Last Blast of Holiday Spirit

It was crowded at the grocery store this afternoon, but despite being shoulder to shoulder in several of the aisles, all our fellow shoppers were in good spirits. Later, as we checked out, I asked the cashier about her day. "It's been busy!" she confirmed, but then added, "I like it though! Everyone is happy for the holidays!"

Bird's Eye

The wind had come up, and the temperature had dropped as we made our way home from running errands late yesterday afternoon. Above us, thousands of crows wheeled this way and that in the gale, strewn beneath gray clouds as if someone had tossed a handful of pepper into the sky.

"Do you think they like it when they fly in the wind like that?" I asked Heidi. "Is it exhilarating or is it a struggle?"

She shrugged pensively.

"It's so stunning to see," I said. "I hope it's as thrilling to perform."

Against My Better Judgment

I didn't look carefully at the theater map when I selected our seats.

And so when we sat down three rows from the screen in a traditional, non-recliner theater, we had to crane our necks to take in the whole screen. As the previews elapsed and the feature's start grew nearer, Heidi and I both looked around for a couple of empty seats a little further from the screen that we could nab. 

When we saw a bunch in the very back row, I was tempted, but I insisted on checking my app first to see if they had been reserved. Luck was on our side, but it was still with some hesitance that I followed Heidi to slip quietly back there as the lights dimmed. 

Wouldn't you know it? A couple of minutes into the movie, a group of five trooped into the theater, using their phones as flashlights and noisily checking their paper stubs for their assigned seats. Of course, we were in them, and we fessed up right away to avoid further confusion and distraction from the movie. 

"No worries!" boomed the mom when we whispered our apologies for taking the unclaimed seats. "I do that all the time!" We crossed our fingers and took the last seats at the end of the row, and as her kids trooped up and down the stairs every ten minutes or so, I could certainly believe it.

2025 Christmas Cookies In and Out

In: 

Mandelbrot, 3 batches (light and crispy, never too sweet)

Out:

Rugelach, 0 batches (very conflicted feelings about this)

Holding steady:

Russian Teacakes, 2 batches (always a comforting favorite)

On the rise:

Clementine curd thumbprints, 2 batches (enthusiastic reception)

New this year:

Chocolate peppermint chip, 1 batch (Heidi loved them!)

Duck Tale

“Traditionally, the youngest at the table gets to eat the brains,” Julie said as she passed the platter of tea smoked duck. "So be careful, because the whole duck is on this platter."

We laughed and pointed at Treat. 

“And the most honored person--” she continued. 

“How do we determine that?” Bill interrupted. 

“It’s usually the oldest,” she answered. 

“That’s me!” I cried gleefully. 

“You get the butt,” she laughed, taking the platter from Victor. “Let me find it.” 

I looked at my plate. “You mean the tail?”

She nodded. 

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I already have it!”

Last Road Trip of the Year

The weather forecast was poor, ice storms along the route home, as we planned our departure from Buffalo today. Then, starting yesterday, even the map app warned us of treacherous conditions along the fastest route. But when I tapped the alternate, which was a mere eleven minutes longer, the app assured us that we would avoid icy weather if we drove that way. And so we set off this morning around ten, I in a jolly mood, eager to follow a novel route. 

And my disposition held, even when soft flurries began to brush off the windshield as we rolled southeast; the dusting of snow on the fallow farm fields was beautiful. But when, about an hour down the road, we passed a herd of cows whose backs were blanketed in white, the sight gave me pause. Soon, we were driving through a full-blown winter storm. 

The only saving grace was that the road was cold and the snow was dry, sweeping harmlessly off the windshield and across the roadway without accumulation. The temperature climbed slightly as we made our way south, though, and soon it was sleet and frozen rain, layering a half-inch of ice on our car. Miraculously, the road was not slippery, although we did need to chip off the ice from our wiper blades and headlights when we stopped for gas. 

Eventually, somewhere in southern Pennsylvania, the sleet subsided to rain, and we continued without further difficulty. The whole way, though, our car was cozy and warm, and traffic was light. We talked and ate Christmas cookies and finished our audiobook as the miles passed by, and soon enough? We were home.

Happy Christmas

"It came from some old magazine called Good Food, or something, and I think it's out of print," Heidi's mom said about the black walnut cake she made for Christmas dinner. "My hairdresser told me about it. She said that if she doesn't make this cake every year, her whole family complains. It's that good."

I nodded. 

"Anyway," she continued, "I couldn't find the magazine, but I found another recipe. I think it will be just as good."

I remembered our conversation this morning as I scanned through my library app. We have thousands of magazines! a banner assured me, and captivated, I clicked over. I tapped the food and dining filter and gasped when the first periodical that showed up was Good Food. 

Exploring the December issue of the magazine, I quickly realized it was a British publication. (The direction to "roll the pastry to the thickness of a £1 coin" was a dead giveaway!) I spent an enjoyable half-hour perusing English holiday recipes, most notably, (and I am not making this up!) Kentucky-fried pheasant and roast partridge with cannellini beans and bacon. (Okay, it was an article on taking a fresh perspective on game, but still.) 

The captions and titles were quintessentially British as well, for example, the piece on hors-d'ouevres made in the air-fryer called, "Deep and Crisp and Even." 😆 And I even loved the advertisements (pronounce it as you know you should-- stress on the second syllable, short i in the third). They were all

Barker ID

We heard a muffled bark from beyond a picture window as we walked the dogs this afternoon. Something about the pitch and the timbre struck a familiar chord with me, and I peered through the glass to see the dog. 

The brown-and-black German Shepherd looking out at us was not so much ferocious as excited, wagging its tail happily and barking to let our dogs know it was there. I smiled as we passed, recognizing the friendly bark as close to that of our childhood dog, Smokey. 

Was I imagining the similarity? Maybe. Although we can certainly pick Lucy's bark out of a pack, and there are days when our windows are open, Heidi will name the dog passing by the sound of its voice. "That's Cooper," she might say, or, "There goes Axel and Samba." Birds have distinct calls, too, varying by species, so is it really that far-fetched to think that dog breeds might have recognizable barks?

Christmas Special

Last night before bed, Heidi and I streamed the Christmas episode of SNL. Hosted by Ariana Grande with musical guest Cher, it was also Bowen Yang's last appearance as a regular cast member, a gig he's had since 2018. The humor was a bit dark, but the sentiment was mainly silly and sweet, and it hearkened back in that way to more classic holiday variety shows. 

And Cher sang my current favorite campy Christmas carol, DJ Play a Christmas Song. And my lord! She looked fantastic!

Sidewalk Philosopher

The ground was snowless as we walked the dogs this morning in the frigid air. But in the low spots on the sidewalks lay frosted panes of ice shattered in the places they had been stepped on. The sight reminded me of walking to school on winter days when I was a kid. Then, we raced ahead to be the one who got to stomp on the frozen sheets, reveling in the rewarding crunch as they splintered into shards of ice. Today, I wondered why it is sometimes so satisfying to break beautiful things.

Joys of Jello

We were discussing holiday menus with Heidi's mom tonight as we gathered around the table for the first meal of our Christmas visit. "Do you like Jello?" she asked as we brainstormed an easy brunch for Christmas morning.

"I'm not a big fan," I answered, "although I'm usually pleasantly surprised when I actually have it. Why?"

"I'm on a big Jello kick," she explained. "I love Jello, and found a cookbook I got for my wedding called The Joys of Jello, so I've been trying a lot of recipes from it."

"You're making Jello from a cookbook you received in 1966?" Heidi's brother asked in amusement. "What kind of things?"

"I made a delicious mold the other day for the neighbors with orange Jello, mandarin oranges, and orange sherbet," she answered. It was delicious! But I've made several other recipes, too."

I was all in. "If only you had a social media account to document your Jello journey!" I said. "I'm sure you would go viral!"

We Tried

Our friends and neighbors are finishing 2025 up with a bang. Not only are they having one of their IVF embryos implanted tomorrow, but in anticipation of their growing family, they also bought a four-bedroom house a few miles from here. Not surprisingly, their parents are super excited, a reaction intensified by the fact that they are both only children.

"You'll never believe what my parents said the other day," one of them told us. "They want to buy a king-sized adjustable bed for our guest room!"

"Awesome!" I said, considering the generosity of such an offer.

Her husband rolled his eyes. "We said no," he said.

"Those bedrooms are going to be for the kids one day," his wife added. "We told them a queen-sized bed would be fine. We already have the frame, and if they want to buy an adjustable mattress, they can," she shrugged.

"But guess what her dad said when we told them that?" her husband laughed.

"He said, 'I don't sleep in a queen bed'," the wife answered with exasperation.

Heidi and I made eye contact. Her parents were actually closer in age to us than our friends were. "It will be years before you need that bedroom for kids," I noted.

"And you know your parents are going to be a huge help when the baby is born," Heidi added.

"The older you get, a good night's sleep is not as easy to come by as you might think," I said. "And your parents are offering to pay for the whole bed."

They seemed to take what we said under consideration, but who knows? Maybe when things settle down a bit, they'll be more open.

A Friendly Recommendation

Subbing on the last day before winter break is not for the faint of heart, but I'm not faint-hearted, especially when it comes to sixth grade. That, plus a friend asked me to cover his American history class while he was recovering from wrist surgery.

