"It's not the pandemic," my friend Mary shook her head at breakfast this morning. "Reading scores are not coming up, and I know why."
"Kids aren't reading, right?" I said.
"AND," she added, "their parents aren't reading. Most kids never see an adult with a book outside of a classroom."
"It's all screens," I agreed.
"That's right," she nodded. "When I go to any waiting room, the kids are all looking at their phones, and so are the adults." She sighed. "We can't fix that at school."
"It's usually not a good use of your time to ask students to write first drafts and try to comment on all of them soon enough for a second draft," I told my nephew, the first-year English teacher, when he was lamenting how much better the essays he was grading would be if they were revised.
"I'm sure my teachers did that," he insisted. "I remember getting drafts back and then having to do a final."
"Did you do the writing in class or for homework?" I asked.
"Oh, it was all for homework," he scoffed, but then his eyebrows raised in understanding. "Which, of course, no one does anymore," he nodded.
"Right," I agreed. "We call it "retakes" now."
The weather was beautiful today: sunny and about 30 degrees warmer than last week. And there were plenty of people out and about when I walked Lucy this afternoon, but they didn't seem like quite the same set of folks I've nodded to since September. Some seemed older, fewer had dogs, not a lot were on their phones, and many were workers on the job.
It occurred to me then that the neighborhood might get a little lonelier soon. Many residents are federal workers who, in the coming months, will have to start reporting to work in person five days a week.
I can't even imagine how it will be, but I bet the dog walkers in the area are happy.
I figured that if you put me in a room with 100 of my fellow Arlingtonians, I would know at least one, and so that was what was on my mind as I rode the elevator to the 10th floor of the courthouse for jury duty this morning. And sure enough, shortly after checking in, I spotted a teacher from my former school busily working on emails and grades. Then, when they called everyone's name "in random order," I heard one I recognized; a student who I knew from swimming and basketball was staring at her phone across the room. I never would have picked her out of a crowd (clearly), but it had been about 15 years since I'd seen her last.
They asked us to be there at 8:45, "not too late, not too early," but they were still checking folks in at 9:30. The court employees obviously had a system; there were several pointers listed on a whiteboard with the legend "never erase" scrawled across the top, but I was struck at how it still seemed that they were making it up as they went. This was especially true when they called us up by rows of tables to receive our 50 dollar bills; the signature sheets were strewn across the table, forcing prospective jurors to pass them back and forth like bread baskets at a restaurant.
It was eerily quiet up there as we waited, too. Everyone looked at a screen or a book or a newspaper or out the window at the planes landing and taking off over the Potomac. At around 10:15 they warned us to use the restroom and stow our electronics because someone was coming to take 26 of us into the courtroom. I quickly realized that they were calling us in the same random order we had answered attendance to, and I was sure I would not be in the group. The other teacher was, though, and I knew my name was only a few after hers.
Once they left, we were given no further instructions for about an hour. Then they told us to hit the bathrooms again because they were coming for a few more. This time, my name was the seventh called, and I quickly gathered my things, accepted the laminated sheet with the number 33 printed on it, and lined up out in the hall. A short time later, we were shown into the courtroom, and the first 12 of us took our seats in the jury box while the other 14 sat in the pew-like audience section.
It was unclear if this was another trial or the same one-- there was no sign of the other 26 people. In a few moments, we met the judge, the Commonwealth's attorneys, and the defense attorney (all women), and voir dire began. I was surprised by how much information they gave us about the case and also a little shocked that it was a sex offense trial. Not only that, but it was basically a she-said-he-said situation, although there was some type of audio recording.
I answered the questions honestly, but there were none posed to me directly. There were no clear reasons to dismiss me out of hand, and as the many sidebars went on, I wondered how I would be able to weigh the evidence if I was chosen when it was all testimony and circumstantial. I also dreaded spending the predicted three days immersed in such an ugly situation. Still, I was willing to meet this obligation, and I was curious to see what the experience of serving on a jury would be like.
They brought in the remaining 16 prospective jurors from the other group, and we listened to the judge describe our duties as the attorneys made their strikes. In the end, I was the last person struck, and I have no idea if it was a prosecution or defense choice. As I stood for a moment at the back of the room with the other 20 people who were also exiting the court, I looked at the 13 people who were chosen.
