Wild Child

Heidi and I were walking on the beach the other day (oh, how lovely it is to toss that into conversation so casually as if a walk on the beach was nothing special!) when we passed a little family enjoying the beach, too. The mom was in a chair a ways up from the incoming tide, and the dad dug in the sand with the younger of their two children; he and the toddler were busy building a castle with a moat. 

Their older child, a girl of about three with wild blond hair, was some yards up the beach, chasing plovers and pipers and splashing in the gentle surf. We were walking in her direction, and she was far enough away from her parents that I was intrigued. I saw her mother wave to her, but not with outward concern, as the child ran farther and farther away, a wee picture of joy and abandon, a tiny person all alone on the beach. 

I wondered how far they would let her go. She was never in danger, but she was at least 200 yards from her parents and moving away with every step. Even so, her joy was evident: I could feel it from where I was. "Get a load of feral Carol," I said to Heidi, and then we were both mesmerized by the wild child ahead of us.

Soon enough, we caught up to her, and I waved as she caught my eye. Her mom was not far behind us; she had risen from her chair the moment her child was out of earshot, but her pace was unhurried because clearly? That kid was fine.

Razzle

We have dogs named Tazzy and Jazzy staying with us at the beach, so naturally, the rhyming concepts of razzle and dazzle would find their way into our conversation.

"Dazzle is such an awesome word," I said to the group, "but when was the last time you were truly dazzled?"

"Snorkeling in Belize," Bill answered immediately. "The colors of all the fish were dazzling."

"I was dazzled today," Treat told us, "by the 300-year-old live oaks with all the lights on them at Brookgreen Garden. It was spectacular."

"I honestly can't think of the last time I was dazzled," I confessed. "But I am going to pay attention and use the word in my blog tomorrow," I vowed.

The next day was Thanksgiving, and as is our tradition, we watched the Macy's Parade. There was a number from the new Broadway show Death Becomes Her. All the performers were clad in deep purple sparkles. "Does that dazzle you?" my brother asked.

"No," I answered, and neither did The Outsiders, Jennifer Hudson, or any of the dogs in the dog show. Our turkey was magnificent and delicious, the desserts were wonderful, the stars from the beach were beautiful, and the lightning illuminating the clouds on the horizon was really cool, but I was not dazzled.

This morning we took our customary walk on the beach, despite the drop in temperature from 60s to 40s. I, committed to walking in bare feet, sloshed through the gentle incoming tide, because the water was warmer than the blustery air. The sun, muted by the clouds on the horizon, cast a bronze glow on the sea. 

"Maybe I'm just too jaded to be dazzled," I said to my brother.

"Too jaded and cynical to appreciate anything?" he replied. 

"Impress me, Lord!" I laughed, raising my arms to the ocean.

The sun rose above a cloud, flooding the beach in light.

"What about that?" he asked.

"That was pretty good!" I said.

"But was it dazzling?"

Yes.

Baked for Thanksgiving

Courtney, Heidi, and I took a bike ride through the beach neighborhoods around our rental this afternoon. Thanksgiving is so quirky-- some families eat at noon while others, like ours, maintain a more traditional meal time. At any rate, there were people about, walking off or walking in anticipation of their meal, and there were the sounds and smells of people within the homes, too, and their celebrations. In addition to hearing soft jazz, laughter, cheering, and Christmas music as we pedaled by, we also caught the smells of wood smoke, steak (or perhaps fried turkey?), spaghetti sauce, and tons of weed. 

"That's a choice," my sister shrugged.

"A common one, it seems," I agreed.

Low Country Thanksgiving Eve

As the sun set this evening, I drove to the southernmost end of the peninsula where we are staying. Holiday lights sparkled from many of the homes on the narrow spit, and plenty were occupied, despite the fact that this is a beach town in the off-season. The smell of wood smoke was on the breeze, and I stopped to let a couple of women cross the street carrying huge kettles. In house after house, I spotted folks setting up folding tables or picnic tables in the breezeway created by the pylons lifting the structure above the floodplain. Still other people stood on the decks of their houses watching the sun sink, turning the pale orange and the clouds pink. I rounded the point and headed back north into the gathering darkness and the lights and warmth of our own holiday home.