His homeroom was kind of a shitshow with half the kids absent and the other half dedicated to doing anything except what they were supposed to.  And, first period was only slightly better as students "worked" to finish their posters on the Civil War. Finally, as an incentive, I offered anyone who completed their project, showed it to me, and made any changes I suggested the chance to play a game to win candy.

My gambit worked-- as a few students wrapped up the assignment and played the game, others locked in to get their chance, too. Then, about 20 minutes before the class ended, a student dropped her huge poster on the desk in front of me. "Here," she scoffed. "Can I play the game?"

I looked at the poster, which had no headings or illustrations, and advised her to add those requirements. She sighed loudly and whisked the poster away. In a minute, she was back. "Here," she repeated. "I'm done."

To my eye, the poster was unchanged. I looked up at her, but before I could speak, she said, "You said if we finish our posters, we can play the game."

"I said if you finish your poster and take my suggestions, you can play the game," I corrected her.

"I did take your suggestions," she told me. "I took them, and I threw them in the trash!"

"Oop!" I laughed, surprised by her audacious disrespect. "Good one! But you have to fix your poster if you want to play the game."

And she did.

Trolls Be Trollin

 Trump-Kennedy Center? Yuck.

We Wish You a Merry Christmas

Over the years, the number of Christmas cards we receive has dwindled. It's been our practice to hang the cards we receive in a wreath encircling the enormous mirror over our mantle, but last year we didn't even have enough to do that, so we used cute holiday clothespins to clip them to the garland we have strung across the window instead.

I completely understand the phenomenon; it's been decades since we sent our own holiday greetings. This time of year can be so hectic that some traditions fall by the wayside. Now that I'm retired, I have considered reinstating the practice, but I haven't progressed beyond the consideration phase. 

The ladies of my bowling league have an entirely different perspective, however. I was unprepared for the number of Christmas cards I received yesterday at our weekly match, and then again today at the holiday luncheon. Their greetings easily quadrupled those we already have this season, and how awesome it is that we may have to use both the mirror and the garland to display all the warm wishes that have been sent our way.

And? I definitely know how I'll be spending some of my time next Christmas!

...Until You try It

"Where are these famous Clementine cookies?" one of the teachers at our former school asked yesterday at the annual cookie exchange.

I pointed to a tin of thumbprint cookies filled with Clementine curd.

"Do you actually squeeze the Clementines?" she asked.

"Yeah, but it's not really that hard," I shrugged. "You just cut them in half and--" I gestured using the hinged citrus squeezer.

"But you made fresh-squeezed Clementine juice?" she laughed. "Really?"

"I guess I wouldn't be against buying it," I replied, "except I've never actually seen it anywhere. And you need it for the filling."

"Ridiculous!" she said and took a bite of her cookie. Her eyes widened. "But worth it!"

The Violent Femmes Method

One of Heidi's students was feeling frustrated and stood at the classroom door, ready to walk out. 

"I'm leaving!" he said. "You can't stop me!:"

"Okay," she replied, "but just so we're clear, if you leave without my permission, you will be suspended."

His eyes widened.

"And that will go on your permanent record for everyone to see, even your parents," she continued.

"Are you threatening me?" he sneered.

"No," she answered, "I'm just telling you what will happen if you walk out of here right now."

"Fine!" he said and turned on his heel to go back to his desk.

Prepositions Matter

Josh and his sister and her boyfriend stopped by for a few hours this afternoon on their road trip home to Pennsylvania from Roanoke. I had spent the morning baking, and enjoyed a crackling fire, milk and cookies as we visited. Jay had never been to DC, so he was puzzled when we started talking about kickball leagues. 

"Wait! Adults play kickball here?" he asked.

"Yeah," Josh answered. "Down on the mall."

Jay looked incredulous. "How do they play kickball in the mall?" he asked.

"Not 'in'," Josh corrected him. "On."

Heidi nodded sympathetically. "Not a shopping mall," she explained. "It's a big green space with lots of museums in the middle of D.C."

"But they really play kickball there?" Jay clarified.

"They really do," she said, and he shook his head in disbelief.

Scientific Inquiry

"I have a question," a student in the science class I was subbing for yesterday remarked. "If I put a slice of bread on the ground here, and someone else put one on the ground exactly on the other side of the earth, would that make our planet a sandwich?"

I raised my eyebrows at what seemed like his obvious attempt to avoid the worksheet he was doing on the planets, but before I could comment, another student raised his hand.

"I have some thoughts," he said, "about what constitutes a sandwich."

Intrigued, the first student and I both nodded, inviting him to continue.

"I would say you have to at least have a two-thirds ratio of filling to bread, and even that is pretty stuffed." He paused for our reaction to his theory.

"That seems right," I agreed. "So the answer to the question is no."

"What if we had an enormous piece of bread?" The first kid wouldn't give up. "And we placed it, say, over New York City." He shrugged as if it were obvious why he would want to cover the Big Apple with bread. "And then put the other piece wherever is opposite."

"That's probably an ocean," observed the second student. "Which would make the bread very soggy."

"As fascinating as this is," I interrupted, only half ironically, "it really isn't relevant to the work you're supposed to be doing."

Student one sighed. Student two nodded in prudent agreement. Both returned to their worksheet.

What's Not in My Wallet

Having a lifetime pass to the National Parks offers me unlimited access to some of the most beautiful places in the country, and I got it as soon as I was eligible at age 62. Before that, we used to purchase the standard America the Beautiful pass annually, always looking forward to whatever amazing photograph of which national park was featured. I missed that when I got my permanent card.

Even so, as many reasons as there are that I appreciate my lifetime pass to the National Parks, now there's one more:

Illuminating

We have picked up our CSA share on Thursday for over a decade, and yet for some reason this year? I keep forgetting to go get my vegetables and eggs until it's nearly dinner time. Fortunately, tonight on my way back I took a detour to enjoy all the neighborhood holiday lights. In the darkness of deepening December, they shone ever so brightly, and I forgave myself for being such a dunderhead.

Target Demographics

My classroom observation was unexpectedly postponed this morning, so rather than drive half an hour back home, I decided to do my errands where I was. Fortunately, there was a Home Depot and a Target just a couple of miles down the road, near the interstate, which would be my return route. 

At 11 AM on Wednesday, both stores were practically deserted, and despite being only about 12 miles from home, the inventory seemed a little different, too. Employees in both places were busy neatening and restocking the shelves, and a friendly Target employee and I had an in-depth conversation about the shopping habits of his customers versus those of the shoppers in my neck of the woods. 

"People here shop at night!" he told me. "Once it gets dark out, this place will be jam-packed with whole families." He shook his head. "Personally? I'm glad I work in the morning. Once those trucks are unloaded, I just try to get as much done for the next shift, because they are all going to be called to their registers!"

"Wow," I said. "That's nuts!"

"I feel like people in Virginia are on a different schedule," he told me. "There are a lot of moms and other people shopping while the kids are in school, so they don't have to deal with them in the store."

"That's an interesting theory," I nodded. "You might be on to something."

Our conversation reminded me of the first-grade class just a few miles away that I had visited the week before. The students were working on a writing piece about a special place in their community, and their teacher had them brainstorm three places that they might write about. As I circulated around looking over their shoulders, I noticed that most of them had chosen Target, Walmart, 7-11, and the grocery store. 

More data for the Target guy!

What Am I Missing?

This year, we shopped again at the nursery that names all its trees, and our Christmas tree is named Hezekiah, which did not factor into our choice at all. Even so, I was curious as to why anyone might choose that name for a tree, and I did a little research once we had things all set up. 

The name Hezekiah has no popular culture reference that I could find, much less one related to Christmas. Biblically, he's an Old Testament king, apparently known for his efforts to rid Judah of idolatry and his successful prayers to extend his life for fifteen years. Perhaps the namer of our tree was going ironic on the first part and pragmatic on the second, as in Christmas trees couldn't possibly be construed as false idols (wink, wink), but hopefully this one will stay fresh a really long time!

I guess I'm cool with that sentiment.

First Project of the Day

Heidi had an early meeting this morning, so I got up early, too, to make coffee and pack her lunch. By 6:30, she was gone, and I was standing on the counter by the sink, cleaning the window and removing the screen so that I could thread an extension cord out to the front porch. 

Our condo association is redoing all the exterior lights, and while the new sconce by our front door is a nice upgrade, the LED light does not allow us to replace the bulb with the plug-in adapter we used for our holiday lights. We briefly discussed having an outdoor outlet installed, but it would be a bit costly and involved. 

I've been mulling the situation for a few weeks now and had yet to come up with a resolution when our neighbors began asking Heidi why our annual lights weren't up yet. "They seemed genuinely disappointed," Heidi reported. 

Nothing is ever as easy as it seems, though, and getting power to the porch involved WD-40 to lubricate and swing the ancient window open on its cleaning hinge, removing the brittle screen, finding some foam to fill the air gap and cushion the extension cord, and rigging a block so that the window would stay secrely closed since it couldn't be locked. 

Fortunately, all of the tools and supplies were available, and by 6:45 AM, we were ready for the lights! And, I was on such a roll that I washed all the colanders on the pot rack (having seen how dusty they were when I was up on the counter), made bread, baked cookies, swept the porch, blew all the leaves, and walked the dog, all before 9.

MVT

We had the fourth quarter of the Bills game on the radio as we drove to get our Christmas tree this afternoon. They had been behind the Bengals for three quarters, and Heidi wanted to know if she could wear her Bills gear or not tomorrow. Buffalo was only behind by three points when I turned the ignition, but before we were out of the complex, Cincinnati scored a touchdown. "There's still plenty of time left," I shrugged. "Josh Allen is good under this kind of pressure."