They were young, in their 30s and 40s, except for one man who looked to be in in his late 60s. They were a diverse group, on the surface: several races and ethnicities seemed to be represented, and one woman wore a headscarf. More than half were men. I was a tiny bit disappointed, but not really, and I silently wished them all the best of luck as I headed out into the cold, bright January afternoon.
The big box store was not too busy when we flashed our membership card and entered the enormous warehouse this afternoon. It was time to replenish our bulk stock of some of the staples we buy there, and after a busy day at school, Heidi was up for a little retail therapy, too.
She was hoping for some Valentine's Day lights or decorations but was pleased to find a pair of Gap cargo pants instead. As we made our way back and forth across the aisles, I noticed that while they didn't have much for Valentine's Day, they were flush with Lunar New Year goodies. As I looked around at my fellow shoppers, I saw many couples or families who appeared to be shopping for that very holiday.
"When is it?" Heidi asked me when I pointed out my observations.
"Wednesday," I told her as a woman with the happy air of someone on a joyful errand pushed her cart loaded with dumplings, wine, and other treats past us, a little boy and girl skipping excitedly behind her.
I could actually feel their holiday spirit and that of others around me, and it was wonderful! Before I knew it, there was a spring in my step and a smile on my face. Welcome to you, Year of the Snake!
We met Bill, Emily, and Treat at the movies a little before noon today. We were there to see The Brutalist and knock ten Academy Award nominations off our list. The film was long: three hours and 35 minutes, including a 15-minute intermission, and it depicted a lot of hardship, cruelty, and some resilience, too.
The five of us blinked in the sunlight as we exited the theater, unsure what to make of it. We all agreed the acting was good, but we stood in a tight circle on the sidewalk, processing for several minutes, sharing observations and questions. Then we agreed to meet again next weekend for another movie.
Oscar season is here!
I usually end up tossing the discount coupon they give me at the thrift store donation center. At those times, my mind is on clearing out rather than acquiring more, and I never get around to using it when my attitude is otherwise.
Today, as I waited in a line of cars driven by folks with a similar disposition of dispossessing, I saw three high school-aged girls walk up with a couple of items each. They dropped them into the bin, accepted the coupon, and proceeded into the store. I admired their shrewd saving sense, even as I waved off my own coupon.
I love listening to an audiobook while I'm cooking, and this evening, it was The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali, a story spanning decades from the 1950s to the 1980s and crossing oceans from Iran to New York City. The novel was well recommended, but I think I chose it in part because last year, I listened to Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. I was profoundly moved by that story of a young man who had moved with his dad to the States from Iran after his mother was lost when her plane was shot down by the USS Vincennes.
When I was in high school in Switzerland in the late 1970s, several Iranian students were attending the school, too. Scions of wealthy families connected to the Shah, most were enrolled at our American school to learn English abroad, but not so far away as the United States. Those kids were a cultural force, and knowing them, living in the Middle East myself, and following the political upheaval of 1979 and beyond is definitely a draw for me when it comes to an Iranian setting.
In high school, we all learned Persian cussing. To this day, I could call bullshit or tell someone to go fuck their mom in Farsi, a skill I'm marginally proud of. At any rate, tonight, the main character in the novel describes her love of learning geography, and one of the examples is Portugal. "In our language the country is called Burtuqal," she says, "which means orange."
I've been to Portugal, and I know that vocabulary; the word for orange is the same in Arabic, which I learned in school in Saudi Arabia. But I never made the connection. How can it be that Portugal is named after oranges, or oranges after Portugal, and I never knew it?
But how glad I am that I know it now!
Who likes this shit?
It's a fair question in light of this week's news cycle, right?
Who really thinks it's a good idea to pardon violent insurrectionists, gag government health agencies, conduct personal loyalty tests of federal employees, and install a Diet Coke button in the Oval Office? (And let's not even get started on the environment, reproductive rights, immigration, and transgender issues.)
I just don't get it, but although I'll never agree with such perspectives, I can't live the next four years condemning 51% of the electorate as selfish, ignorant morons. So, as a critic seeking clarity, I'm adding to my news providers.
We'll see how that goes.
There's been a lot of helicopter traffic around here lately.
Such roof-rattling whomp, whomp, whomp is not unheard of in these parts: Washington, D.C., is right over the bridge; we can see the Monument and Capitol from our balcony. The Pentagon is even closer, only a couple miles away. Even so, there seems to be an uptick in activity this week.