Ahhh

Wake up.
Drink freshly brewed coffee.
Go to the beach.
Eat a hearty breakfast.
Take a bike ride across the causeway and back along the beach.
Go to the state park to see alligators, egrets, and storks, oh my!
Run a couple of quick errands.
Play mini golf (Do badly! Deal with it!)
Cook dinner with your brother and sister.
Know that tomorrow will be just as good or better.

Zonked Out

After a fun day of vacation, I slept soundly last night. In fact, I only woke up once in the middle of the night-- I needed to pee and put my laptop away, which was still on my lap, powered on, and open to the Sunday crossword puzzle. Were my fingers still on the keyboard, too? Hard to say; I'm just grateful the lights were out, and the machine didn't fall to the floor like my books sometimes do!

Be Healed

Usually, I am an inveterate beachcomber: sometimes, there's nothing more satisfying than walking the shore and scanning the middens pushed up by the tide, looking for a hidden treasure. But, such focus can also be a distraction from the splendor around me, or worse. Many's the time I've left the beach with a stiff neck and a headache and not much else.

This morning felt a little different to me. It's the first day of our week-long vacation at the beach, and I just wanted to walk. With the early morning sunshine reflecting off the ocean, Heidi, Lucy, and I set an easy pace, walking and talking to cover the mile-and-a-half to the pier. We were on our way back when somehow the conversation turned to our aching joints and the stiff gaits we sometimes have to push through. 

"When I've been sitting in the chair too long, it's like," I mimicked an exaggerated toddle.

"How is it again?" Heidi laughed.

I paused and stooped over, resting my hand on my hip, ready to limp forward, but there on the sand at my feet was a big, perfect shark's tooth. I scooped it up, whooped with joy, and did a little happy dance. 

All my aches and pains were gone.

The Week that Is

Should there be a Saturday road trip on the agenda, I always look forward to listening to the AT40 70s edition broadcast. The nostalgia of hearing songs from my childhood seems to fuel the journey, making even the longest trip shorter. 

I was disappointed today, though, when the show was a rebroadcast from this week in 1970. Generally, the earlier in the decade the countdown, the less satisfying I find it. In 1970, I was eight, and although I recognized Black Magic Woman by Sanatana (#40), the next few numbers were disappointing, and so I turned my radio down and drove in silence. 

But soon, my mind turned to what I might have been doing Thanksgiving week in 1970 when I was 8. Back then, our family always took a road trip from our home in South Jersey to see family in DC. I imagined the five of us packed into our blue 1964 Ford Falcon heading south. I remembered that one year, we left so early that we actually stopped for breakfast at a roadside diner, which was not our usual routine. I could picture myself sitting with my brother and sister on one side of a booth, waiting for our pancakes, looking out the window at the cars whiz by in the bright November morning sun, and feeling the excitement of the holiday bubbling through my brain.

Back in the present, I navigated the flow of traffic under the pale blue November sky and felt the excitement of the holiday bubble through my brain.

Putting it in R

I spent a chunk of today making returns: I dropped off some components of Heidi's Halloween costume that didn't quite work at UPS, returned a power staple gun that wasn't right for the job at Home Depot, a glue gun at Michaels, a sweater at Costco, and another Halloween thing at TJMaxx. 

Before, when I worked full-time, running such errands could be time-consuming and stressful, but today's activity offered all the satisfaction of accomplishing a list of chores AND more! Instead of spending money and bringing bags of stuff home, I cleared out bags of stuff from the house and got some money back. 

The Bird in My Hand

I had Lucy today when I stopped by Treat's school to pick something up. "We're going to take a walk around the neighborhood," I said, "any interest?"

