Pre-recorded from New York It's

We had just finished an episode of something or other when a promo for Saturday Night Live popped up. "Oh! This is the Christmas show for this year," I told Heidi. "Martin Short is the host, and he gets his Five Time Jacket, so they have a bunch of extra people." I paused. "Wanna watch it?"

There was a time when I rarely missed Saturday Night Live. Starting in 1979, when I returned to the States for college, the show was must-see TV for a long time. Back then, there was no recording it for watching later, but it didn't matter because who wasn't up til at least 1 on the weekend?

But now, it's been many years since I've watched an entire episode of SNL and many more since I stayed up to see it live from New York. These days, I mostly skim the recap in the NYTimes and watch any segment that captures my attention on YouTube. Even though Lorne Michaels is still the driving force behind the show after fifty years on the air, I often sense that the target audience is considerably younger than I am, mostly because I find the humor raunchy or dumb. (Okay, I'll also cop to not getting some of the jokes, but not too many, because, see my post a few days ago about how plugged in I am to pop culture, despite my advanced age! Teaching so long has to have a few benefits.)

But last night, the clock was only at 9:30, so I hit play on the December 21, 2024, episode of Saturday Night Live. And we laughed the next hour and a half away. Tom Hanks, Paul Rudd, Melissa McCarthy, Kristin Wiig, Jimmy Fallon, Scarlett Johansen, Alec Baldwin, and Dana Carvey appeared. The regular cast was hilarious, too, and we recognized a couple of those crazy kids from Shrinking and Wicked. As often happens when a former cast member hosts, the show was full of self-referential bits, and they were old enough that we felt in on the joke. Martin Short is still as ridiculous as ever, and? 

There was spitting.

We enjoyed the show so much that I remembered that old sad feeling I used to get when the musical guest performed their second number. It meant that there was only one sketch left, and it probably wasn't funny, and then we would have to wait a whole week, or two, or all summer until Saturday Night was live again.

In Memory

"I just finished The Women by Kristin Hannah," my friend Amy mentioned at dinner a few weeks ago when she was visiting from Arizona. "It was amazing."

It just so happened that I was looking for an audiobook for our road trip to Mountain Lake that weekend, and the premise of the novel, the story of a young woman who enlists as an Army nurse in Vietnam and her experiences there and upon her return to the States, seemed like something Heidi and I would like. The fact that it was narrated by Jill Whelan was a plus-- I have enjoyed her work on several other recordings.

We were rolling through the Piedmont of Virginia as the novel started in 1967, Coronado Beach, CA, and we followed the saga of Frankie McGrath all the way to the southern Blue Ridge Mountains and home again, with more than half of the book to go. "This is brutal," I said after her first week in Vietnam. "She's gotta get a win soon." And she did, becoming an extremely competent OR nurse at an evac hospital, despite or maybe because of the brutal conditions she was thrown into. Over her time in the country, she made lifelong friends and lost some, too, and we were as relieved as she was when she headed back to California.

We continued listening a couple weeks later all the way to Buffalo as Frankie faced a rocky adjustment to life at home, her ups and downs propelling the trip forward. And we heard the end of the book a little more than an hour into our trip home, shaking our heads to emerge from the late 70s into present-day Pennsylvania. 

And, although I found the book flawed in many ways, heavy-handed, overwrought, and predictable in places, I was profoundly moved by the real-life experiences written there, particularly the invisibility and subsequent struggle of the over a quarter million women who served in Vietnam. So today, when we loaded Lucy in the car and headed downtown for a walk on the National Mall, we hadn't gone far when I suggested we visit the Vietnam Memorial, a place I usually pass by without a second glance as I round the reflecting pool.

We paused more than a moment at the Vietnam Women's Memorial, erected in 1993, more than 20 years after the war ended. Three women are shown in it, one holding a bandaged soldier, another shading her eyes looking skyward, and a third on her knees in perhaps grief, but more likely, exhaustion. Eight trees are planted around its cobblestone circle, one for each woman killed there. 

I don't think I'll ignore it again.

Weather Machine

Despite the news article I read yesterday predicting substantial snow for the mid-Atlantic region in early January, our late December weather has turned unseasonably mild today. We've had the sliding glass door open since noon, a light breeze wafting its way past the Christmas tree and freshening the house. 

Outside, the temperate weather reminded me of winter holidays spent nearly 50 years ago in the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia. There was something about the slant of the sun and the soft air on my bare arms that took me back to those December days spent on the salt flats along the shore of the Arabian Gulf. Our family collected driftwood for a beach fire and steamed the little neck clams we pulled from the sandy bottom of the shallow sea. We had the beach to ourselves, and my dad taught us how to drive in our '75 Plymouth Fury sedan.

Is it possible that this weather is that weather? I asked myself and consulted the weather app on my phone. In Al Khobar, Saudi Arabia, the temperature will be in the mid-60s tomorrow, just as it is here today. 

I doubt they'll get that January snow, though.

Holiday Twist

"How did the movie end?" Heidi asked me this morning. Last night, she simply couldn't keep her eyes open to see how our umpteenth Hallmark movie of the season turned out.