I've done my best to limit my media consumption and stay as positive as possible as a democratically elected president takes office and implements policies with which I disagree profoundly. Still, the sight of the wealthiest man in the world giving a Roman salute in celebration of this administration and witnessing the merciless codification of the hateful, revenge-driven rhetoric that framed the campaign has been hard to shake off.
And then?
There are all those helicopters.
I debated long and hard when a friend and former colleague asked me to take the long-term sub job when she goes out for a month to recover from a hip replacement in April. I would be teaching science on my old sixth-grade team in the room right next door to mine, which is as tempting an offer to substitute as I can imagine.
In fact, that very room was the site of my first ever substitute job, back in the spring of ‘93, when I was subbing and looking for a full-time teaching position for the next school year. That particular sub job was not memorable other than being the first and also being located on the team at the school where I was eventually hired and stayed for my entire career.
The same cannot be said for other sub jobs I took. There was the one where the 8th grade at another middle school girl lied about her name, pretending to be somebody else. That was hardly surprising, but the lack of support I got when I reported the incident did take me aback. “That’s unlikely,” said the teacher next door. “It really doesn’t sound like her.”
Another memorable interaction happened when I was encouraging a student at the alternative high school to do his U.S. History assignment, which was using crayons to shade a map, basically coloring. He refused to even take the handout. "This seems like a pretty easy job," I told him, "and you're here, so why not just do it?"
He sucked his teeth. "I'm here because it was this or jail," he scoffed, "but I'm not doing any work."
Three decades later, I have a broader skill set, but I'm not sure if I could do anything other than what I did then, which was to nod and walk away. A substitute has limited leverage, and students know it.
That brings me back to the deliberation at hand. As much as I detest the idea of trying to teach with all the drawbacks of a temporary position, I wanted to help my friend out, and her co-teacher, another good friend, was applying intense pressure. I also liked the idea of being back at my old school for a few weeks and having the chance to catch up with my former students, now in 7th and 8th grade, and I was curious to see how the ephemeral nature of such a job might change my perspective on being in the classroom.
And so, I agreed.
Yesterday, we hunkered down and fought the frigid weather by staying cozy by the fire. However, after sleeping in this morning and finishing a jigsaw puzzle in the early afternoon, I couldn't stay inside for another minute. I tried to get Lucy to walk with me, but she gave me a serious side-eye and put the brakes on before we were even out of the complex.
It was cold, 22 degrees, but after bringing her back in, I snapped my trapper hat and headed back out for a walk on my own. It didn't take long after climbing the stairs and moving briskly through the neighborhood hills that I removed my hat. Soon, my jacket was only three-quarters zipped, and my scarf loosened. By the time I hit mile one, I was carrying my scarf and mittens in my hat as my coat waved behind me.
"It's getting colder," a fellow walker admonished me with raised eyebrows, and I nodded in agreement as I passed her. As I continued along, I thought about ways to combat the cold. Hibernation is always a temptation, but action is effective, too, and so invigorating to boot.
Heidi was talking to her mom on speaker this afternoon. "I got myself a frozen pizza to have during the game," her mom said.
"That's festive!" Heidi answered.
"Yeah, but you know what I was looking for and couldn't find?" her mom continued. "TV dinners. What? They don't make those anymore?"
The conversation continued on about the convenience of such a product. "Sometimes I just don't feel like cleaning up after cooking," her mom said, "and those are the perfect solution."
"I don't know," Heidi responded. "Honestly, I haven't looked for a TV dinner in years."
"When I was a kid," her mom recalled, "we used to love them because they came with a dessert."
"You used to get them for us," Heidi reminded her, "especially when we had a babysitter."
"Right," her mom agreed, "I would always ask the sitter what she wanted and get her one, too."
As they talked, I remembered the exact situation unfolding at our house when we had a babysitter. But I also remembered hating those TV dinners. Besides the fact that the food wasn't very good, they were always cooked unevenly-- something was scalding and dry, and something else was cold or mushy. One part of the meal always stuck to the foil tray, and not only did the dessert always taste a little like the entree, but the vegetable (which was usually yucky peas and carrots) always had some of the dessert on it.