He was game, so the three of us set out from the upper parking lot onto a paved trail winding through the woods. "I had no idea this was here!" I said.

"Neither did I," Treat said. "We got a strongly worded email last week reminding us that we must never take the students out of the building during instructional time," he added, shrugging. "So I haven't spent much time out here."

The trail meandered above the school and then turned up the hill toward the elementary school. Soon, we found ourselves in their parking lot. "It's been years since I've been over here," I told Treat, "but my very first classroom was here."

I recounted the tale of how, after getting my teaching degree and license and subbing for six months, I still had no offers by June. "I wasn't even in the candidate pool," I sighed. Then, a woman who worked at the ed center and had become an unofficial mentor to me offered me a summer school position teaching kindergarteners at that school. "I jumped at the chance!" I laughed, recalling how I told my little class of 12 that they were not in kindergarten anymore-- this was the first day of first grade! Back in those days, there was no curriculum, so I used all the strategies and activities I had learned during my student teaching in first grade to plan my program. The kids wrote every day, I read to them, and we sang and danced and walked out in the field (which was currently occupied by four trailers) looking for inspiration. 

It was great, and the five weeks flew by. Lots of teachers stopped by to ask me where I taught during the year, but every time they did, my face fell. "Nowhere," I answered. On the last day of summer school, I still didn't have a job, and no one from HR had even come to see me teach. I cried as I loaded my boxes in the car and drove home.

A few days later, the same lady intervened again. "Write me a thank-you note," she suggested. "Not because I want one, but I'll forward it to HR and tell them what a great job you did."

The next day the phone rang and the director of personnel herself was on the line. "I read your gracious note," she drawled, "and if there's one thing we want in our teachers? It's good manners." 

That is how I got into the candidate pool. Once I was eligible to be hired, I had a job teaching sixth-grade English the next day. 

And you can bet I kept it.

Big Picture

The doorbell rang at 8:30 this morning. When I swung the door open, a man dressed in white stood on the stoop. "We are painting your unit today," he told me.

I nodded. The project had been going on for over a month. We had been power-washed several weeks ago, and now it was time to replace any rotting wood and paint the rest. "Can I just move things away from the railing?" I asked. "That's all you're doing, right?"

"No, Miss," he replied, "it's the flooring, too."

Now, that was a different situation: one that required me to move a lot of stuff completely off the balcony, either into the house or through the house. I raised my eyebrows. I was not unfamiliar with the details of this project, especially since Heidi is on the board. "I thought this building was scheduled for next week," I said. "I'm sure got an email that said so."

"They must have sent the wrong schedule," he answered politely, but his expression was clear. This is happening, Lady.

I sighed and thanked him, then set about clearing the decks. Later, as I sat surrounded by lawn chairs, cacti, deck boxes, and flower pots, I pulled up my email. According to that communication, our building was scheduled for the week of November 25. I was not wrong. Looking more closely at the message, however, I noticed that the building before ours was scheduled to be completed on the 18th, and there was no work listed between the 18th and the 25th, an apparent oversight.

I hadn't picked up the mistake because I was only focused on my unit rather than the overall project. Such a perspective is unsurprising, but in this case, it was also unhelpful. Oh, and to add insult to the situation, they didn't even paint our unit today, so the stuff is still just sitting on the tarp in the house.

My Two Cents

Like many school systems nationwide, our local district has been wrestling with student phone use. Several schools, including my former school, are piloting lock pouches, but the interim policy for all schools is no phones during the school day. The district provides a personal device for instruction to every middle school student and a laptop to every high school student. Those can be distracting and disruptive enough, but kids (like many adults) are attached to their phones, and many will use them almost constantly if allowed.

When the policy was first discussed, many kids expressed extreme anxiety at being separated from their phones, which they considered a necessity, but many parents allso support students having access to their phones, mainly in case of emergency or danger.