"Well," I reported, "there were some surprises."

She raised her eyebrows. "Do tell."

"It turned out her best friend was actually dead," I started.

"The one she texted?"

"Yes, and left voice messages for, and who sent her the Christmas Bingo game. The friend died earlier in the year, and she still wasn't over it."

Heidi nodded thoughtfully.

"They also didn't save the bookstore." I shook my head. "They sold it, and he took the money and left. So, they didn't end up together at Christmas."

"What?!" Heidi interjected.

"Right! She went back to her job in New York, and her boss congratulated her on taking time for self-care, and also for pushing the company to take a risk on an unknown writer, although the expectation was for her to return to the high profile books. But then he came to NY, and brought mistletoe, even though it was March, and told her that he could write anywhere, and then they kissed, and that was the last item on the Bingo card."

"So she didn't give up her stressful career to move to an idyllic small town to run a family business?" Heidi clarified.

"Just the opposite," I confirmed. "But? They still lived happily ever after. Of course."

Heaven Furbid

I couldn't resist the book called Crafting with Cat Hair when I was shopping for stocking stuffers. I thought my sister-in-law, the artist, would appreciate it, being both an artisan and a cat owner, and she did, although I don't think she'll be rushing to create the cute felted finger puppet on the cover. 

Even so, the family was indulgent last night as I spun my fantasy of not only collecting and crafting from our own pets' coats but also getting so proficient at processing animal hair that we would charge others for the service. 

"People could ship us their beloved pet's fur," I said, "and we could card it, spin it into yarn, or felt it and send it back to them ready to use. I'm sure there's a market for that!"

"You want to get boxes of dog and cat hair in the mail?" my brother scoffed. "You would definitely have a flea problem."

"Oh, no!" I answered. "We could just keep it in the shed."

Ba dump bump.

Render Unto Caesar

"Just toss those out," my mother-in-law gestured to the leftover pieces of garlic bread she had served with her Christmas Eve lasagna.

"Let's save them," I suggested. "I can make croutons tomorrow."

I spotted the bag of bread the next afternoon as I was prepping the rib roast and peeling the potatoes. I knew I wanted a salad for dinner, too, and the hit of garlic I got when I undid the twist tie practically shouted, "Caesar!" which is usually a crowd pleaser.

Once the croutons were toasting away, I turned my attention to the dressing. I've made many a classic Caesar over the years, but I knew raw egg would not be well received by my diners, and there was no anchovy to be had, either paste or filet. I had garlic, though, and so I pounded it with some sea salt to a creamy paste. Next, I added a little Worcestershire sauce (it does have anchovies!), Dijon mustard, and a bit of mayonnaise to contribute a little egginess to the emulsion. I whisked in olive oil, finished it with white wine vinegar, and voila! 

"Delicious salad!" my mother-in-law proclaimed when we seated at dinner. "It must be the croutons."

So to Speak

I gave myself a huge pat on the back when I got 10 out of 10 on the NY Times quiz "Do You Know 2024 Speak?" Even so, I'm afraid I may have peaked in performance because a lot of the credit should go to all the middle school kids I spent time with in the first half of the year. They schooled me on Bet, Skibidi Toilet, Stanley Cups, Ohio, and the new meaning of preppy. 

I also have to give credit to Harrison Ford and the show Shrinking for bringing raw dogging to my attention and to the mainstream, liberal media for flagging trad wife. I take credit for "very mindful, very demure," though; I found that meme myself.

And the rest? Was just solid test-taking skills.

Well, Wasn't That Fun?

After dinner, a few arms were twisted last night, resulting in one, and only one, round of the Christmas carol trivia game I packed. Aside from the single-round condition, the other concessions were that we played in teams, and we had to listen to the carol in question after each answer. "And you and Heidi have to be on separate teams," was Louise's final demand.

Done, done, done, we started the game. Mark and Heidi got off to a fast start, answering multiple-choice and fill-in-the-blank questions about Jingle Bells, Silent Night, and Little Drummer Boy (despite my partner trying to sing other songs to distract them). When it was our turn, we answered one easy question about The Twelve Days of Christmas and another about Away in a Manger but stumbled on a multiple choice question about The Most Wonderful Day of the Year: "What island is mentioned in the song?" Mark read from the card. "Is it A) Santa Island, B) Christmas Island, or C) The Island of Misfit Toys?"

"It's not the Island of Misfit Toys!" I scoffed, but neither of us could recall Andy Williams singing about any island at all in the song. Finally we guessed Santa Island, and we were shocked when Mark read the answer: The Island of Misfit Toys! 

"How can that be?" Louise asked in dismay. "Aren't song titles copywrited?"

"Titles aren't," I sighed, "But--"

"Let's play the song," said Heidi, and it was then we discovered that there are indeed two songs of similar but not identical titles, It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Andy Williams and The Most Wonderful Day of the Year written by Johnny Marks for the Rankin/Bass classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

"This is why I hate games," Louise said as we handed over the dice to Heidi and Mark.