Even so, I found it hard to believe that food companies had actually come to their senses and discontinued such an iconic, if profoundly flawed, product. So, as the two of them continued their conversation, I did an online search of the grocery stores near Heidi's mom. Don't worry, dear reader, Hungry Man is still a thing; they just changed the packaging, which is why she couldn't find them.
You can still have your sliced turkey and gravy dinner, or fried chicken, or even your Salisbury steak, along with several more updated options, like boneless rib-shaped pork patties. These days, the foil has been replaced by black plastic, and you just have to pop the meal in the microwave to heat and eat.
And yes, they all come with a brownie.
I handed the clipboard with the candidate petition on it back to the volunteer standing outside the station vestibule. "Thanks," she said and, turning to the teenagers with me, asked, "Is this your first march?"
When they nodded, she continued. "Have fun! Pay attention to the signs-- you'll see some great ones!"
A little while later, the woman sitting next to me on the Metro asked, "Are you going to the march?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"We are too," she said.
"I figured," I replied. "I noticed your sign."
"I made it for the last one," she sighed.
"I can't believe you still have it eight years later," I told her.
"I can't believe I need it again." She shook her head, and the train pulled into our station. "Have..." she paused and shrugged. "Fun? At the March." Then she smiled wryly and joined her group.
"You too," I called after her, but she had already disappeared into the crowd.
A trace of snow had fallen last night when I took Lucy for her last out of the day. Our weather has been so unseasonably cold that most of the snow from the storm 10 days ago is still on the ground, and this new dusting cleaned it all up, making it sparkle and gleam in the moonlight.
This is the type of winter I want every year! I thought. One or two big storms and weather cold enough that there's never any slush. Then, a little sprinkle of new snow every week or so to keep things looking clean. It's perfect!
I took a nice deep breath of the frosty air and tromped back to the house in my warm coat and boots, determined to enjoy it while it lasts.
I'm in the habit of using my smartwatch to track any outdoor walking I do over a mile or so. I'm interested in my pace, but I also like seeing my route on a map along with other features, such as elevation gain. (We have enough hills around here that I try to include some good ups and downs in every walk.)
These days, however, I do most of my walking with our dog Lucy, and she's more interested in her own data, like what other animals followed this trail recently and where they peed and pooped. She also enjoys leaving a calling card for those dogs who will follow, and so there is way more squatting than nature demands.
As such, we are often at cross purposes. I don't mind a little sniffing, but I'm out for the walking. Lucy couldn't disagree more, and she is perfectly content to let me know that keeping her nose down, putting on the brakes, and pulling hard off to the side. It can be maddening, but she probably feels the same way about being jerked along.
Today, when my watch announced that our split pace for mile one was over thirty minutes, I let out an agonized groan of frustration and then made Lucy sit. I told her that we were not there just to sniff, sniff, SNIFF! We had to walk, too, and do so together. Did she understand!?
Perhaps the pep talk worked, or maybe her nose was tired, but the split pace for our second mile was 22 minutes.
And although it wasn't as fast as I wished, it was a compromise, and I was, after all, walking the dog.
When it comes to meditation, our cat Milo is my guy. He offers consistent companionship; whether I am practicing live, online, or with a recording, he is usually by my side. Our other cat, Tibby, is the opposite. When she hears the slightest hint of mantra or meditative music she runs from the room. Lucy, the dog, is ordinarily otherwise indisposed because I most commonly practice when she and Heidi are on their morning walk.
That was not the case yesterday, however. It was around 10 a.m. when I clicked the link to catch up with what I'd missed earlier that morning. As usual, Tibby fled and Milo moved to the mat, but when Lucy heard the sound of activity coming from the next room, she came to see what the fuss was. That was her mistake: Milo charged the door, claws out and hissing.
Never mind light and love. Apparently? This was our special time.
"We're having fish fry," I announced to Heidi, "and salad for dinner."
I thought it might cheer her up after a tough day at work, and it seemed to. Even so, when she went upstairs, I calculated how long it might take were I to add another item to the menu. We had everything we needed for a small batch of Heidi's mom's potato salad recipe ( a favorite comfort food), but time was a consideration, too.