Anecdotally, I have heard from my teacher friends in middle school that the younger students do not have as much of an issue with the restrictions as their older peers, which is predictable. Teachers, on the other hand, are mostly in favor of the new policies, especially since they were the ones who had to enforce the old rules, often resulting in the loss of instructional time and the goodwill of their students.

Not surprisingly, the survey data recently released by the school district shows just that. The student and teacher approval ratings are inverted: 14% of kids find the policy favorable, while 86% of teachers find the same. Parents are split 50-50. 

Because I worked with 11-year-olds for so many years, I know that what a group of kids find "normal" and "acceptable" can change rapidly based on experience and expectations. Children are resilient and adaptable, plus they are only at any given school for so long, so it's possible to shift the culture in just a few years. (For the better or the worse.)

The very fact that this present group is struggling with giving up their phones for part of the day makes me inclined to agree that schools should limit their use as much as possible. That way, it will be a non-issue in the near future for the kids who are coming up.

I'm Baaaack

I noticed a charge on my credit card that I didn't immediately recognize this morning. A little investigation revealed that it was an annual subscription to Screencastify, which I used sporadically when teaching. Although I have no specific recollection, I'm sure I signed up for a free trial, which had been auto-renewing for the last couple of years. 

I knew I had most likely enrolled using my school email, which was disabled, so accessing the account to cancel it would probably be more onerous than necessary. I sighed and tapped the sign-in with Google option, hoping it would somehow skip the school authentication. It did not, but when I clicked over to the next screen, I gasped. Rather than an error message, I got the two-factor screen just as my watch dinged with an access code. I had been reauthorized! 

Even though my substitute onboarding has not been officially completed (HR is notoriously slow in that respect), my account has been reactivated, and I can access all my school stuff again. Aside from being available should the ideal sub position (Is that an oxymoron? I think it might be!) open up, that's all I really wanted anyway. 

So, no rush, APS. I got what I applied for. Oh, and I canceled Screencastify, too.

Social Caterpillar

When I used to spend my days at work surrounded by hundreds of people, the last thing I wanted to do in my free time was socialize. Things are different now that I'm home alone all day. One of my former colleagues invited us to a happy hour on Friday evening, and not only was I willing to go out and see people, but I was actually looking forward to it.  

Heidi and I planned on making a polite appearance, but we ended up staying at least two hours later than we expected, and I really enjoyed the gathering. 

As an introvert, I have long understood that spending too much time in a crowd can be draining, but it wasn't until recently that I realized that spending too much time alone is not ideal either, even for me.

Look out, world!

What a Beauty

I looked up from where I was sitting in my chair. The daylight had faded completely as the three of us, Heidi, Betty, and I, had spent the afternoon chatting, and it was night. There, framed perfectly in the window, was the November full moon, also known as the beaver moon. It is also a supermoon this year, and the last we'll see until October 2025. It was still low enough in the sky to be huge, golden, and stunning. 

And I didn't even have to get up to behold it.

The Ghost of November Past

It wasn't until yesterday that I even thought about NaNoWriMo, the November writing throwdown that challenges people of all ages to write a novel of 50,000 words or more in 30 days. The novel does not have to be good, mind you, but it does have to be complete, which is arguably the heaviest lift for some, myself included. 

As regular readers know, I'm a big proponent of challenges, and I always thought I could possibly complete this one if I had enough time, but I totally forgot about it this year. November came so quickly and with so many fraught feelings. In fact, I only remembered when I was revisiting my writing from November 2009

Ah well, maybe 2025 is my year to write a [good, bad, or otherwise] novel. We'll see.

Short Ribs

“Let’s have short ribs,” suggested Mary when I mentioned it was about time for our writing group to meet, “at your house.” 

I lifted my eyebrows and shrugged non-committally. “We should have it at my house. It’s been a minute.” 

“I’ll send the text,” she offered. 