And indeed! Allen scored as we turned onto Route 7. A few moments later, Benford intercepted and ran for a touchdown, and Buffalo did not give up the lead again. Even so, both teams battled it out in the snow, sacking and slipping and sliding and scoring 34 points between them in the final quarter. The game was not quite over when we pulled into the parking lot of the nursery where we have purchased our tree in recent years, and we sat with the heater running until Allen took a knee on the snap, and the win was assured.

"That was exciting!" I said as we made our way to the tree lot and started looking for the perfect fit. This place gives every tree a name, and we laughed when we saw Sarah Connor. "Come with me if you want to live," I said in my best Austrian cyborg accent. A couple of rows over, we saw Albus Dumbledore and the White Witch, but one was too skinny and the other too tall. 

"Look!" Heidi pointed, laughing. "It's Josh Allen!" As we inspected the Fraser fir, she added, "I feel like we should get this one!"

"Yeah," I said, "but look at it." I pointed to some gaps and broken branches on the tree, which was leaning heavily to the right. "It's so beat up! It's like it actually played in the game."

First Saturday of December

"We have three parties to go to tomorrow," our neighbor laughed last night as she told us about her weekend.

"We're in town this weekend for parties," Heidi's dogwalking pal, who has a place in the mountains, told her this morning when she texted to suggest a visit to the dog park.

"Why is everybody going to parties except us?" I wondered aloud this evening as I leashed Lucy up for a walk.

Heidi shrugged. "They have a different social situation than we do. I guess it could be age or job or personality." Then she laughed. "Do you wish you had a lot of parties to go to?"

"Not necessarily," I answered crossly, "but an invitation or two doesn't seem that far-fetched."

The sky was darkening as Lucy and I finally crossed the threshold and headed up the hill, and the streets were silent as we wended our way through the neighborhood past apartments and houses, she sniffing, I admiring all the holiday lights. We walked on, enjoying the quiet evening.

"I guess everyone else is at parties," I said, looking at my dog. "Lucky for us."

Irregular Joe

"It's very tea-like," Julie, my nephew Victor's fiancée, said thoughtfully.

I nodded and sipped my own coffee, considering her comment. Victor, his brother Treat, and I love coffee, and we love a taste test, too. That's why the morning after Thanksgiving found us weighing the Ethiopian beans Victor had brought from Germany and brewing them two ways —pour-over and Aeropress. We served the coffee in pairs of the dozens of tiny juice glasses our rental house came equipped with, soliciting impressions from anyone in the family interested in a blind tasting.

The end results as to which was better were mixed, although every taster was able to distinguish a difference of details between the two preparations. Treat poured his together, then declared that the best cup of coffee would have to be prepared both ways and mixed.

As for the tea comment, it stuck with me. For the last couple of weeks, I, an inveterate coffee and cream drinker, have switched to black, the better to appreciate the nuance of my brew. It's been fun, especially since we splurged on a coffee Advent calendar again and have enjoyed a different bean every day since December 1.

Memory is the Best Sauce

After my observation yesterday, I drove over to see my aunt, since I was in the neighborhood (sort of). School started early over there, and so I was taking off my shoes and sitting down at her kitchen table by eleven. "I'm heating up turkey soup for lunch," she told me. 

"Does it have tomatoes and rice?" I asked, remembering how my mom used to make hers after Thanksgiving.

"Of course!" my aunt laughed. "How did you know?"

I can't say I loved my mother's turkey soup when I was a kid; there was something about the combination of bony broth, tiny shreds of turkey, chunky tomatoes, and frozen mixed vegetables that put me off. And as she'll tell you herself, my aunt is not known for her cooking.

But that soup? Was delicious.

In the Wheelhouse

I was nervous this morning when I stepped into the first grade classroom for my first coaching observation, but I needn't have been. The 18 kids were adorable as they quietly listened to their teacher lead them through whole-class phonics instruction. I felt right at home as I slid into a tiny chair and pulled out my notepad and pen, jotting observations and questions as the lesson progressed. When it was time for independent work and small groups, I circulated through the class and assisted as needed. 

An hour after I arrived, I waved at the teacher. "I wish I could stay all day!" I laughed. "See you next time."

And as I headed back to my car, I couldn't help thinking that maybe? I should just unretire and be a first grade teacher!

No Pressure

When the low tire pressure light came on in the car yesterday, I could have chalked it up to the cold weather and refilled it myself, but I decided to take it as a reminder to have the car serviced, especially since we had just returned from a long drive at Thanksgiving and have another planned for Christmas. And I already had the appointment when the low oil light came on, too, so I was glad I made the choice I did.

After bowling this afternoon, I drove down to the dealer and settled in to wait a couple of hours in their lounge. A little while later, though, my service representative came over to report that there had been a power outage in the repair shop, and my car was stuck on the lift until it was restored. "Can I get you into a loaner?" she asked. "We have no idea how long it will take."

I shrugged in assent, but told her I might not be able to return the car until later tomorrow afternoon, since I am scheduled to do my first coaching observation in Maryland and then have lunch with my aunt afterwards. She assured me that it would be fine, and I wondered if this was another attempt to persuade me to buy a new car. After I signed the agreement, one of the porters was thoughtful enough to pull the brand-new sage-green Crosstrek into the check-in bay so that I wouldn't have to go outside in the rain, which I really appreciated. 

I was nearly home when the tire pressure light came on in that car, too. Unfortunately, our electric air pump was in our car, so I drove to a nearby gas station. There was a black sedan ahead of me at the air pump, but the driver moved out of my way and then hopped out to help me. He checked my tires for damage and then filled them all. I thanked him profusely for this random act of kindness, and then drove home, hopeful that I'll make it to Maryland tomorrow.

Shrug

It was cold and blustery when I walked Lucy this afternoon, and I was glad for the gloves I keep stuffed in my vest pockets. Still, I was surprised by the email I received from the consulting company I'm freelancing for, reminding us of inclement weather procedures for the school system we are working with. A little while later, Heidi called from school. "Everyone here says there might be a delay tomorrow morning!" She paused. "Is it true?"

I told her I thought it was unlikely, though I admitted I hadn't checked any weather sources recently. What a difference a year of retirement makes!

Energy Vent

The bowling center was hopping when we arrived at 2:15 this afternoon. Upon reflection, though, we decided that we shouldn't have been surprised. It was, after all, a cold and rainy Sunday on Thanksgiving weekend, and most of the kids all around us were bowling like maniacs, wildly flinging their balls down the lanes. 

"Who's the kid?" one guy a couple lanes over shouted as he waved his arms. "It's me! I'm the kid!"

"It's a turkey for Thanksgiving!" another shrieked as his ball careened off the bumpers for an impressive third strike in a row.

And in the next lane over, a little girl named Lucy bowled three games against herself, precisely angling the ramp between each roll of her six-pound ball. She never achieved a score above 58, but she probably walked 2000 steps in the process.

I'm sure their parents were happy they were out of the house.

The Obvious

As nice as it is to be home? I sure would have enjoyed a few more days at the beach with my family.

Fending

Going to the beach for Thanksgiving is wonderful, but the slightest of downsides might be that there is only one day to eat leftovers before packing up to return home on Saturday. Historically, we have given it a valiant go, even consuming enough turkey and fixin's during the day to order pizza or go out for dinner on Friday night. 

But with the enormous turkey and all the other fabulous meals we've eaten this week, it made the most sense to stay in and eat leftovers for dinner. Even so, the foodies in us are tempted to do more than simply reheat. For example, this afternoon I made a pizza with a sourdough crust made from leftover cheese grits, topped with the rest of the ham we had for sandwiches, and strewn with roasted butternut squash, rosemary, and sage. 

Later, when I was reading an article called 53 Ways to Use Your Thanksgiving Leftovers, I proposed a competition where everyone prepares a new dish using only our leftovers and the limited vacation pantry we have cobbled together. "I'll be the judge," I graciously volunteered. 

And man! Did our group step up! We had turkey potato hash, homemade gnocchi with puttanesca, handmade wontons with butternut squash filling and chili oil, turkey cabbage salad with peanut dressing, spinach salad with black rice and warm bacon dressing, along with some good old-fashioned pepperoni pizza to round out the meal. 

As we planned and prepared our meal, I could tell that judging was more than a one-person job, so Treat and I put our teacher skills to use and created a Google form. After a ranked-choice voting ballot, the dumplings, a fusion of Julie and Victor's family recipes, won the evening decisively.

Now that's what I call leftovers!

Topsail Island, NC

I always like Thanksgiving
best--
you can eat leftover tart tatin
for breakfast
and drink coffee
and watch the parade
and the dog show
and walk on the beach
and solve puzzles
and quizzes
and ride bikes
and eat
turkey
and stuffing
and potatoes
and turnips
and gravy
sitting shoulder to shoulder
around a long table
with eleven chairs
filled with your family
and have pies
and pudding
for dessert
even though you're full
and go to bed
grateful
for the stars on the beach
and everything else.

Process of Elimination

"Wanna do the Slate history quiz with me?" I asked Treat, knowing his knowledge would boost my usual result on the six-question game.

We both knew the first one, that Japanese-Americans were interred in Manzanar, but I was lost on the second question about the late 19th-century split in the Republican party between the Stalwarts and the Half-breeds. Of course, the first and second Continental Congresses met in Philadelphia, but we weren't sure which of our four choices had been Secretary of State for a record eleven years. 