I put on a pot of water with an egg in it to boil and peeled the potatoes. Then I diced the celery and a little onion and placed them in a bowl. I added a splash of cider vinegar and some salt to give them a quick pickle before turning to the fridge. There, I gathered squeeze bottles of dill relish, sweet relish, sour cream, mustard, and mayonnaise. They were in the bowl and back in the refrigerator in less than a minute, a testament to their convenience.
I diced the potatoes and put them in the pot with the egg. Six minutes later, both were cooked. I drained the potatoes and put a dish towel over them to steam a bit, then I ran the egg under cold water, peeled and chopped it. The final step was tossing it all together.
Elapsed time? Fifteen minutes.
"You made potato salad?" Heidi asked happily when she came back down from her shower. "Thank you!"
"No problem!" I answered, and it was true.
It took me a while to get there, but in the last decade or so of my teaching career, I chose not to make a big deal out of it when a student wasn't prepared with a pencil or other writing utensil. Instead, I simply ordered enough pencils to supply anyone who was without. Oh, it was still an expectation of the class for students to bring something to write with, but if they didn't, I was prepared.
Of course, it was galling to me initially, and a part of me was a little irritated right up until the end that whoever it was couldn't bother to come prepared for school, but I knew that wasn't always the case. In sixth grade, it's not necessarily an enormous character flaw to forget or even "forget" a pencil. Sometimes, it might have been a case of laziness, for sure, but most of the time, it was a function of disorganization, inattention, lack of means, or even the desire to stick it to the teacher.
In every one of those cases, it was better for me to give the kid a pencil and move on. I realized that my objective was not to investigate or scold someone for not having what they needed. My main purpose wasn't even to build character or responsibility, either; I was there to teach English, and if someone needed a pencil to help learn the lesson I planned, then bless their heart, they could have one, no questions asked.
I bring this up now because our community seems to be inundated by dog shit lately. I know, both because I've noticed myself and because, as a board member, Heidi has received several complaints. We have many dogs in the complex, and so we have trashcans and bags positioned throughout the neighborhood. One of these clean-up stations has been without bags for a couple weeks, and the conversation has focused on that a bit.
"I kind of feel that, as a dog owner, those bags are nice to have, not need to have," commented one board member. "Shouldn't all dog owners be prepared when they take their dog out?"
She's not wrong, but there has been poop spotted even in the vicinity of stations that are equipped with bags. "We should send out a strongly-worded message!" suggested another.
Heidi was still mad when we talked about it later. "I wish we could get cameras and fine people who don't pick up after their dogs!" she said.
"Maybe we should just hire somebody to clean it up," I said.
"The board will never go for that." She shook her head. "And why should we? People are supposed to pick up after their dogs!"
"I agree," I replied, "but is it your objective to teach people a lesson about good dog ownership by scolding and punishing them when we can catch them, or is it to get rid of the poop?" I knew she would get it-- Heidi has a huge supply of pencils her classroom.
So far, the rest of the board doesn't quite see it that way. That strongly-worded email is going out tomorrow.
The air was soft and still, and evening shadows painted the snow purple as Lucy and I stepped out a little while ago. The door was barely closed when she pulled urgently toward the woods across the way, and I saw two deer feeding there. They saw us, too, but they never moved a single step away, even as we passed within yards of them. A full moon shone low on the horizon, hundreds of crows cawed raucously in the trees above, and I just knew it would be a good walk.
"How were your snow days?" I asked a former colleague. He had scooted into the passenger seat in my warm car for a few minutes to chat as I waited for Heidi at school.
"They were great!" he answered. "After the busy holiday, just having a chance to hang with the family was awesome. We went sledding every day."
"I completely get that," I nodded.
"There was some parking drama, though," he added, shaking his head. Then he told me a familiar story of folks digging out their cars and others just driving over snow to take a spot when it became available.
"That situation really brings out the worst in some people," I agreed, thinking of our own community.
Just the day before, we came home to find the space we had shoveled occupied by a resident from around the corner. Not wanting to leave one of our neighbors stuck, we pulled into a vacant spot and grabbed our shovels to clean out an extra place. A guy from across the way pitched in to help, and it didn't take long.
Even so, it was aggravating, and more so because we recognized the car and knew its owner. In fact, as we were leaving, our next-door neighbor was out shoveling, and she had expressed her fear that this particular woman would come to take her spot if she left it. "Oh, no," I had said to her. "That wouldn't happen!"
"Okay, Pollyanna," she answered.