Although I didn’t promise, I did plan to make short ribs. I’d made them once before for the group many years ago. Then, I’d seen beautiful boneless short ribs on sale at the grocery store, and they seemed like the thing to cook. I had adapted a braised lamb shank recipe, and in my memory, they were effortlessly delicious: perfectly tender in a savory sauce enriched with mascarpone cheese. 

That’s what I was planning this time, too, but I decided to order the meat from a local farm that delivers dairy, meat, and produce. Their beef is sustainably and humanely raised and very flavorful. Two frozen blocks of bone-in short ribs were delivered last week, and the first part of the recipe was make-ahead, so I thawed the ribs a few days ago and planned the first cook for yesterday. 

I knew I would have to cut the ribs to separate them myself, but I wasn’t prepared for the thickness of the fat cap on them. Rather than marbled, they were layered, and each rib had a slightly different proportion of meat to fat and bone. When I thought about it, I knew that such irregularity is to be expected when you source your meat from a farm. Unlike in the grocery store, all of these ribs came from a single cow. Because of the sheer volume they supply, grocery meat distributors can package meat by like size and shape by trimming and sorting through cuts from many animals. 

There is an adage recommending giving a task you really need to be done to a busy person. The notion is that the busy are more efficient and productive. Accurate or not, the folks in charge of education seem to have taken that one to heart: as much talk as there is about taking things off teachers' proverbial plates, in the years that I taught, our responsibilities were regularly compounded. The time it took to do my job as well as I wanted to was one of the main reasons I retired. 

As unsure as I am about the busy person maxim, I have found that the inverse is true, at least for me. The less I have to do? The less I get done, especially since retiring. No deadlines, means, well, no deadlines. But with the actual date of writing group fast approaching, I found myself with a hard to-do list, and spent yesterday catching up on the housekeeping I’d been putting off since we cut our cleaning lady’s visits to once a month. Even so, I did not feel stressed, because? I’m retired! 

Depending who you talk to, or what recipe you read, short ribs are either one of the easiest dishes to make or else they are a somewhat tricky entree to pull off. The conflict lies in the cut itself. Short ribs are cut from the first five ribs of the cow, which is also in the chuck section, or the side of the chest. That area has a lot of muscle and fat, so the meat is tough, but marbled with fat and collagen that break down and tenderize it with long, slow cooking. That’s why most recipes call for braising short ribs-- just pop them in a low oven or slow cooker, set the timer for several hours, and voila!

The tricky part is this: if you don’t cook the ribs long enough, they are super-tough and chewy, but if you are overdone, they can be cottony and dry. The exact timing can vary, too, depending on the ribs you get. All told, however, the braising liquid can be forgiving, so overcooking is less of a problem. 

It was around six last night when I butchered the ribs and began searing them in my new cast iron braiser, all the while cooking our dinner for that night, too. “Are you going to have enough time tonight?” Heidi asked. “Weren’t you going to try to do those earlier?” 

“Yes and yes!” I answered confidently, straining the bone broth I had simmered all afternoon for the braise. “The recipe says they only need to cook an hour and a half tonight.” And that’s all I gave them. Even though they seemed tough when I pierced them with a fork, the recipe also called for cooling them overnight in the braising liquid, and I was hopeful that would do the trick. 

This morning, when I geared up for phase two of the dish, the short ribs were still very tough and chewy, even after a night in the broth and an hour in the marinade. There was much more fat than I remembered, too, but that was easily discarded. I hoped they would tenderize in the short cooking time remaining, but I was disappointed 20 minutes later when I checked. Uh oh. It was time to improvise. 

And I did. Another hour in the oven seemed to do the trick, although I would have to tweak the sauce a bit. Fortunately, I had made another bit of beef stock with the bones I’d lifted from the ribs. And there was the mascarpone, standing by to pull it all together. Dinner was saved, but was it because I was busy or because I had all that time?