"Seward was in the Lincoln administration," I said, "could Andrew Johnson have kept him on?"

"Were any of them in the FDR administration?" Treat asked, "That would make sense with the number of years."

"Seward was Lincoln, Weinberger was Reagan, and Rusk was JFK," I said.

"Then it's probably Cordell Hull," Treat guessed, and of course, he was right.

In the end, we did miss one question about a former president of Mexico, but I didn't feel bad, and neither did Treat. "It wasn't really that hard," he shrugged, "except for that Secretary of State question."

"Yeah, but we really used our test-taking strategies, didn't we?" I laughed.

Feast, Not Famine

I checked the box for 16+ pounds when I ordered our locally-raised heritage black turkey for Thanksgiving down here on Topsail Island. Honestly, I briefly considered attaching a note requesting one closer to 18-20, but in the end, I decided to leave it up to the butcher, since I knew 16 pounds would be enough if we got one on the smaller side. And the turkey I picked up today in Wilmington seemed plenty large for our group of eleven. 

"How much does it weigh?" my brother and chief turkey cooker asked as I wrestled it into the fridge. 

"I don't know," I confessed. "Let me look at the receipt."

Um, we have a 24-pound turkey this year. At least there will plenty of leftovers!

❤️ the Beach

On a Monday in November, the beach here on Topsail Island is sparsely populated, and Heidi and I met only a few people as we walked the dog around noon. Most were fishing; they had their surfcasting rigs, cleaning tables, and roller coolers with knobby wheels all set up, but there were a few families and a couple of other walkers, too.

Earlier in the day, Bill and Emily had seen both an eel slipping in and out of its sandy hole as well as what seemed to be an injured loon, and so when I spotted four men on their hands and knees up the beach, I wondered if they were involved with either of those. As we drew nearer, we saw that the four were Latinx guys in workmen's clothing and that we were in front of a hotel that was either undergoing a major renovation or demolition. 

It made sense that they were enjoying the beach on their lunch break, but we were charmed to see that they were also drawing hearts in the sand with messages inside, and one was now on his knees constructing a heart-shaped fortress. 

"Nice!" I said, with a thumbs-up, as we walked by.

"Thank you!" he laughed. 

And when we passed again on our way home, they were gone, but their hearts remained.

Ptooey

"I don't think I know that card game you and Bill were playing," Heidi said as we walked along the beach this morning.

"You've never played Spit before?" I asked with some amazement, because in my mind, every child of a certain age spent hours on hot summer days slapping cards on piles in numerical order as fast as they could. 

"No," she shook her head. "I might have heard of it, though. Do you actually spit?"

I laughed. "There's no spitting," I told her, "except when you get spitting mad!"

Nothing to Do and All Day to Do It

"There's the edge of the front," I pointed as we were driving south on I-95 to our Thanksgiving beach house rental. 

We were south of Richmond, and the driving had been cold and damp, a light drizzly mist under leaden skies. But there ahead of us we could clearly see where the clouds ended and blue skies began. The outside temperature was 57 as we barreled toward the front, but just a few minutes later, huge cumulo nimbus clouds filled the rearview as we continued south under blue skies. It was sunny and 73, and even the traffic congestion was gone.

Vacation mode activated!

Rounding Up Those Pennies

One of the errands I ran today was taking our big jar of coins to a machine that would count and cash them. I have avoided this task until now, mainly because the 12 percent surcharge seems so onerous. But then I figured that, whatever the cost, the time it would take me to sort and roll the coins (mostly pennies, nickels, and dimes) was probably more valuable. 

I was right. The machine did in five minutes what would have taken me several hours, and the charge was about six bucks. At the end of the process, the contraption spat out a ticket for me to take to customer service. My total was 44.13, and it made me laugh to think I would get thirteen cents back after just ridding myself of 5000-some cents.

When the cashier scanned the barcode on my ticket and tapped her screen, the readout on my side showed 44.15, and there was a line item above the total that said +.02 [penny round-up]. She handed me 2 twenties, four singles, a nickel, and a dime, which I tucked into my pocket, sure I had seen our penniless future.

Like Riding a Virtual Bicycle

In a throwback to 2020, I worked from home today. 

On my first full day as a consultant, I spent several hours on Zoom calls, stretching my unused virtual communication muscles. By the end of the last call, I felt more limber, even though I had four browser windows with 10 tabs each open. Even so, I was able to turn my camera on and off, mute and unmute, admit people from the waiting room, and share my screen. 

One of my biggest challenges was leaving my morning meeting; it was a bit awkward to make the consulting company executives wait while I fumbled to find the exit button on my toolbar. A little while later, I had trouble finding the end-meeting button when my own call was over. 

To be honest? That one didn't matter much, because the teacher I was talking to was already gone-- I know from experience she had better things to do.

A Little Progress

I spent several hours cleaning and decluttering today, and although the place looks clean, there's still a good bit of clutter left to clear. In my defense, I worked on some junk drawers and cupboards, and you would see a big difference if, for some reason, you opened them. I did toss quite a bit of stuff, and I have plans for more, so, with a small sigh, I'll take all that as a W. 

Goldilocks Zone

"She's just a great big Mama Bear!" someone said of Heidi this morning in a meeting, which had the two of us in stitches when she told me about it this afternoon.

"Was she serious?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," Heidi answered.

That has been one of the unexpected challenges of Heidi's new job. After 30 years at the same school, now she's an unknown quantity to many of her colleagues. But she's a big personality, too, and it's hard to gauge how people are really reacting to her. 

Even so, while mama bear might not be the metaphor I would choose? The more I think about it, the more I can see the analogy (setting aside the mama in the Three Bears, that is). Heidi's professional persona is at times gruff, always strict, but also nurturing, which is just right for the job she has.

Just Literally

"How are your bowel movements?" the nurse practitioner asked me during my annual wellness visit.

"Fine," I reported, then added, "I do have to go right now, though!" 

She laughed at my candor. 

"I'm sorry if that's too much information," I said, "but once when Dr. C was examining me, she said, 'Oh! You're constipated!'" I explained. "But, really? I just had to go. And ever since then, I've felt a little self-conscious."

"Well," she said, continuing her examination, "you are full, though I wouldn't say constipated. I can also feel how tense you are! I know talking about this topic can be a difficult conversation, and no one wants to hear they're full of, well, you know--" she paused. "Poop."

"Even if they are," I agreed.

Go Bills

It's a thing at Heidi's school that the staff sports their team spirit wear the day after a game. Although she's never been into football, Heidi has taken to the tradition. She has a few Bills t-shirts, a couple of hoodies, and she even got some flashy Bills sneakers for her birthday. 

The tricky part is that you can only show your spirit if the team wins, and so Heidi, who likes to plan and prepare her outfits in advance, is left at the mercy of her hometown football team. So much so that on game days (or, worse, evenings), she's either asking me to check the score or checking it herself. Today at the bowling center, she left our lane several times to check the TV at the bar that had the game on. 

Now, after a close win, she has her Bills regalia ready to wear in the morning, and who knows? This intersection of football and fashion may just turn her into a fan!

Cold and Hard

I get it. 

It seems unsustainable to continue making the penny when it costs nearly four cents to manufacture one. Even so, the expected annual saving is only around $56 million a year, or about 16 cents per capita. I guess in the future, we'd have to round that to 15 cents, or three nickels, which by the way cost nearly a dime to make.

Facts.

My Sandwich Era

"How does it feel to be one of the young 'uns again?" one of the bowling ladies asked me. 

I had just overheard her talking to one of the best bowlers in the league, who had revealed that she was 74, which was less than half her average. I looked around at several of the other people outbowling me and imagined that they had at least a decade on me, too. 

Then I considered how being one of the oldest people in school whenever I substitute makes me feel. As an emeritus, I'm generally treated with respect for my experience, but I sometimes get the sense that I am considered irrelevant and out of touch. 

"It sure puts things in perspective," I laughed.

Good to Know

My sub job today was co-teaching seventh-grade English. During the first period, I got to push in and see a teacher I had worked with for years actually teach, which was interesting and enjoyable. 

The other two periods were handled by the co-teacher, a young woman in her second year.  She was a little too soft-hearted for the assistant who worked with us, but I thought she did really well, and I could see a lot of potential in her. 

Of course, the kids tried to take advantage of the situation, and in the last class of the day, three boys were horsing around on their five-minute break. Despite repeated directions to avoid physical contact, two of them tried a leaping chest bump as the final seconds ticked off the clock. It was not successful, and one of them claimed he was too injured to do any more work. 

The teacher made eye contact with me, and I suggested he sit quietly and check back in with us in five minutes. A few seconds later, I saw him laughing with one of his friends. "It looks like you're feeling better!" I said, but quickly he reapplied his grimace and assured me he was still in a lot of pain. I could tell the teacher was wavering on the clinic pass, but after a little while, he was absorbed in his online vocabulary tutorial and did not ask to leave again. 

The teacher promised to give the class the last five minutes as free time if they worked well enough to earn it, and when they were close, I quietly suggested that she offer the injured kid the chance to go to the clinic during break. "That way, he can't say we wouldn't let him go," I said. And as soon as it was break time, she did just that. 

"Nah, I'm fine," he told her, as we suspected he would. 

"I'm so glad you recovered!" she told him.

"I'm always a quick healer," he shrugged.

"Good to know," she nodded, and then looked at me. 