And while we were out, Heidi and I had discussed going around to see if that neighbor needed any help digging out her car, because we knew that she lived alone. "I forgot to see where her car was," I told Heidi as we rolled by on our way home.
"I don't think it was there," she said.
"It's probably in our spot, then," I laughed. But my mirth was short-lived because, sure enough, there it was when we pulled around.
"I want to go talk to her," Heidi fumed, "but I'm too mad."
"What would your objective be in confronting her?" I asked.
"I'd want her to move the car," Heidi replied.
"I guess you could tell her that you noticed her car was in the parking space we cleared, and you were wondering if she would move it since you have to go to work early tomorrow, and you're afraid it will be icy."
"That's all true," Heidi agreed.
"You don't have to be mad," I added. "People do stuff like that because they bank on never having to account for their actions. If you talk to her, she'd have to own it."
"I'm going to do it!" Heidi said.
And she did.
And the woman moved her car... into somebody else's spot. But by then, enough people had done enough extra shoveling that there was room. Because, sure, this situation can bring out the worst in some, but it can also bring out the best.
Once I was sucked into President Carter's memorial service by the drama of seeing all of his successors and many of their political rivals sitting in three rows at the Cathedral, I continued watching out of respect and interest. To begin with, Andrew Young was on the pulpit, his body weakened by age, but his voice was as strong and compelling as ever.
The eulogy written by President Ford and delivered by his son 18 years after his father's death was captivating from its opening words: By fate of a brief season, Jimmy Carter and I were rivals, but for the many wonderful years that followed, friendship bonded us as no two presidents since John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, and the story it told of honor and humanity transcending politics was heartening to hear in these times.
Vice President Mondale also wrote a eulogy that outlived him, which was read by his son and recognized President Carter's willingness to take the long view of issues and make choices that could be politically unpopular but right for the future.
The Carter family eulogies delivered by grandsons Josh and Jason were testimony to President Carter's transparency and honesty and how his public and private personas were one. Jason Carter said, Yes, they spent four years in the governor’s mansion and four years at the White House. But the other 92 years they spent at home in Plains, Georgia.
And one of the best ways to demonstrate that they were regular folks is to take them by that home. First of all, it looks like they might have built it themselves. Second of all, my grandfather was likely to show up at the door in some ’70s short shorts and Crocs. His words were an important reminder that President Carter, like any president, was just a man. A man of faith and service but a man all the same.
And President Biden's admonition of the importance of character and integrity was pointed and poignant. I'll end with a few of them here: At our best, we share the better parts of ourselves: joy, solidarity, love, commitment. Not for reward, but in reverence for the incredible gift of life we’ve all been granted. To make every minute of our time here on Earth count.
I did not intend to watch it.
The NY Times was live streaming Jimmy Carter’s memorial service from National Cathedral, and I happened to glance at the feed as they were seating President Trump and Melania. The two were the first attendees in their row, the second, but behind them— was that Al Gore? And next to him, was that Mike and Karen Pence?
The drama was too good to click away from, and I was riveted by Trump’s uncomfortable demeanor as he turned to shake hands with them in what was his first face to face meeting with Pence in four years.. He was still squirming a little when they seated the next guest, Barack Obama, right next to him. President Obama graciously shook everyone’s hand, including Trump’s, as he found his seat.
Before I could even consider looking at something else, George and Laura Bush were shown to their seats, next to Obama. Bush seemed a bit befuddled, but he shook Gore’s hand and then Pence’s, but he totally missed Karen Pence reaching out to him and turned his back on her to sit down next to Laura, who was next to Obama.
There were two seats left in the row, and I knew who was coming next. The Clintons approached within seconds, and everybody, except George Bush, rose to greet them. Hillary entered the row first with a face of stone, followed by her affable husband and his aw shucks grin. And it was then that President Bush chose to engage: he tried to say something to her, but she flat out ignored him, so much so, that he shrugged and looked away.
The whole group sat in awkward silence, except for Donald Trump. He was talking Barack Obama’s ear off. President Obama nodded and politely and answered briefly from time to time, but he really kind of looked like the guy who gets stuck next to the inappropriately chatty kid— I think he might have shushed him if he could have.