It's a Twin Thing

Maybe it's because I spent so long in middle school, or maybe it's why I spent so long in middle school, but I kind of dig kid lit. We needn't debate its comparative merits here, but let's agree it has some: there is some great writing out there intended for young audiences.

Anyhoo, this morning when I was browsing through one of the several emails I get from folks recommending books to me, my attention was captured by Let it Glow, a collaborative middle years novel co-written by Marissa Meyer and Joanne Levy. Meyer I was familiar with, having read both her Lunar Chronicles and Archenemies series, and the book was billed as a "charming, Parent Trap-esque holiday romp," so how could I resist?

I downloaded the audiobook and listened to the tale of twins separated at birth as I cleaned house today, and it was delightful until... the girls decided to switch places! Oh, sure, I should have expected it, especially with the blurb and all, but really? Why would anyone put themselves through such an awkward experience?

I taught many sets of twins over my career, several of them identical. In the early days, it was school policy to put those siblings on separate middle school teams to give them time and space to develop their individuality. Later on? Parent requests to have their kids in the same classes took precedence. Their reasoning? Convenience. It was an extra layer of effort to keep track of different assignments and expectations. 

But back before that, I taught a student named Patricia who had a twin, Anne on the other team. Even though my best friends when I was in middle school were identical twins who were as easy for me to tell apart as anyone else in the world, I have never been able to consistently and definitively identify the twins I've taught, and these kids were no exception. 

I taught Patricia, so I didn't know her sister, but when they were together, it was only the glimmer of familiarity in Patricia's expression that clued me in. (That, or I remembered what outfit she was wearing that day.) There were times in class, though, when Patricia seemed kind of out of it, and I wondered if she had some attention or focusing issues. Most of the time, though, she was on target, and just another of the 21 students in the room.

Years after the twins left middle school, I ran into one of their friends out in the community. After we caught up on what she had been doing, I asked if she stayed in touch with any of her friends from our class. Sure enough, she mentioned Patricia and Ann and filled me in on their lives, too. 

Then she laughed. "Did you know they used to switch places all the time in middle school?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Really?" I answered. "I had no idea." 

She chuckled again. "They were so bad!" she said.

Later, after we parted ways, I thought about the girls trading places and I realized that all those times when Patricia seemed lost and uncomfortable, it was probably because it was her sister. I got a knot in my stomach just thinking about it. 

Then I shrugged and sighed. I hope it was worth it.

Deja Vu Therapy

I spent some time poking around the archives of this blog this morning. I started by reviewing my writing from past Novembers, in search of my thoughts and observations on Thanksgiving and food, but what I found to be more timely and helpful were my thoughts and observations on the election in 2016. In fact, reading what I wrote then kind of made me feel better now.

See what you think:

Blue State Blues
November 8, 2016

I confess that I did not sleep well at all last night, and when I finally rose this morning, I was dreading the day.

The pouring rain in the gray dawn of this morning seemed like an appropriate contrast to the brilliant sunshine and autumn-colored promise of yesterday. It was also appropriate that the lesson in my English today was on composing belief statements in support of our upcoming essay-writing unit. Not surprisingly, our diverse student body had plenty of belief statements to go around today, and they really wanted to talk about them.

"What did you think of the election?" they asked me.

"I was surprised by the results," I said neutrally.

"Were you sad?" They were definitely looking for an ally or an enemy.

"I know a lot of people were disappointed," I answered, silently counting myself among them, "but a lot of people were happy, too."

And then I shrugged, thinking of myself tossing and turning last night as my phone glowed with update after devastating update. Could it really have been fewer than 24 hours ago that I was hoping the other side would turn their attention to what unites us rather than what divides us in support of a Clinton administration? Could I do the same now?

"I'm open-minded," I told them, "and I hope for the best."

