed that on the standard plates, the state, which started with Zs plus four digits at least 20 years ago, was up to Ts (my own plate was an X), and I secretly envied the TWA and TRA plates. I considered my choices on and off for a few months and finally opted for a personalized plate that might not immediately read like one. I chose THX 1998.

All of this is to explain that license plate numbers have been a big topic of conversation around here lately, and so I'm very sensitive to them. That's why today, in the Target parking lot, I laughed out loud when I saw these two next to each other:

And I wondered who might be driving, Winnie the Pooh, Christopher Robin, or Eyeore?

Ladies Who Lunch and Dogs Who Dine

Heidi had her surgery follow-up appointment today, and the news was great. Since she is healing so well and getting more mobile every day, I asked her if she wanted to go to lunch. "Can you find a place that Lucy can go, too?" she replied.

A little internet research revealed several options, but we settled on Vola's, a dockside restaurant in Old Town Alexandria that not only allows dogs on the waterfront patio but also has a dog menu. The weather was glorious, a classic October day with golden sunshine, blue skies, and a little nip in the air, and the experience was as promised: the staff was welcoming, and the other patrons were tolerant and amused by a very well-behaved Lucy.

The food was good, too. Lucy loved her yogurt ice cream, but she did leave her apples in the bowl. My grilled grouper sandwich with marinated tomatoes and served with housemade chips was yummy. Heidi enjoyed her Beyond Burger, too, especially since it was topped with french-fried onion shreds and green goddess sauce. 

After lunch, the three of us explored the network of little waterfront parks leading south to Jones Point before looping back to our car. Old Town was bustling for a weekday, and the fun vibe of our afternoon out stayed with us long after we headed home.

And the Sign Said...

Heidi recently volunteered to serve on the board of our residents' association. I know what you're thinking: How come the fully employed person took that job rather than the recently retired person? It's mostly because Heidi's disposition and personality are more of a fit, and I promised to be her support staff. 

So far, I have helped with the technology and correspondence, and I'm also in charge of the sandwich board sign that the board uses to communicate information to the community. The sign is a job kind of like anchoring the school news or being the school mascot: something I always wanted to try because it seems fun. 

The nitty-gritty of the task is a little more complex. The letters are printed on brittle acetate and they easily crack and break. The board itself is dirty from standing in the elements, and the channels are clogged, so the letters don't slide easily; rather, you have to bend them slightly to place them, and then they are more likely to break. And since this was my first time composing and placing a message, there was a learning curve regarding how much would fit on a line. I had to re-do it several times, and a few letters were lost in the rearrangement.

Even so, when at last it was finished, I was pleased with my efforts, despite the grime under my nails. And I'm sure that next month, my sign will be even better!

Adios Ms. Morose

I received my lifetime senior national parks pass in the mail today. For as long as I can remember, I've been gleefully looking forward to being eligible for it, but I was a bit rueful at first when it arrived. Because I'm a senior. 

For life. 

But then I realized that would be true whether or not I could get into all the national parks for free, so I shrugged it off and started planning my next park visit.

Please Mr. Postman

I have a friend from high school who insists on writing me letters and sending them in the mail. She never calls, she never texts, she never emails, but I find a hand-addressed envelope in my mailbox every few months with a corresponding letter inside. As charmed as I am to receive them, I find that I am very out of practice when it comes to replying, and I often put it off. 

How different this is from when we met! Then, we were in boarding school in Switzerland, it was the late 1970s, and pretty much the only way to communicate with the people you cared for on other continents (and there were many) was by mail. Oh how we longed for those thin, blue Par Avion envelopes to peek out of our mail cubbies. 

Of course, I was an excellent correspondent, and I continued to be one even as we all moved back to the States for college. But in the ensuing 45 years, that skill has gone very rusty. And so today when I finally replied to her last letter, after too long, I started like this: I always love to receive your letters, and I really appreciate your persistence.

Because I do; I really do.