"We can still rally!" I encouraged her, and thank goodness we did, winning the game in a squeaker entirely owing to the exact count rule at the end. 

"Anyone up for another round?" I asked optimistically. "Maybe we can try some of the sing the next line questions?" But they were already packing up the game.

Dark in the Lightness

Right after dark this evening, Heidi and I took our annual drive around her childhood neighborhood to see all the holiday lights. In general, the folks up here in Buffalo take their landscaping and lawns seriously, and holiday lights fit right in with that ethos. 

We played Christmas music on the radio as we rolled along the winding suburban streets, and a thin layer of snow blanketed all the yards. Like every year, we were treated to a variety of decorating styles. There were a few demure houses with candles in the windows and white lights on the lawn, but they were vastly outnumbered by inflatables. One home had the whole cast from Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer humming away in front. Many places ran colored lights along their rooflines, a classic look I appreciated. Some people still had the vintage light-up lawn ornaments that I remember from my childhood: Santa, snowmen, and the holy family glowed incandescently. A few places only used blue and red lights in honor of the hometown Buffalo Bills and the amazing season they are having.

"What's that one?"I asked Heidi, pointing at an illuminated banner. 

"It's Trump Save America," she reported with a sigh. 

"That's not very Christmasy," I said and turned up the radio a bit. Just then, the song changed to Sleighbells by the Ray Connif Singers, and we turned onto Heidi's street, where every single house was lit up. "There," I nodded, "that's much better."

First Time's a Charm

It seemed like half of Buffalo was out and about with us today as we ran the (fingers crossed) last of our holiday errands. Everyone was in pretty good humor, though, especially with both a football game and Christmas so near at hand. 

Since we were at Wegmans, we decided to grab a quick lunch, and as I sat down with my tomato bread and Topo Chico, I found that the top on my soda was not twist-off. I returned to the self-checkout and approached the young woman leaning against the workstation, ready to help."Do you have a bottle opener?" I asked, waving my drink.

She nodded, turned toward a mesh pencil holder on the counter, and fished through it. In a moment, she triumphantly produced a small opener.

"I guess I didn't think it through," I laughed and handed her my bottle.

Her eyes grew wide. "I've never used one of these before!" she confessed.

"Oh!" I replied, charmed by her honesty. "It's easy! You can definitely do it."

"Just don't make fun of me," she said, only half joking. 

"I'm actually kind of excited to be present for the big occasion!" I added.

Then she took a breath and hesitantly placed the fulcrum of the opener below the pleated lip of the cap. Then she flipped her wrist and leveraged that sucker right off.

"I knew you could do it!" I cheered as she handed me the bottle. "Thank you."

She smiled.

"Did you get it open?" Heidi asked when I returned to the table.

"Yep!" I answered. "And? Not only did I get my drink, but I also got a topic for my blog."

The Bar and the Church

As part of my genealogy research account, I also have access to an online newspaper archive, and I confess to getting lost there at times. For example, a couple years ago, I spent an hour or two looking at Christmas cookie recipes in the Philadelphia Inquirer from the late 60s and early 70s, knowing that my mom had once read these same articles. 

Recently, I found myself immersed again in the archives of the Inquirer. This time it was a more specific search centered around the location of Jack's Bar, the place my dad often went to after work. Some evenings, my mom would pile us into the car, and we would drive into the city to pick him up there. Parking was at a premium, so she usually sent either my brother or me past the wrought iron grate and down the stairs into the place to fetch my dad. 

I learned that the establishment was on the lower level of a historic building just a block from Independence Hall. Built sometime in the mid-19th century, it housed a stationary store and paper warehouse and later The Philadelphia Call, a biweekly newspaper published for a couple decades starting in the 1890s. It was also the site of a furniture and home goods store before falling into a bit of decline with the rest of the neighborhood. The 1960s brought an urban renewal project to Independence Hall and its surrounds, though, and that particular building was demolished a of decades or so later.

Tangentally? I turned up this photo, which was also from the Inquirer, published on November 10, 1969, in the New Jersey section. An interesting juxtaposition! I will note, though, that the church is still there today.

Christmas Time Is Here

Paradoxically, now that Winter Break has actually started, the anxiety level around here seems to have ratcheted up instead of down. In this house, we're getting organized and packed to drive to Buffalo tomorrow, and even though there are just a few more packages to wrap and the shopping, baking, decorating, and cleaning are done, the vibe has shifted from festive to fraught. 

It's as if, now that school is out, the holiday just got real for all the educators out there whose attention was focused on trying to hold everything together one last week. In a twist on the winter solstice, the longest week of the year is followed by what seems to be the shortest of holiday lead times.

My theory was only confirmed when Treat texted me from his school this afternoon. I made it to winter break! he wrote. There was a pause, and then he added, I can't believe Christmas is only 5 days away.

Old Faithful

Since Allyn was in town less than 24 hours, I thought it might be nice to take her to lunch today before dropping her off at Dulles for her flight to Amsterdam. She follows a gluten-free diet, but that isn't really a big deal around here. Even so, I invited her to Carlyle, a neighborhood staple with excellent gluten-free options.