Against the Wind
November 20, 2016

We braved steady winds of 20-30 mph (with gusts of 50!) to bike-share around the tidal basin today. Well, Kyle and I pedaled while Heidi and a friend ran-- kudos to those two! We had the wind at our backs all the way from the FDR where we picked up our bikes until we made the turn toward the Jefferson.

There we had to laugh as, spinning our pedals as quickly as we could, we nearly stood still on the asphalt path. And once we stopped to say hello to Heidi who was chugging along from the other direction, it was impossible to even start riding again. So we turned in our bikes at the station conveniently located there, and spent a few minutes with one of the founding fathers.

As we stood in the rotunda, I remembered reading that the huge bronze image of Jefferson had intentionally been placed in the direct line of sight of the statue of Alexander Hamilton on the north side of the Treasury Building, so that he could keep an eye on his fiercest political rival.

I took a moment to line up my view with his, but although I could only make out the roof of treasury, I got a clear look at the White House. It was practically glowing in the midafternoon sun, and I confess that my heart swelled more than a little at the symbolism.

It's been a hard couple of weeks for me as I have wrestled with finding the appropriate way to respond to an impending Trump presidency. In all that I have heard and read and thought, my brother's advice has guided me most: don't protest the election or any abstract idea of the man, rather speak out against specific actions and policies that you feel are wrong and work for what you think is right.

Returning home I was greeted by some breaking news: Donald Trump confirms that wife Melania and son Barron will stay in New York after the presidential inauguration.

The president's family not living in the White House?

 I think that choice is wrong.

Extreme Waiting

I blithely swung by Trader Joe's on my way home from another errand this afternoon, planning to dash in for a few items I needed for dinner. Perhaps the packed parking lot should have been my first clue that my idea was not original, but I got a space right away when someone pulled out. The traffic in the produce section was weird; many shoppers were milling more than usual. 

It wasn't until I turned the corner at the back of the store that I realized they were in the line to check out. Sixty people or more wrapped the entire interior perimeter of the store, waiting for their turn at the register. There were literally more people waiting than shopping.

I could have left, but I am always impressed by the efficiency of the check-out process there, and so I quickly finished my shopping and headed to the back of the line. Out of curiosity, I launched the stopwatch on my watch and then started watching my fellow waiters. Although there were plenty of wide eyes as folks realized just how long the line was, it seemed like everyone was as patient as I was, and in 12 minutes and 47 seconds, I was on my way out to my car.

Extreme Weather

Wait! What is that weird wet stuff falling from the sky? Could it be our record-setting 38-day drought has finally broken? This, after September nearly set a record for consecutive rainy days. Fingers crossed, we have a couple of record-setting blizzards in our near future!

Net Gain

Our cat Tibby is one of those plant-eating felines who can't leave anything green alone. As such, we have to hide or place any plants or cut flowers out of her reach. Over the years, that's become more challenging: our place is only so big, and Tibby's pretty adept at finding and reaching almost anything. 

There is one place that's an exception, though. The downstairs bathroom is always closed, so we have taken to putting any bouquets we receive in there. To be honest, it's kind of awesome, really. Fresh flowers in the powder room are a lovely touch.

Kids Only

Heidi was home today, and so we walked Lucy together. The three of us ambled amiably through the back greens and commons of the neighborhood, away from the streets and traffic. There are little playgrounds back there, near the pools and tennis courts, and we saw groups of children playing unaccompanied by adults, which is a rare sight in this area. 

Not surprisingly, the kids were doing and saying ridiculous things: shoving each other over a liter of Pelligrino, arguing over a swing, playing mean princess in a log cabin-like structure, and riding bikes recklessly down embankments. Even so, we were more charmed than alarmed by this display of untamed behavior. Both of us recognized it from our own, more free-range childhoods.

My only regret is that we were there at all, because each time we drew near, the kids either stopped what they were doing or stared defiantly at us to see if we would intervene. 