"Good to know," I agreed.

Dear John

I read all of John Irving's novels before I was out of high school. At the time, there were only four: Setting Free the Bears, The Water Method Man, the 158 Pound Marriage, and The World According to Garp. They all made a huge impression on me, and I still remember many details from them all these decades later, especially Bears and Garp.

Later, I would eagerly read The Hotel New Hampshire, The Cider House Rules, and A Prayer for Owen Meany when they were released. The ending of Owen Meany may have put me off Irving; it was possibly just too tragic, but it might have also been the nine years that passed between the publication of that book and the next. In any case, I haven't finished a John Irving novel since 1989. 

Even so, I was excited to see that at the age of 83, John Irving has a new novel, his fifteenth. Published just last week, Queen Esther is a prequel of sorts for The Cider House Rules, and although I am only about two-thirds of the way through, I'm struck by how many themes and plot points there are in the story that I recognize from his earliest works. 

For example, the main character, a wrestler, spends a year in Austria as an exchange student. There is also a boys' boarding school in New Hampshire, characters who are early supporters of abortion rights, children raised by parents other than their birth parents, as well as a cast of wacky, idiosyncratic characters (including one named Siegfried), not to mention one who is planning to injure another so that he is exempt from the draft. 

Obviously, I'm not the same reader I was back in the 70s and 80s, but experiencing this novel is like a combination of a window on the past and a funhouse mirror: nostalgic, oddly familiar, yet not. Some parts are humorous and edgy, while others are cringey and uncomfortable, and I find myself going back and forth between wanting to read the entire Irving canon and wishing this book were over. 

Maybe it's just a case of what John Irving said himself in The Cider House Rules. “What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most to us wind up in parentheses.”

Business Model

Heidi wanted to go shopping at a nearby outlet mall, and since today was a holiday from school, we headed south. It had been a minute since we last visited this particular shopping center, and although most things were the same, there were a few additions and subtractions. Perhaps the biggest new thing was an establishment offering bowling and other entertainment.

"What 'other entertainment' do you think they have?" Heidi wondered, so when she was busy in a store I don't care for, I volunteered to check the place out. Plus? Bowling!

I was met with loud, clamorous noise and bright strobing lights the second I crossed the threshold. It was an arcade on steroids, occupying at least two full storefronts and running from the main walkway to the outside wall. There were enormous versions of every game imaginable: basketball, skeeball, football, baseball, dance challenges, and wallsized screens of classics like Centipede and Space Invaders. They had two dozen claw machines, Pachinko, Wheel of Fortune, and The Price is Right. They even had Pong, the original table video game. And, of course, bowling, with ten full-sized lanes featuring giant video screens and balls striped like basketballs.

And yet, rather than be overwhelmed by the sensory flash and bang of it all, I found myself strangely energized. I even considered buying a token card and staying to play a while, exactly the opposite reaction I would have predicted for myself.

 Later, I wondered if it was like the effects of a weighted blanket for anxiety, or a stimulant for ADHD. Whatever the cause of my response, the place knew what they were doing. It was packed with customers, and not just kids. 

Retail Therapy

I like cold weather, but the sudden drop in temperature from yesterday, along with the blustery wind, made being outside today a little jarring. It didn't help that I didn't bundle up as I should have when I took Luck for her afternoon walk, and we weren't far from the house when I had to fight the urge to turn around and head home. 

I didn't, but I did amend the route I had planned, and we walked instead through the small shopping area close to our home. Seeing the holiday decoration in progress was a good distraction. When Lucy put on the brakes to visit the drugstore, an establishment she frequents with Heidi, I shrugged, enjoying the warm blast of air when the automatic doors opened. 

We trolled the aisles for a few minutes until Lucy stopped short at a display of dog toys, nosing one that had little squeaky stuffed pieces of fried chicken in a bucket. I shrugged again, and off we went to the register. 

Back outside, the cold didn't seem quite as onerous as it had before, and I detached the toys from their cardboard, gave each one a squeak, and handed them to Lucy, who carried them all the way home.

Bowling Parties

We went bowling with some neighbors this afternoon to celebrate Heidi's birthday. The center was pretty deserted as our group of six settled into our two lanes, but the quiet didn't last long. A party of twenty or so started bowling down the way, and their cheers for each other rang through the center. Then a group of ten kids under ten took the lanes to our left, but they were more interested in us than we were in them. 

"Is that the lady who just bowled a strike?" a little boy of about eight asked me as Heidi walked away.

"Yes!" I answered. "But have you seen this guy bowl?" I pointed at AJ. "It's crazy!"

He had a style of hurling the ball two-handed from his hip, spinning down the lane with speeds of over 16 mph, and there was a satisfying clap and a lot of pin action when it made contact. It was also very effective: his high game was a 185.

The kid was only minimally impressed. "I bowled two spares already," he told me before trotting off to take his next turn.

A little while later, one of the moms was bowling alone, using the bumpers and cleaning up most of the pins on her second ball. "Nice!" I congratulated her as she picked up a tricky split.

"Thanks," she laughed. "All the kids are in the arcade, and I figured somebody should actually bowl!"

Hi Calypso

A sweet, earthy smell rose from the leaves crunching beneath our feet as we walked the trail around Royal Lake, and the golden light of the November sun turned the lake into a mirror reflecting doubles of the bare trees, geese, and blue heron. 

About a third of the way around this familiar trek, we noticed something new. One of the homes that backed to the trail had installed a horse fence, and a wee little Shetland pony craned her neck to watch us pass. 

"Are you allowed to have a pony here?" I wondered aloud. "It's awfully residential."

"Let's introduce Lucy," Heidi suggested, and so we made our way up the short spur to the enclosure. An informational sign was posted by the gate. "Her name is Calypso," Heidi read. "You can feed her apples and carrots," she continued, "but not from your hand, because that may encourage her to develop a nipping habit."

"I have some apple slices in my bag!" I said.

"You do?" Heidi was surprised.

"Of course! I packed snacks!"

Oh, But It's Cold Outside

"Sometimes it would snow on my birthday!" my Buffalo-born and bred wife is fond of saying. Over the years, I have tried to plan celebrations that might provide that burst of early winter cheer. In addition to actually returning to Buffalo, we have also spent some of her birthday weekends in Pittsburgh and other points north. 

But the snowiest birthday of all was the year we went to Santa Fe, New Mexico. There was a dusting of fine powder on the old plaza, and our breath blew icy plumes in the cold desert air as we walked to breakfast. The huevos rancheros, Christmas-style, warmed us almost as much as the suede Western jackets and scarves we had purchased the night before. When our plates were cleared, we drank one more cup of hot coffee, looking out on the snowy peaks of the Sangre de Cristo mountains.

According to the weather forecast, we don't even have to travel this year to experience an arctic blast. In the coming days, cold records dating back two centuries may fall. Will there be snow? Doubtful. But it will be cold! And there will be a fire in our hearth and warmth in our hearts. Happy Birthday, Heidi!

My Calendar is Clear

My sub job went to the end of the day, so I decided to accept a former student's invitation to the basketball game. As usual, the game was late to start, and I was one of the few adults standing on the sideline by the bleachers for quite some time. 

Eventually, a new teacher I knew joined me, and we chatted as we waited for the clock on pregame warm-ups to tick down. As we got closer to the jumpball, she looked around to see who else of her colleagues was there. "Wow!" she shook her head. "Not a lot of staff here."

"More people will probably come when the game gets going," I predicted.

"There's only like four of us here," she said with a little dismay. "And you don't even work here full time."

"That's right!" I laughed. "Which is why I actually have time to come to the game!"

Courtesy of the Supermoon

The supermoon in Taurus this morning, the full Beaver Moon of November and the brightest of the year, is said to bring abundance and connection, and I found that there was something to that today as I shopped for a few things for Heidi's birthday on Friday. 

When I brought my selection to the register in the first store, I had a question about another item I wanted to purchase. Their website stated that it was available, but I hadn't been able to find it. Lucky for me, the guy working the register was the manager. He looked up the thing on his phone after I showed it to him on mine and then radioed back to the storeroom. When they didn't retrieve it after a few minutes, he excused himself to go help. A little while later, another employee returned with the manager's apology: they couldn't locate the item, but, for my patience and inconvenience, they wanted to give me half off the thing I was buying.

Good deal! 

I went to another store for the second thing, and found it there right away. In line, I pulled up the app and my shopper barcode. Again, I was checked out by a manager, and when I confessed to not being able to find my coupon, he found it for me and then gave me another ten bucks that I was close to earning. He also offered a special treatment to help maintain my purchase; it cost 8.99, but he gave me five dollars off my next purchase to offset it if I was willing to try it. 

I sure was! 

In the end, I spent two-thirds of what I might have, and I came away with an abundance of appreciation for my fellow humans and the random acts of kindness to which I had been fortunate to receive.

Zowie!

The young lady sitting at the table, talking to my bowling teammate, looked familiar. Still, out of context, it was hard to tell if I actually knew her or if she just resembled one of the kajillion young people I've known in my career. I listened to their conversation as I changed into my bowling shoes, and she sounded a lot like the sister of a girl I taught a couple of years ago. "Are you out of school for the election?" I asked her.

She nodded.

"Where do you go?" I said, and when she mentioned our neighborhood high school, I knew it had to be her. "I think I know you!" 

"I thought I knew you, too!" she laughed, "but I couldn't figure out what you would be doing here!"