At 12:30 on a Thursday, the place was full, and the hostess told us it would be a 15 to 25-minute wait. I deferred to my guest, and she opted to stay, so we took a seat on the banquette by the plate glass windows beneath the stairs and waited in companionable silence. Unlike many of my fellow patrons, I did not take out my phone as I sat. Instead, I people-watched, observed the busy restaurant at work, and considered how lucky it is to have such a dependable place within walking distance of home. 

Carlyle has been open for nearly 40 years, but I remember when it was new and called Carlyle Grand. The tasteful Art Deco decor has held up well; vintage-inspired then, it is classic now. The menu seems to have changed very little over the years, too, but I know that's not true. A rather tepid 1987 review by Phyllis Richmond praises the polenta, pan-fried veal dumplings, and noodle cake appetizers, which are dishes that vanished decades ago.

At any rate, I can honestly say I've never had a bad meal at Carlyle. Over the years, it's been a reliable go-to for brunch (donut holes and smoked trout with eggs!) and dinner. I've taken countless out-of-town guests there and celebrated many last days of school with a lobster roll for lunch. Their fries are nearly always perfect, and they have one of the best burgers in town.

Today, it was worth the wait. We were seated upstairs within 20 minutes, surrounded by six tops of what seemed to be office holiday revelers. The vibe was festive, and the service was friendly and efficient. Allyn loved her burger, and my grilled chicken sandwich was tender and juicy, served on crispy grilled bread with a tangy smear of mustard.

And the fries were perfect.

Fun and Not Fun

In advance of an overnight visit from Allyn, our 24-year-old goddaughter, I ordered a new game. Even though she spent lots of time here as a kid, it's been years since Allyn's last visit-- especially since she moved out to Oregon a few years ago-- now most of her East Coast time is spoken for by her parents and grandparents.

But she is in transit tonight. Her parents will meet her at the airport tomorrow, and the three of them will fly to Germany to spend Christmas with her younger sister, who is doing her junior year of college abroad. When the girls stayed with us when they were little, we always played games after dinner, and yesterday, when I saw an ad for Cat in a Box, I thought it might be a good fit to carry on the tradition. 

First of all, the title refers to Schrodinger's theoretical cat-- the one he hypothesized could be both dead and alive at the same time in his famous thought experiment concerning quantum physics. Allyn's dad is a high school science teacher, and they actually have a miniature schnauzer named Schrodinger (or Odie, as he is fondly known). I knew Allyn had suggested his name, too.

Secondly, it is a bidding and tricks game, and Heidi and I were recently at a teacher happy hour where folks were playing spades. Watching the game made us remember how much we like cards, and we agreed to look for more opportunities to play.

Cat in a Box ended up being a complicated version of Spades. The cards had numbers, but no suits;  each player has to declare the suit of their card when they play it. There are guidelines and trackers, because while any card can be both a red six and a green six when it's in your hand, once played, there can only be one red six per game. There is also bidding, and of course paradoxes arise, which is only fitting for a game inspired by Schrodinger.

As it turned out, Allyn had never played a plain bidding game, so these clever twists were lost on her. But, after watching an instructional video, we were able to play through the three hands required for a complete game. After the firs round, I checked in with Allyn. "How's it going?" I asked. "Do you get it?"

"Well," she answered drily, "I understand it better than quantum physics."

What Happened?

Spread over a half mile of our route to school this morning were vast swaths of wet and flattened cardboard boxes in the middle of streets.  It was difficult to imagine such an event happening without the perpetrator being aware, and yet there was no evidence of where they had come from. Nor was there any effort to clean them up, so some cars swerved around them while other vehicles ran right over, grinding them to slick piles of pulp.

Rush hour loomed, backups were forming around some of the larger mounds, drivers were getting testy, and it was hard to see how everything would work out. 

But I guess it did, because everything was clear, not even a trace of cardboard, by 3 when I picked Heidi up.

A First Noel

It was a little later than usual when I took Lucy for a walk this evening, but I was happy to get a chance to look at even more holiday lights as we strolled in the December dark. And there were many to see, twinkling and blinking outside and shining warmly through the windows as we passed. Near the end of our loop, I spotted a plain, fluffy white wreath on someone's door and thought how much better it might look bedecked with colored lights. 

Before I could scold myself for being so judgy, a memory gently nudged my brain, and I was transported back to Christmas 1975. Our family had arrived in Saudi Arabia less than 2 months before, and our household shipment had not yet been delivered. We didn't mind too much because, until a week before Christmas, we didn't even have a house. We lived first in an adjoining pair of hotel rooms and then in the house of a family my mother had befriended and who were spending the holiday in their native Australia.

But a couple of days before Christmas, a house opened up for us, and we moved to our own place. It was furnished by my dad's company, but we had nothing except our suitcases and the items we had accrued since we got there in late October. We were able to rescue our dog from the kennel where she had been staying, though, and we rejoiced that our entire family was reunited at last. 