Wordle Wise

 Solved it in five:

Just a Little Bump in the Road

I made the mistake of checking the news when my phone woke me up at 2:30 last night, and I couldn't get back to sleep after that, no matter how many meditations and bedtime stories I listened to. The election results were crushingly disappointing: I really thought it was going to go the other way. 

As I lay there, I couldn't get that Batman movie quote about the hero Gotham needs versus the one it deserves out of my head. Which one is Batman? I wondered but didn't want to turn the phone on again. It turns out that Batman, incorruptible and strong, is the hero they deserve, but they need him to be a scapegoat and a villain. Yeah, it doesn't make much sense to me, either.

But what about America? Is Trump the president we need or the one we deserve right now? I think he's a deplorable character, but we elected him, so we deserve what we get. I sure don't think he's the guy we need for the job, but then, that's why I didn't vote for him. 

I read an article this morning that contained what I considered to be a bit of an understatement. The next four years are going to be rocky, it said.

I laughed, because we should be so lucky.

Kid Charming

On a long road trip, our conversation meanders, but it never wanders far from school and teaching. Despite my retirement in June, this trip was no exception. At one point, we were talking about a group of kids we both knew who were very charismatic, even if they were challenging in the classroom. 

I told Heidi about a time when the other teacher in my co-taught class was out, and I was fussing at some of the kids. 

One of them raised his hand. "What happened to the nice teacher?" he asked.

I raised my eyebrows. "What are you saying?"

He flashed his dimples at me and smiled. "I mean, what happened to the other nice teacher?"

Now, those are some social skills!

Five Dogs, Will Travel

What happened to the other house? my sister-in-law texted when I sent a link to one more possibility for our Thanksgiving beach trip.

This one has a more generous dog policy, I replied.

Oh good, she answered, we have a generous amount of dogs.

Demolition Delight

As fall rapidly winds into winter up here in Buffalo, Heidi's mom had a few lawn chores for us to help with today. After we stored away the bird baths, grill, and hanging swing, there was the matter of the old double settee. Made of pine, ten or more seasons of use had taken its toll on the piece: the mortise and tenon joints were loose, the wood on the seats was rotten, and it was no longer safe to sit upon.

A lovely teak replacement was already stowed in anticipation of next summer, but the old one had to be demolished before hauling it out for trash pick-up. I hunted down a hammer to do the job, and the ease and gratifying crack with which the first slats were knocked off inspired me to make quick work of the piece. In under fifteen minutes, the settee was reduced to a neat stack of lumber. 

I'm always sad when something has reached the end of its natural life, but today I was reminded of how satisfying it can be to tear something apart. "Let me know if you have anything else for me to destroy!" I told my mother-in-law gleefully.

"I think you enjoyed that a little too much," she answered with raised eyebrow. "But, thank you. I will"

Uphill Both Ways

 "Look! That place has four carved pumpkins!" Heidi pointed out on our walk this afternoon.

"Wow," I said, examining the faces of the jack o'lanterns. "Each kid must have gotten their own." We continued down the street. "Times sure have changed," I added. "When we were little, my parents just got one pumpkin."

"Us, too," Heidi said. "I don't think anyone had more than one."

"We had to draw slips of paper out of a hat to see who got to design which feature," I laughed. "One got the eyes, another the nose, and the third, the mouth. Then my mom drew them on the pumpkin, and my dad carved them." I shrugged. "It worked."

Manifold

Like the road to the White House, the road to Buffalo goes through Pennsylvania, and we saw many political signs on our way through that state today. 

Since our route was primarily rural, the preponderance was pro-Trump. Most were standard campaign road signs, although there was a green banner in a field reading "Farmers for Trump" and then a whole field with enormous block letters spelling the former president's name mown into it. There were also many flags with various messages, including, "I stand with the convicted felon." Few messages were vulgar; perhaps the worst was a hand-painted sign reading, "Vote for Trump, not the Tramp."

But there were other signs, too, and every time we saw one for Harris and Walz, it fanned a glimmer of hope in our hearts.