Tots on the Run

The light was golden, and the air crisp this afternoon when we arrived at a nearby park for a track meet for kids ages 2 to 7. Some friends invited us to their 2-year-old's last race of the season, and although I'd never heard of such an event, it was easy to see why it would be popular.

About 50 kids competed in four age groups. The youngest, 2-and 3-year-olds, ran about 50 yards, most of them from mom to dad. The next group's distance was maybe 10 yards further, but the kindergarten and first graders ran 400 meters. It was all low-stakes and fun, with t-shirts and medals for every runner. 

Best of all, it was over in less than 30 minutes, which was about right for the attention span of the assembled group of athletes and their supporters.

Healthy Attitude

The dog park was deserted when Lucy and I got there this afternoon. It was a little over halfway in our walk, and Lucy was eager to go in anyway, so we did. She sniffed around a little, and I made sure she got some fresh water. I would have tossed a ball for her had there been one to throw, but those were absent, too, just like the other dogs. After a few minutes, I headed over to the back gate, and Lucy trotted after me, not disappointed in the least but just as happy to leave as she was to arrive.

A Curmudgeon's Life Hacks

There I go, reading the paper again. 

This time, it was an article titled "Too Scared to Watch Horror Movies? These 5 Tips May Help," which was also in the NY Times, like the Pluto piece. The gist was to push past your qualms so that you could indulge in this seasonal fun. You know, the fun where you watch people suffer and die for entertainment as if there wasn't enough real tribulation in the world.

I personally have one tip for those who feel uncomfortable with this genre. 

Don't watch them.

Infamy

I looked up when the nurse called my name. We were in the OR Recovery area, and the team was monitoring Heidi after her foot surgery.

"Yes?" I replied.

"You were my sixth-grade English teacher!"

I squinted at the young woman in scrubs, glasses, and a professional updo and tried to imagine her 11-year-old self. "What's your name?" I asked.

"Radia," she told me, walking over from the station. 

"Radia!" I said, "I can't believe it!" I pointed at the picture on her badge where her hair was short and parted on the side and her glasses were off. "That looks more like you in middle school."

She laughed. "Yeah, it does," she agreed.

"What year were you in sixth grade?" I asked.

"2001," she replied. "I was actually in your classroom on 9-11."

"Oh my gosh," I shook my head, "that's right."

"People always ask me where I was that day," she continued, "and I always say Ms. S's 2nd period English class. I'll never forget you."

Small Round Things

I was reading an article in the Times about today's solar eclipse, which will be visible in the far south of South America, the Pacific, and Antarctica, when my eye caught a headline in the related article column. Is Pluto a Planet? It asked. And what is a planet, anyway? Test your knowledge here.       

Well, I clicked over right away because I have some feelings about the topic, and I love a good newspaper quiz. I was never truly on board with Pluto's demotion to a dwarf planet back in 2005. The loss of that oft-repeated mnemonic, My Very Excellent Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas, alone convinced me it was a silly change. (Although I did laugh recently when I heard the updated version where the very excellent mother serves naan. Go ahead, say it.) 

For several years, my sixth-grade English colleagues and I used the picture book A Place for Pluto by Stef Wade as a model text for the type of children's story we taught our students to write in the fiction unit. Not only does that text have a crystal clear plot chart, but it also has a solid curriculum connection. It was in the liner notes at the end that I learned the details of Pluto's redesignation. (I also realized that none of my students were even alive in the days that Pluto was a planet, but that's another story.)

All of this is just to explain my eagerness to read the article and take the quiz. Anyhow, there were five questions, starting with Do you think Pluto should be considered a planet? (of course, I chose Yes.) and including Do you think our moon should be a planet? (For which I gleefully selected No! What part of moon do you not understand?). 

My results called me a sentimentalist, maybe because I refused to extend planethood to Eris and Ceres, but I can live with that. Because sometimes? My very earnest mind just stays up nights, pondering.

Oh C'mon

I'm pretty sure it has rained every day since I retired.

Am I right?