My mother was perhaps one of the most resourceful people I have ever known, and in the absence of any decorations and none available to buy in that Muslim kingdom, she bent together several coat hangers and, using tissues and twist ties, created a huge white wreath that she hung in the front picture window. Where she acquired the string of colored lights, I don't know, but as it shone in the darkness, that wreath was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.

Our gifts were placed beneath it, and when the sun rose over the desert on the other side of the wall around our house, we opened them. The day was balmy and not at all the Christmas weather we had come to expect growing up in the northeastern US, but my mom pointed out that it was probably pretty similar to the weather on the first Christmas, which was satisfying enough. We had all that we needed, and it was a very merry Christmas indeed.

Only So Many

Even as we decorate our home for Christmas, I've found my plan to downsize is still in action. Today I crawled to the back corner of the attic and slid out a bin that hasn't been opened for a couple of years. Why not now? asked the retired me, even as I remembered how overwhelming the holidays are for someone who works full-time. In it, I found several cookie tins and a teacher's career's worth of Christmas coffee mugs of all sizes. And I smiled in gratitude for the thoughtful gesture that each one represented as I moved it to the giveaway box.

Getting the Dander Up

I generally don't mind cleaning house, and it was my idea to cut our housekeeper's visits to once a month when I retired. Even so, in the early weeks of my new responsibility, I found vacuuming particularly onerous. Just the thought of hauling the expensive upright we purchased a decade ago up and down the stairs made it difficult to get motivated for any chore. 

Our house might have quickly declined into slovenliness if it had not occurred to me to do a little research on those new, lightweight stick vacuums. And lucky me! I found one with excellent reviews on sale for only 75 bucks. 

I was still a little skeptical when it arrived, and it languished in its box for a few days while I let other things take priority over our floors. But with two long-haired cats and a dog who tracks in all manner of soil, not to mention that I am less than conscientious about crumbs when cooking, the place needed to be vacuumed. How delighted was I when the new gadget was super-efficient, lightweight, and easy to use? Not only did I no longer dread vacuuming, but I looked for vacuuming opportunities almost every day.

The only drawback was that the battery life was just this side of 45 minutes, and it took several hours to recharge. The other day, though, when that amazing machine cleaned up all the needles our tree had dropped as I put the lights on, it occurred to me that we could get a second battery. 

And so I did. (Fair warning to you, dust and dirt: my cleaning capacity has doubled!)

Dear Prospective Juror

I recognized the envelope right away.

But today, when I received my summons to jury duty, gone was that knee-jerk anxiety, the worry that I would be seated or not, and either way, I would have to make sub plans on the fly for days or even weeks,  modifying and amending my lessons so that they might work whether I was there or not, because I wouldn't know until 5 PM the night before if I would be available to teach.

My only concern, today? We don't have a 2025 calendar hanging in the kitchen yet, so I can circle January 28, and write Jury Duty.

Let There Be Lights!

The year 2020 had a lot of things going against it, but pandemic aside? It was a big year for Christmas lights. In this area, at least, tons of people stuck at home but with the privilege to spend their time and money on such things went all out on their holiday decorations. It was one of the joys of the year to walk outside with friends and ooh and aah over the lights.

The ensuing years cannot compare, and I confess that, although I understand, I am disappointed, even in myself. 

When we were down in Myrtle Beach for Thanksgiving, I felt like that vibe could be changing: so many houses had so many lights. I wondered if it was a function of the percentage of retirees residing in that neighborhood (God knows we have time on our hands and the willingness to use it), but back at home, I noticed a similar trend.

"It's like everyone said, 'Let's get those Christmas lights out of the attic!" this year," I said to Heidi the other evening as we walked Lucy in the gathering dusk. Then I shrugged. "But it does seem like a good idea."

And I am in! I did our lower deck tonight, and I've got plans for the upstairs and front porch, too. As the longest night of the year approaches, any light in the darkness makes my heart sing a little.

Out in the Storm

The weather was predicted to worsen as the day wore on, so at noon, I laced up my boots, put on my raincoat, and took Lucy out for a walk. The wind was manageable, and the temperatures had not yet fallen to their predicted chill, so we ambled a relatively pleasant two miles before turning back toward home. 

No one else was out, so it seemed as if we had the world to ourselves, winding in and out and behind the bike paths, buildings, and courtyards of our neighborhood. Lucy was all in; a little rain never dampened her sense of smell or exploration. As we neared home, I collected a few evergreen branches and holly sprigs for a Christmas arrangement just before the wind picked up. 

It was a lovely walk. 

A few hours later, when I went to fetch Heidi from school in a now torrential downpour, the radio was tuned to a holiday station. Michael Buble sang, "Oh, the weather outside is frightful!" 

And I had to agree, but when he continued the song, I made a little lyrical substitution for myself, "but since it's no use to complain, let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!"

Check that Out

This afternoon, I had to reach higher than usual to put my groceries on the cashier's belt. For a moment, I wondered if I was shrinking, but when I got to the register and met the tall young man working there, I understood. Even so, I couldn't help myself. "This belt is so high!" I told him. 

He laughed and showed me the switch that could raise and lower it.

"That's crazy!" I said. "I've never noticed that they are adjustable!"