"Me?" I responded. "What are you doing here?"

"That's my great-grandma," she pointed to one of the bowlers, "and those are my great-great aunts." She gestured to my teammate and her sister.

"That's nuts!" I replied, and I meant it on at least two levels-- not just being reminded of the community connections that people so often unknowingly share, but also the impressive improbability of having a great-granddaughter in high school and still bowling on a league.

Does It, Though?

"Uhhhh," I cocked my head at the eight grade boy eating breakfast at his desk a few feet from me, "what are you doing?"

"I'm cleaning up," he informed me.

"But you're wiping the desk with your pancake," I continued.

"There was syrup on it," he shrugged. "It works!"

My Natural Solar Day

"Enjoy your favorite day of the year!" my friend said as we wrapped up lunch on Friday and headed out to teach the last class of the week. She was referring to the end of Daylight Saving Time and the twenty-five-hour day that marks the annual return to realigning our clocks with the sun and our natural circadian rhythm.

"Oh, I will!" I assured her with a laugh, embracing the decades of razzing I have received from my colleagues for my passionate, outspoken preference for light in the morning over light in the afternoon.

And I did!

Fright Night

The carnage was not intentional. 

When we took our annual Halloween lights and decoration crawl with our neighbors last night, we were all looking forward to seeing the traditionally over-the-top display put on in a neighborhood just over the bridge. We chatted as we approached about where the folks who live in those condos might possibly keep all the decorations they put out. "I saw a trailer parked across the street last week," I reported, "and it looked like it was surrounded by pallets and boxes with Halloween imprints."

"That would explain it," my neighbor agreed, "I always thought--"

But before he could finish, we all stopped dead. The ground before us was littered with the remains of toppled ten-foot demons and ghouls. Everywhere we looked, we saw scattered skulls, bones and body parts, tattered robes, broken scythes, and other twisted wreckage left by the windstorm that had struck earlier in the day. We stood in stunned silence for a moment before continuing on toward the lights down the street.

Considering our dismay, I couldn't imagine how devastated the people who planned the display must have been, but later, when we told another neighbor about the disappointing turn of events, she saw an opportunity. "Too bad they didn't pivot and add spooky ground lights," she said. "It could have been even creepier than the original!"

Hold on to Your Cats

"Has Tibby put on weight?" our catsitter texted last weekend. "She seems heavier, but it might be I'm comparing her to the kittens."

"Or it could be because she is so large and in charge!" I replied with a laughing emoji because, to be honest, I think she's pretty much the same as ever.

Our former dogwalker agrees with me. She stopped by this afternoon, and as we visited, she sat in the rocking chair by the sliding doors leading to the deck. Tibby ran over and tried to convince her to open the doors and let her out into the blustery day. "No way, Tibby!" Sarah said, "You'll blow away out there!" She turned to me and sighed, "If we only had a functioning national weather service, I'm sure they would issue a small pet warning for today."

It Makes You Smart

 I’ve always loved trivia quizzes, word games, and other tests of knowledge, and in my retirement I have found quite a few daily challenges. (Too many, perhaps, but that’s a story for another day.) 

Some of the hardest trivia quizzes for me are to be found on the Slate website. Each week day they have a different topic: history, culture, vocabulary, science, and current news. With the exception of the news quiz, they all have six questions, and they are not easy: I usually get between 3 and 5  

If you choose to compete, you are vying against other readers, the readers’ average, and a selected staff member. It’s not unusual for me to beat the average, and the Slatesters and I might be 50-50. Placing in the top 50 of all who choose to take the quiz is a rare occurrence for me. 

But today? As I say in a classroom of students busily working while their teacher finished up her sub plans so I could take over on a 911 sub job, I decided to take the science quiz to pass the time. And what do you know? That rarified atmosphere of teaching and learning did the trick! I got them all  and in good time. So yeah, that was me, number 27 of all those other quizsters. 

Of course, I credit my education. 

Bed Rest

I was dragging the last of my garbage bags to the gate when I met a fellow gardener on her way in. She kindly spun the combination lock for me and stepped aside as I moved the four contractor bags to the curb.

"Did you get it all cleaned out?" she asked me through the chain link as she locked back up. 

"Pretty much," I told her. "That's my plot in the corner." We scanned my empty beds, and she nodded appreciatively.

"I'm in that one over there," she gestured over her shoulder.

"Are those your tomatoes I can see?" I asked.

She nodded wearily. "They're still going for now, but I hope to take them out this afternoon." She frowned. "I'm always so excited to get started in the spring," she sighed, "but it all seems like such a chore at the end of the season."

"There is something cathartic for me in seeing the empty plot," I replied, considering the last three hours I'd spent.

"I guess so," she agreed. "But only because it will be ready in the spring!"

Rolling Mercury

At the bowling center where my league competes on Tuesday mornings, they congratulate anyone who bowls over 200, announcing the feat over the loudspeaker. So far, my high score has been only 148, but I confess I aspire to the honor of hearing my name called. 

Part of what I like about the sport is that every game is another opportunity to hit a new milestone, and I am always optimistic that I might do it, at least through the first few frames. I had a pretty good start to my first game today: two strikes followed by two spares, and I ended up with a respectable 145. Coincidentally, a player on our league bowled 212 in that same round, and we all cheered when her name was called. Bowling can be mercurial, though, because the next round she only bowled 125. 

My scores also steadily declined as the morning rolled on, but it's hard to get too upset, especially when there's always another game and another chance next week.

Wild Wood

 It's been a while since I checked my trail cam to see what the local wildlife has been up to. Imagine my surprise when I came across this documentation of willful raccoon vandalism:

After that, the camera was facing the ground, so I wondered what the rest of the videos might hold, but I could not have predicted what I saw next.

I wished I had some footage to help him, especially since he was nice enough to fix the camera! But unless the raccoon was an accomplice to the crime, I had nothing but leaves.

No Si and Am

"I know you just got out of the car," our pet sitter said when we got home early this afternoon from a wedding in Richmond, "but how would you feel about giving me a ride home and meeting the kittens?"

"Who can say no to kittens!" I replied. She and her family had just adopted a pair of 10-week-old Siamese littermates from a rescue organization, and the friendly little purr balls did not disappoint.

As I was cuddling with one, the other trilled from Heidi's arms. "She's calling her sister to play!" Molly said, so we set them down, and they dashed over to their toys where they leapt and rolled and wrestled, knocking into things with abandon.

"Adorable!" I gushed. "Just don't show them Lady and the Tramp!"

Axial Tilt

The wood guy came by the other day. "I know it's still kinda warm," he said, "but we were in the neighborhood."

I had answered the door in shorts and a t-shirt, and we had some wood left from the spring. We probably wouldn't have a fire for a few more weeks, but the leaves in the woods across the way were tinged with rust and gold, and acorns blanketed the ground beneath the oak. He was there, and the season was changing. "Let's fill the rack up," I agreed.

This morning, the thermostat in the dining room read 63. It was a little chilly even in my flannel and slippers, but I was hesitant to turn the heat on; I knew it would involve switching the vents, closing all the windows, and changing the filter in the air handler. Still, we were going away for the night, and a sitter was staying with Lucy and the cats. We might have bundled up and slept under extra blankets for another night or two, but for her, I made the switch from summer settings to winter. She is coming, and the season is changing.

Why I Love the Shoe Repair Shop

 "Um," I started as I placed Heidi's trail runner on the shoe repair counter, "this..." I gestured at the dangling metal eyelet, "is broken."

"Oh!" the friendly repairman laughed. "The hooky thingy came off!"

"I knew there was a technical term for it!" I agreed.

"Boot hook," he told me, "but this one's shot." He showed me why it was unusable and went to fetch a few replacement options from the back.

Ten minutes and fifteen bucks later, a new hooky thingy was in place.

Orderly

I felt lucky that the math teacher I was subbing for yesterday had a planning period before her classes, because I needed it to review linear equations, particularly plotting parallel and perpendicular lines. But once I recalled how to determine the slope, I was feeling much more confident. It also reminded me of how fascinating I found the perpendicular rule when I first learned it —the whole notion of using the negative reciprocal of the slope for the new line just tickles my brain the right way. It also reminds me that there is an elegant order for so many things, if only we recognize the patterns. 

I had the same feeling last week in a sixth-grade science class when the teacher explained how the early periodic table was stumbled upon by Dmitri Mendeleev in the 1860s. Mendeleev was a chemist and card collector who designed a set of cards based on the known elements. He arranged his cards by atomic weight and then in columns by common properties. As he played with the arrangement, he saw gaps in his table, predicted they would be filled by elements yet to be discovered, and described the characteristics of those future elements. 

Mendeleev is widely considered a genius not for creating the order, but for recognizing it.

Every Day Can't Be the Best Day

"Didn't you retire?" an eighth grader asked me this afternoon in the middle of a particularly rowdy math class. And when I nodded, he added a salty little follow-up, "Then why are you back?"

"I was just asking myself the same question," I laughed.

To his credit, he looked abashed, but unfortunately, it didn't make him any more productive.

Weekly Bowling Report

 

The Pro Shop

I'm not sure what I expected a few weeks ago when I walked into the pro shop on a mission to purchase a bowling ball of my own. I did not enter the chore blindly; as a citizen of the 21st century, I YouTubed it first. There, I found a video of a kindly avuncular gentleman in a bowling shirt and cardigan guiding a young woman as she chose her first bowling ball. 