"It's good for me," he laughed again, and we continued to chat amiably as he scanned my groceries. 

As we talked, I noticed he was wearing a button that read, I'm new around here, so I asked him how long he'd been on the job.

He told me a complicated story about his first two weeks and then his second two weeks, and then he shook his head and laughed again. "Let's say about a month," he answered, then held up my rutabaga. "What's this?" 

"Rutabaga or yellow turnip," I told him and watched as he quickly typed in some letters on his screen. Rutabaga flashed by momentarily, but then he swiped to a different screen. "Oh! I saw it back there!" I told him. "The code was 4747."

"You saw it?" he asked with surprise but typed in the numbers. Rutabaga flashed across the display, and he tapped enter.

"Maybe you should work here, too!" he said.

"Maybe," I agreed, "but we'd definitely have to lower the belt!"

Have Yourself a Sloppy Little Christmas

I'd gotten a bit behind on my Hallmark Christmas movie viewing this year until we spent a weekend at a mountain resort with its own Christmas Village. Then, tuning into a Christmas movie before bed seemed just right. 

Over the weekend, we saw most or part of several of this year's new offerings, and I noticed a trend. Almost every story we watched featured a middle-aged woman who wanted Christmas to be perfect. Whether she was the main character, the main character's mom, or the boyfriend's mom, by the end of the movie, she always learned that imperfection makes each Christmas special. As long as the family has each other, whether in person or in spirit, the holiday is a success.

An ad for Hallmark that ran several times during every movie reinforced this common theme. The message of the commercial was that Hallmark may inspire us at the holidays, but the rest is up to us, so relax and enjoy your holiday.

I have to wonder-- has there been a backlash? Has Hallmark been getting some shade about presenting Christmas scenarios that are too perfect and somehow deflating their core viewership? Such a scenario seems kind of likely, and count on that network to know it, too. 

Even so? It's a lesson worth remembering.

Dry Spell

I saw Dirty Dancing when it came out in 1987. It was at the end of the summer after my dad died. My brother had moved to D.C., my girlfriend had moved to Milwaukee, my sister was in college, and I was working as a cook at a local cafe and catering company. My day off was the middle of the week, and rather than spend my time alone in the blinding sun on the crowded beach, I sought refuge in a dark theater at the mall. 

It must have been what was playing at the time I got there, and I remember being pleasantly charmed by the movie. So much so that I saw it again with a group of friends a week or so later. Of course, the film has gained and maintained iconic status in the nearly 40 years since, but I don't think I ever saw it again.

Until today. 

Since we are staying at one of the main filming locations, watching Dirty Dancing seemed like a perfect afternoon activity, especially after walking the property and hiking around the lake basin. And seeing it was nuts! That movie was unquestionably filmed right here, within sight of where we were sitting. Baby's cabin, the stone lodge, the gazebo by the lake, are all exactly the same. But the lake?

Well... Marvelous and Mysterious Mountain Lake has had some ups and downs (literally) since 1986 when the movie was shot. The lake is a legend for its fluctuating levels, and during the production, the water covered 55 acres, and the hotel property was waterfront. In the decades since, though, despite engineering and attempted restoration, the lake has receded to only a few acres at the far end of the basin, nearly out of view of the resort. 

Throughout the movie, that was almost all I could focus on. Anytime they showed the water, I gasped. I didn't realize what was missing until I saw it.

It just so happened that as we were watching the movie, a dear friend texted us that her elder dog was having a health crisis. We paused the film a few times to read the updates and send messages as supportive as we could.

Research has assured me that this dry spell for the lake is not evidence that anything is wrong with, but rather that it is working just as it always has. Mountain Lake's geology and topology are unique not just to this area but to the world. The last time it was at full capacity was 2005, and although nothing is for sure, that could, and probably will, change in the future.

I confess that I am finding it a little difficult to appreciate how cool these fluctuations are, especially when I see the lake at its lowest. Could it be allegorical? If so, I wonder what the lesson is and whether I can pass the test at the end.

The Last Leg

"Bill would HATE this," I commented as we drove up the winding mountain road; the higher we got, the steeper the drop-off. 

But the views! I would have loved them if I wasn't behind the wheel piloting us on the final 7 miles of our road trip to Mountain Lake Lodge. At 5:30, the December sun was long gone behind the mountains to the west, but the sky was magnificent. 

"Is that snow?" Heidi asked.

"Yup. Are those deer?" I asked in return.

And then, there it was: So many holiday lights! The lodge, the trees, the Christmas Village all lit up on the top of the mountain. Was it, dare I say? Dazzling?

Indeed it was.

Good for Something

In my many years of teaching English, I gave my fair share of standardized tests, both real and practice. Inevitably, there were student complaints, most along the lines of, "Why are the readings soooooo boring?" In real testing situations, I was prohibited by law from looking at these onerous passages, but the same was not true for the practice exams. Even so, I rarely read those tests carefully; usually, I was too busy grading and planning some activities that would actually teach the students to read and write rather than artificially gauge their abilities. But one day, the sighs and whimpers were too much. 

"What. is. wrong?" I asked.

"This test is soooooo boring!" a student whined, and many others agreed.

"What are you talking about?" I said and walked over to look at the passage. "Mysterious and Marvelous Mountain Lake" was the title. I quickly scanned the seven paragraphs and was not bored at all. Instead, I read a super interesting little article about one of the two natural lakes found in Virginia. For many years, its pattern of draining and filling baffled science until they discovered a huge drain hole in the bottom of the lake. It has also been a tourist destination for centuries: the first hotel was built in 1850.

"You guys!" I proclaimed. "This is NOT boring! Who knew there was such a marvelous and mysterious lake right here in Virginia!"

The class rolled their eyes at me.

"I mean it!" I doubled down. "It has a hole in it! It is beautiful! There is a historic hotel there! I am totally going on vacation to Mountain Lake one day!"

And that day? Is tomorrow! 

Last year, Heidi gave me a gift certificate to Mountain Lake Lodge for my birthday, and a few months ago, I booked a cabin there, just in time for their Christmas festivities. In addition to that lake, the Christmas Village and Marketplace, the miles of hiking trails, and other resort activities, the property was the filming location for Dirty Dancing. It's going to be uh-mazing!

I guess the SOL is good for something, after all.

Oh Hey, Heather

Reserve yours today! read the email. There is a Christmas Tree shortage this year. 

Heidi and I had been working to find the right time for this fun holiday chore, and this message galvanized me. Never mind the cold front sweeping through our region— wind chill be damned! We had to get our tree today! 

So I picked her up from school at 3, and we headed out to a local nursery—the very one who had sent me the email. The lot was deserted when we arrived, and there seemed to be no shortage of trees, so we sat a moment in the warm car, scoping out the situation as clouds of random topsoil and mulch swirled by. At last, I switched off the ignition, put on my mittens, and walked into the icy wind toward the nearest row of Fraser Firs.

A couple of days ago, I heard a story on the radio about the challenges that Christmas Tree farmers in North Carolina, the leading producer of Fraser Firs, were facing: climate change, extreme storms, and a spreading root rot called Phytophthora (Latin for plant destroyer). As bleak as that all sounded, I also learned that there is a whole field dedicated to preserving resilient Christmas Tree DNA, and that made me happy.

Today, I pulled out the second tree in the first row of Frasers, and dang! It was perfect. This particular nursery happens to name all of their trees, as regular readers may recall, and this one was Heather. We walked around a bit to make sure, but we needn't have, in less than 10 minutes, Heather was tied to the top of our car, and we were on the way home.

Riding the Cycle

By the time I retired last June, I'd been threatening to start a pickleball club at school for a couple of years. Unfortunately, the stars did not align: I was too busy, the activities coordinator was too busy, and the rec center attached to our school was unwilling to share space.

Since then, a couple of things have changed. Besides the fact that I'm no longer very busy at all (Hallelujah!), the activities coordinator offered the court on the school side of the fieldhouse if I was willing to do it on Wednesday when the teaching staff has meetings. I agreed, so he sent out a couple of messages on the LMS and added some info on the morning announcement, and today was the inaugural day. 

Of course, I came prepared. Knowing my clientele and the time of day we would meet, I researched age-appropriate strategies, drills, and games. I brought my bucket of balls, some cones, the extra paddles a parent donated last year, and some Jolly Ranchers. I also borrowed a Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, Pizza deck from Heidi. (It's a good icebreaker, and the cards are like tickets for the winners of the mini-games and challenges.)

At 2:45, a group of ten seventh-grade boys voluntarily assembled. I knew eight of them. The court was in the middle of the unstructured after-school sports choice activity, which was a distraction as I led them through my own very structured activity. It wasn't flawless, but it worked, and at the end of the hour, the kids had a better knowledge of the game.

And now? I have lots of ideas for improvement. Of course.

Birthday Adventure

My aunt set her purse on the restaurant floor and scooted her chair over. We were on the final stop of our adventure, an outing we had planned to celebrate her 88th birthday. 

Over the last three hours she had given me a tour of historic Greenbelt, MD, the community she and my mom had grown up in. We had seen their houses and retraced their routes to school, the lake, the shopping center, and the pool. She had pointed out the tree under which the two of them waited every afternoon for my grandmother to return from her job at the Pentagon. "We saluted every car with a person in uniform in it," she laughed. "It was wartime, you know."

After Greenbelt, we drove the short distance to American Legion Post 136, a place I had spent quite a bit of time when I was a child. "Do you think we'll find any kittens in the window wells?" I joked as we approached the converted farmhouse. Trying the glass door, I was pleased to find it unlocked, and we showed ourselves in. There was a glass display case with some memorabilia, and I could see the restaurant and bar through a door beyond. We paused in a room with plaques on the wall engraved with the names of all the past commanders and presidents of the ladies' auxiliary. There we found the names of both of my grandparents. "Can I help you?" asked a woman of about 50 with some alarm. 