He asked her all sorts of questions about her game and experience before revealing that he had seen her bowl a few times. Then he offered her some suggestions, "Don't go too light," he had advised her, "that's a rookie mistake." In the end, she chose a flashy little 14-pounder, and they cut to her rolling it down the lane for a strike.

The next day, I pushed my way through the plate-glass door into the pro shop and stood uncertainly in the middle of the deserted showroom. As I scanned the three rows of bowling balls lining the wall to my right and the shoes displayed in the rear, an owlish man in a craftsman's apron hurried out from the back. "I'm the only one here!" he informed me, "I'll be with you in a minute." Then he disappeared.

I was looking more closely at the balls when he returned, wiping his hands on a bright orange cloth. "What do you need?" he asked.

"I'm here to buy a bowling ball," I said and paused, waiting for the guidance. 

Perhaps I expected him to say something like, "The ball chooses the bowler," or "Every ball here at Carmen-Don has a core of a powerful magical substance," but instead he gestured impatiently at the shelves and said, "Which one do you want?"

"To be honest," I confessed, "I have no idea. I'm a beginner. But I'm in a league, and they recommended I get my own ball."

He sighed impatiently. "What weight do you usually use at the bowling center?"

"Ten or eleven," I answered.

"I'd recommend at least a 12 then," he said. "Does it go straight or curve when you throw it?"

"I have a bit of a natural curve, I think," I told him.

"Pick one from the bottom row," he waved. "You should just choose one you like the looks of, you don't need anything specific," he shrugged. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I scanned the half dozen balls he had indicated. Most were garish swirls of neon colors, and I recognized the siblings of some of my fellow bowlers' balls. But there was one at the end that spoke to me. It was classic black with a single orange dot and a matching hammer. "I'll take this one," I told him when he returned.

He nodded thoughtfully. "That ball does have a little action in the core," he said. "It's not much at 12 pounds, but it will be something to work with." There was a grudging note of respect in his voice. "Let's measure your hand."

He led me over to the glass counter and pulled out a set of cylinders. "Hold out your hand," he directed. I splayed my fingers wide, and he took my wrist. "Interesting," he commented. "Have you ever broken your fingers?"

"No," I shook my head.

"They're crooked," he noted. "Bend your knuckles." I did. "Interesting," he said again. "Would you ever consider a finger tip grip? Your middle fingers bend at the first knuckle."

I laughed and shrugged. "Maybe for my next ball. For now? Let's go traditional."

He measured the distance between my fingers and thumb and then slid them into some of the cylinders and wrote the measurements on a small pad of paper. And it all did seem a little magical, especially when he withdrew into the back again, calling over his shoulder that he would be back shortly.

A few minutes later, he reappeared in a cloud of urethane and oil scent, bearing a simple black bowling ball. He draped my hand over its crown and fit my fingers and thumb gently into the still-warm holds. "How does it feel?" he asked, turning my hand palm up and releasing the weight to me.

I bent my wrist, feeling the heft of the ball. My thumb slid neatly in and out. "Nice," I nodded, as he stepped across the room.

"Roll it to me," he instructed.

I took a step and bent, releasing the ball in one smooth gesture. It rolled directly to him, and he clapped once. "Bravo!" Then he scooped up the ball, replaced it in its box, and stepped to the register.

It seemed my ball had found me.

Straight On 'til Morning

"Isn't this the hike we took Pauly on?" Heidi asked as we crested the hill and turned onto the Ridge Trail.

I nodded. That was years ago, maybe even fifteen, but it had been several years since we had been there ourselves. As we walked along Difficult Run, I thought of the many times we had followed this route and all the good company we had had along the way: Bill, Emily, Riley, Treat, Eric, Josh, Pauly, Jessica, Tom, Amy, and so many others.

I picked up an enormous sycamore leaf and fashioned it into an angular green Peter Pan cap and placed it on my head. We laughed, remembering the autumn day we had brought our goddaughters, Allyn and Delaney, hiking here. When the skies had opened up, we all made rain hats from the sycamore leaves to keep our heads dry as we made for the trailhead.

Heidi snapped my picture and texted it to the girls, now grown women. They were quick to reply with hearts and a question. "Who is that Diva?"

Churl Talk

I was searching for the hours to the community center, which is attached to my former school, when a link to an online discussion forum caught my eye. An anonymous author had posted a question about the quality of the school, particularly compared to another middle school in the northern, more affluent section of the county. The other school was Heidi's new school, and I clicked to the discussion with interest. 

The conversation took place over several hours on an October evening two years ago, when we were both still teaching there. At first, I was a little appalled that people were actually having such a public, if anonymous, discussion about me, my colleagues, and our students without our knowledge. There was also quite a bit of mis- and perhaps some disinformation. There were a couple of compliments, as well, but the two comments that broke my heart were these:

Yes, there are more poor kids than several of the other neighborhood middle schools but good discipline and stable teaching force manage the poor kids well enough for us.

And

I’m sure there is a bright cadre of kids [at my school] but there are way more kids on balance who are going to have needs just due to demographics. [the other school] is going to have — again on balance — a much larger group of very bright, very motivated kids. It’s my belief that kids are some of the strongest influences on each other and while you could find your way into that group at [my school] for sure you are much more likely to have that opportunity at [the other school] plus the overall dynamic is going to be less needs driven.

The second remark drew a sharp response:

My students have a large enough peer group of "very bright, very motivated" kids to rub shoulders with at school. Believe it or not, some of these kids aren't from well-off families. Heaven help us, they're from hardscrabble recent immigrant families where academic success is paramount. Their parents may have been professionals in Afghanistan, Syria, Venezuela or Mongolia, but some of them are janitors or Lyft drivers in VA for now. Needs-driven peers who put nose to the grindstone and don't compete to have the snazziest stuff seem like good influences on my spoiled children.

To which somebody replied:

Agree 100%. Uptight parents who boost for [the other school] are a drag. [My school] remains a solid choice for the mildly adventurous.

I was glad the thread ended so long ago, because after that? I was speechless. 

Last Hurrah

I spent a couple of hours this afternoon cleaning out the garden for the winter, but I made a final harvest first. In addition to a ton of blackeyed peas, there were still a lot of cherry tomatoes and peppers, so I cut a couple of healthy sprigs from the rosemary shrub and tucked them in the bag with the veggies. 

Back at home, I crushed some of the garlic I grew earlier in the season and sauteed it in a big glug of olive oil. Then I shaved a Marconi pepper into the pan and added some rosemary. A little while later, all those tiny tomatoes were popping and blistering in the oil, too. Once they started bursting, I added some sea salt and a jar of crushed tomatoes I had canned back in August. 

As the sauce simmered, I roasted a spaghetti squash, also from the garden. And in a few moments, with the addition of some fresh basil harvested from the deck? Dinner will be served!

Balancing Equations

The eighth graders were excited to see me when I entered the science lab. 

My sixth-grade science job was over, but I'd been asked to provide backup to another sub in a class that was known to be high-energy. Just like the sixth graders, these older kids were working on basic chemistry, but they were applying what they had learned about atoms and molecules in past years to balance chemical equations. 

I was delighted to find that I remembered it all from high school, and I was able to circulate through the room, answer questions, and help the students as they practiced.

"You're really good at this!" one of my former students told me. 

"You're really good at it, too," I returned the compliment, because he was.

"Maybe even better than English," he teased.

"Never!" I laughed and went to help somebody else.

Multilingual

My sub job today started in a small 6th-grade English class of seven students. They were working on word parts and taking a quiz, and I was one of four educators in the room. I didn't mind at all; it was fun to work one-on-one with some of the kids. Near the end of the block, I sat across from a boy practicing identifying action and state of being verbs. "Can you do it?" I asked him whenever he was stumped. "If yes, it's an action verb."

He did get a little stuck on the verb seem, though. 

"Can you do it?" I asked, and when he nodded, I raised my eyebrows and said, "Show me."

He sat very still for a moment and then tried several facial expressions, finally settling on a smooth, neutral look. "I seem calm," he told me.

"Calm is a feeling," I replied. "It's something you can be, that's why seem is a state of being verb."

He nodded again. "Do you speak other languages?" he asked.

It was a fair question. "Not really," I admitted. "I know some vocabulary in Spanish, and I took French in high school."

"I speak Spanish," he told me, "but I want to learn French."

"It's a fun language to learn," I agreed.

"I really want to know the word vagatay." He pronounced it slowly.

"I don't know that one," I said. "How do you think it's spelled?"

"V-G-T," he paused, searching for phonemes. "Another G?" he suggested, and then sighed. "It's a kind of food," he explained.

I thought for a moment. "Is it bread?" I asked him. "Do you mean baguette?"

"Vagette?" he repeated.

"No, it's a B. Baaaa-guette," I exaggerated. "But I guess B is pronounced like a V in Spanish, right?"

"Yes!" he said. "That's probably why I was confused."

"You're learning in three languages!" I replied. "That's pretty good!"

The Ice

There was a rather taciturn young man at the register when I carried my handbasket of produce over. He greeted me, but did not make eye contact or conversation. Sometimes I wonder if it's easy for young people to dismiss me or hard for them to engage with me because I'm a white woman of a certain age, and I felt a bit awkward standing silently as he scanned and expertly packed my groceries. I'm an introvert myself, but while he worked, I searched for a way to connect with him.

"Perfect!" I said as he slid the last item into the bag. "What a great packing job!"

"Thank you," he said with the trace of a smile.