It turned out that the place was closed; we had only gotten in because the door was unlocked for the contractor who was onsite to give an estimate for roof repair. She politely showed us out, even as we explained who we were and why we were there. She shrugged with a mixture of apology and indifference at the mention of my grandfather and the baseball league named for him, and then she bolted the door behind us.

The next stop was the house where my grandparents lived when I was a child. It was smaller than in my recollection, but I could picture every room. There was the bay window in the dining room, the small kitchen window, my grandparents' bedroom, the attic. I reminded my aunt of how hot and stuffy the place would get on Sundays in winter, my grandfather would be cooking a prime rib and smoking a cigar and all the other adults were smoking, too. The gas fireplace was cranking heat and all the kids would lie with our faces on the cool plastic of the carpet runner, gasping for cool air on the floor.

And now we were at a restaurant known for its southern-style cooking. A young waitress came over to get our drink orders, but paused before she did to push a chair over to the other side of my aunt. "This is for your purse," she said.

I remembered a friend from work who told us that in some African American circles it's considered bad luck to put your purse on the floor. "Thank you!" I told our server, "Otherwise she'll never have any money!" 

She laughed and walked away. "Who cares?" my aunt said. "I feel rich, because today was such an amazing day!"

Adventures in Advent

"Did we have Advent Calendars when we were little?" my brother asked me the other day.

"No," I answered. "We had the Advent Wreath, and Mom lit a candle every Sunday until Christmas. Remember?"

He nodded.

"I don't think it was thing," I continued. "I never even saw one until I was in school in Switzerland."

By the time my nephews were kids I the 90s, Advent Calendars were easy to find at specialty stores like World Market. Their Grandma Judy used to get both of them their own with a chocolate for every day each year, and those simple cardboard jobs with a holiday scene printed on them were the same ones I remember seeing in Europe.

For a few years in the early oughts, I read one chapter a night in December from Jostein Gaarder's book, The Christmas Mystery, which is essentially a literary Advent Calendar. The book is written in daily chapters and tells the story of Joachim, a boy who finds an old Advent calendar that uncovers the story of a girl named Elisabet, who disappeared from her home fifty years earlier. Elisabet has been taken back through time and space, across Europe to Palestine, to see the Holy Family in Bethlehem. Two thousand years of history flash by, and angels, shepherds, and wise men join her on her joyful pilgrimage. Joachim makes it possible for her to come home. It was a nice way to mark the season.

I'm not sure when it happened, but sometime since then, Advent countdowns have exploded. Even the NY Times Wirecutter has reviews and recommendations of products that will help you count down the days until Christmas. Even so, it wasn't until I received an email in October of this year from a specialty coffee retailer offering 24 days of exquisite beans that I finally joined the fun. The coffee calendar was expensive but so appealing: maybe it was the retiree in me, but I could totally imagine Heidi and me sampling fine coffees from around the world each morning in December. "This is the Framily from Yirgachaffee," I might say. "Can you taste the notes of citrus and blueberry?"

And that is exactly how it has been, two days in. The calendar provides enough beans to brew a single pot of coffee we enjoyed together. But I was so excited about the prospect of the coffee that I also ordered an Advent jigsaw puzzle: it's 1,000 pieces parceled out into 24 little boxes so that each day, Heidi and I work together to assemble 40 or so pieces to add to a fun holiday scene. 

And as if that wasn't enough, my sister got Heidi a gnome-themed Advent Calendar for her birthday in November. Even though it hasn't been exactly as advertised, we have had fun the last couple of mornings opening the little windows to discover what non-gnome thing is in there. Then we put an ornament hanger on it, and hang it on the tiny pine tree in the pot out in front of our house. It looks adorable.

So, yeah, I get it. I see you, Advent, and I'm all in.

Too Kind

It's been a warm fall, but the absence of our regular wood peddlers has been notable. The last time we saw Lisa, she was rolling an oxygen tank behind her. As always, I'm sure she rang the doorbell and stepped respectfully back from the stoop. "I see y'all need a fill-up," she might have said, gesturing to our wood rack. 

I probably agreed, or more likely, Heidi did because she's usually the one to answer the door, but I'm sure I paid Lisa when she and her cousin were finished stacking the firewood they had hauled from their truck. 

"That should take you through to next year," I'm pretty sure she promised.

And I know I nodded agreeably. "Thank you," I answered. "Take care," I hope I added as I handed over the cash we always kept on hand for these transactions. "See you in the fall."

When the doorbell rang this morning, I knew it had to be her. It was December 1, 38 degrees, and our wood rack was getting low. From the kitchen, I could hear more conversation than usual when Heidi answered the door, and through the window, I saw Lisa's cousin. I went around to the front door.

"How much do we usually pay to fill the rack?" Heidi asked me. In a quieter voice, she added, "Lisa died this summer, and she wants to make sure she charges us the right amount."

"I'm so sorry," I said to the woman at the door. "We have always really appreciated the excellent service you have given us."

"Thank you," she nodded. "Lisa always wanted to make sure we took care of you. She always said, 'We gotta stop by the girls' house to see if they need anything.' I don't know what you paid, but I want to keep it the same out of respect to her."