"That's an art!" I continued.

"It really is," he agreed, his face opening up. 

"And you're an artist," I laughed appreciatively.

"You gotta do something to make work fun," he nodded as I tapped my card. 

"Enjoy the rest of your day," he smiled as he handed me the bag, and I could tell he meant it.

Payoff

When Heidi switched jobs this school year, we were hopeful that since the position was more direct support for students and less instructional prep, she would have more free time after school hours and on weekends. 

At the beginning of the year, this was not true, as setting up the program and collaborating with many other staff members to implement academic support for her students was very time-consuming. She ended up working just as many extra hours as before. Even so, we hoped it would be an investment, and it seems it might have been. 

"I'm kind of at loose ends," Heidi said on Friday afternoon when she arrived home an hour after the bell. "I don't really have any work this weekend." It was an off week for her soccer team, too, so it felt like she had lots of extra time. We spent it sleeping in, taking Lucy on long walks, hosting a dinner party, doing a jigsaw puzzle, watching a movie, going bowling, hitting golf balls at Top Golf, and shopping. It was almost like a vacation. 

"I could get used to this!" Heidi said this afternoon. 

I could, too.

Porchetta

Emily asked for a fall dinner featuring pork for her birthday, and I got it into my head that I would make porchetta. Traditionally, this rolled, slow-roasted herby pork dish was made from the belly and loin of a whole pig. Early in the 20th century, Italian immigrants in Philadelphia adapted it to use more available butcher cuts, and an American classic was born.

I found lots of different recipes and techniques to prepare porchetta, but I was drawn to one that combined pounded pork belly and pork tenderloin. Tenderloin is readily available in any grocery store, but I had seen slabs of pork belly at the big box warehouse just a couple of days before. When I headed over there to get some, though, I realized the packages were 8-10 pounds each. 

Believe me, I thought about it long and hard before leaving the place empty-handed, but I just could not justify the extra pounds of pork belly. "We probably could have given the extra away," Heidi suggested generously when I told her of my plight. Could we have, though?

As this was Friday morning and the roast needed to be rolled a day in advance, suddenly, I was on the clock. The next place I shopped was a supermarket in a chain known for its natural and organic inventory. They did have pork belly, but it was already portioned, and the butcher apologetically informed me that there were no larger pieces in back. As the prospect of finding what I wanted dimmed, I bought a couple of Breton chops, thinking they might come in handy should I have to pivot.

The next couple of places did not stock pork belly at all, so I threw some boneless shoulder chops and thick-cut bacon into my cart alongside the pork tenderloin. And, since I wanted to serve it with an intense, porky jus, I also tossed a rack of ribs (on sale) and six chicken legs.

And that's what I had to work with when I got home later that afternoon. I lined a baking sheet with plastic wrap and nestled slices of the relatively lean bacon side by side. Then I pounded the well-marbled shoulder chops into uniform oblongs and laid them over the bacon. I sprinkled some toasted fennel seed, rosemary, and red pepper powder from my garden over the meat. Then I butterflied the tenderloin and rubbed it with the same spice mix before placing it atop the other pork. I rolled the whole thing tightly and placed it in the fridge to rest for 24 hours.

The porky jus simmered a couple of hours the next afternoon while the porchetta roasted in a low oven. When it reached 140 degrees, I took it out and let it rest, turning the oven to 475 for its final blast to crisp up the bacon.

It was only when everyone arrived that I considered what a gamble I had taken. I had no idea how the main dish was going to turn out until it was time to serve it. Even so, my confidence, or over-confidence, in the kitchen set my mind at ease. And when I sliced into it? It looked great, a perfect spiral of tender pork and herbs. 

It also passed my one true cooking test. As we enjoyed the roast, its sauce, some spelt, and a fall vegetable platter, I posed a question to my guests. "Would you ask for this again?" I inquired, and they allowed as they would.

Shopping with the Quipster

We were running a few errands today and stopped into a home store. As we made our way past the Halloween decorations to the rear of the store, we saw that their Christmas merchandise was on full display. "Wow, this place is the mullet of holiday sales," I laughed. "Halloween in the front, Christmas in the back!"

At our next stop, all the Halloween stuff was already on clearance. "I can't believe Halloween is over," I lamented, ironically. "Especially since it's not for three weeks!"

The Tween Whisperer

"He is very angry, and sometimes his interactions with staff can range from disrespectful to profane," the assistant told me when I asked about the one student in the program I was subbing for. 

I saw what he meant a moment later when the seventh grader came in, pacing restlessly around the room. When I introduced myself, he ignored me. "You're breakfast is there," the assistant said, gesturing toward the desk.

"I'm not blind, Bruh!" the kid exploded. "I can see the fucking food." He continued to walk the perimeter of the room and then asked to take a walk. His one-to-one aide went with him. While they were gone, another teacher came by to ask that they make sure he got to his first class on time, since there was a guest speaker. "He can come back here to work afterwards," she shrugged, "but it would be less disruptive if he were there when the bell rang.

The assistant was still talking to her in the hall when the student returned. "Your science teacher came to tell you that there's a guest speaker today," I said to him. He turned with interest. "She wants to make sure you're on time so you don't miss it," I added.

He nodded. "I used to teach here," I told him. "I still know a bunch of kids. Who are you friends with?"

He mentioned a few people I did know, and I told him so, offering enough information to show I wasn't faking it. "Do you play any sports?" I asked him.

From there, we talked about football, P.E., his favorite class, where he went to elementary school, and even how he did back in second grade when COVID hit and he had to learn remotely from home. Before we knew it, it was time for him to go so that he would be on time for the speaker in science.

"Have a good class!" I said as his one-to-one escorted him out the door.

"Wow," the assistant said when they were gone. "He actually had a conversation with you. I have not seen that from him before."

I laughed. "Middle school kids can't resist me!"

Who'd've Thought They'd Lead Ya?

A young man was standing in the front office when I reported for sub duty this morning. "Oh, Ms. S!" the coordinator greeted me, "Maybe you can answer his question." She gestured toward the guy.

"When do we get paid?" he asked me.

"Oh, it takes a minute!" I laughed. "They pay us twice a month, but it's for the pay period before. I just got paid for the first couple of weeks of September last week."

He nodded in understanding, and there was something about his dark brown eyes, curly hair, and high cheekbones that seemed familiar to me.

"Did you go here?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Just for one year."

"Sixth grade, right?" I said. "What's your name?"

I recognized it the minute he told me. "I was your English teacher! Remember?"

He shrugged apologetically, but the sub coordinator was delighted. "What was he like then?" she asked.

He looked a little embarrassed. "He was very energetic," I answered diplomatically.

"My parents always tell me that being a substitute is my karma for the way I acted," he said. "So I make sure I'm extra patient with the students."

"They're lucky to have you, then," I replied, "because that's not always easy," and he smiled for the first time in the conversation.

Question of the Week

I stopped by the warehouse store on my way home from bowling yesterday, thinking that early afternoon on a Tuesday might be less busy than usual. I couldn't have been more wrong! I drove in circles around the enormous parking lot for ten minutes, trolling for a spot, any spot. When at last I found one and headed to join the line at the entrance, I ran into a neighbor who was exasperated by the crowd. "Who are all these people?" she demanded. "Really! On a Tuesday?"

"Maybe they are furloughed workers?" I suggested.

"I'd think they'd want to save their money," she scoffed, a bit unkindly.

Today, I met a couple of friends who are also retired for lunch. When I arrived at noon, the neighborhood restaurant was packed. Fortunately, I'd made a reservation, even though I didn't think we would need one.

It took our waiter a little while to make it to our table. "Sorry," he apologized. "It seems like we went from zero to sixty in ten minutes!" He swept his arm around at the busy dining room and sighed. "Who are all these people?"

Built-in Learning Curve

Tuesday is my bowling day, and I look forward to it with a mixture of pleasure and dread. Each week, the balance tips in favor of enjoyment, though, especially as I get to know my teammates and the other ladies. The stakes are both high and low; having a handicap evens the competition, but no matter their skill level, those bowlers play to win. As such, I don't want to let my team down, even as we cheer for the other team's successes. 

I bought my own bowling ball a few weeks ago. The guy at the pro shop asked me a few questions about my bowling style, and I readily admitted I was a novice. "You're in a league, though?" he clarified, and when I said I was he asked me even more questions about the lanes, the center, the other bowlers in my league, and the balls I had been using until then. He advised me to go with a ball that had a little spin action, especially since at the weight I was purchasing, 12 pounds, it would only make a minor difference. Then he measured my hand, placed my fingers in some cylinders, and went and drilled the ball for a custom fit.

I was eager to try it out, but I wanted to practice with it first, so Heidi and I went bowling over the weekend. I found that when I threw it, the curve was quite pronounced, and over the three games we bowled, I wasn't able to figure it out. I was frustrated and worried that I had chosen the wrong ball. Consequently, I've continued to bowl with the center's ball each Tuesday, trying to work on my own basics before introducing a new variable.

Today was the day I actually brought my new ball to the league. After a moment's hesitation, I put it on the rack along with my usual loaner and prepared to warm up. Everyone else was off looking at one of the bowler's new baby (a cute little month-old guy with white noise-canceling headphones on, because his mom couldn't wait to get back to bowling), when I stepped up to throw a few practice frames. 

My first ball was a strike, and I never picked up the borrowed ball again. I bowled 12 pins above my average for the day, too. I guess that pro shop guy knew what he was talking about!