But then? It got even more uncomfortable. Vice President Harris and her husband were shown to their seats, and when she saw that she would be sitting directly in front of Donald Trump, she made Doug change places with her. She did not speak to anyone, nor did she shake any hands. The tension was broken slightly when President and Mrs. Biden sat down, but there was a lot of program reading until the casket was escorted down the aisle and the actual service began.
More about that tomorrow.
It was cold, frigid, really, when I bundled up in tights under sweats, a turtleneck under a hoodie, wool socks, and tall boots this afternoon to walk Lucy. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, and a chill wind blew, but I needed the fresh air, so we climbed the steps out of the complex and started a three-mile loop we often walk.
Our route took us through the neighborhood and across a bridge over the interstate. Traffic on its way to and from Washington, D.C. whizzed by beneath us. The sun peeked out a little then, and I was surprised at its warmth. I could feel it on my face, and through my down vest, it literally warmed my heart a bit.
Even in the coldest cold, a little sunshine made a difference. I put on my sunglasses and kept walking, determined to remember the lesson in the days coming.
"The parking lot is clear," I noted as Heidi and I pulled up to Gunston on our way home from Whole Foods. "The sidewalks look good, too."
"Let's check Oakridge," she suggested. Just up the hill, the neighborhood roads were a little slushy, but the school parking lot and bus lane were wet pavement. "Damn!" she shook her head. "It looks like I'm going to school tomorrow."
"Let's swing by Jefferson and check out those neighborhoods," I said, but I wasn't hopeful.
A little while later, we looked down side streets and checked out sidewalks as we drove down 2nd Street South. "That street looks bad," Heidi noted.
"And the sidewalks are awful," I added.
"But do the sidewalks really matter?" Heidi asked in return. "The school system has no control over them."
At Jefferson, the rec center was open, and all the outdoor parking lots were plowed. The conditions in the neighborhood on the way home were sketchy, though, and those sidewalks? Terrible.
But on down the road, Randolph was cleared, and then Abingdon was, too.
It all comes down to the neighborhoods, we agreed; surely there would be at least a delay? Back at home, Heidi prepared to go to work: she posted her final announcement, chose her outfit, and showered. Periodically, we checked our notifications, and when the adjoining county announced they were closed, we grew slightly optimistic.
Around 5:45 p.m., the "closed" notice for today flipped to a "normal operation" notice, and we lost hope. "Not even a delay?" Heidi asked in dismay. "I knew it!" she continued and added a few choice words for the officials in charge of such a decision. Then she texted her colleague.
A few minutes later, she received word that an operation announcement would be posted at 6:30. "Does she know what it is?" I asked, but there was no further information as the minutes ticked away.
Heidi's phone buzzed. "Closed!" she rejoiced. "Phew! They had me worried."
You might think that a snow day would be less of a big deal to me now that I'm retired and would be staying home whether the weather was wintery or not. And until today, I might have agreed with you in theory, but I was still a little giddy when the world turned white overnight.
Of course, the fact that Heidi didn't have to go to work was the first bonus of the day, but we both still set our alarms last night: she to walk with Lucy and their friends in the morning, and I to start the newest 40-day meditation with my yoga guru. But 7 a.m. found me right back in bed, and soon Lucy and Heidi were snoozing, too, and not a one of us got up again until after 10.
The rest of the morning was taken up with coffee and breakfast as snowflakes fluttered from the sky by the trillions, piling up into several inches on the ground. A little after noon we headed out to brush off the car and shovel a bit. As is usually the case around here, we were joined in the parking lot by several neighbors, and working together, we made light work of clearing the snow that had already fallen.
Next on our agenda was snowshoeing. Some years, we toss our snowshoes in the car when we head up to Buffalo for Christmas, but most winters they languish in their bag in the attic, waiting, as we do, for a snow deep enough for them. Today, the conditions were perfect. We tromped up and down in fresh powder, around and behind the buildings in our neighboring communities, and then back into our own, where we scaled hills and snow banks to make it home.
A fire, a phone call to my siblings, and my father's favorite dinner filled the final hours of daylight and evening. He would have been 90 today, and I couldn't help thinking that this was the kind of day he might have enjoyed, too.
Since today was Victor's last day in town, I thought it would be fun for the six of us to go to brunch before he flies out tonight.
"I was thinking of making reservations at the Carlyle," I mentioned to Treat the other day. Our family has been going for brunch there since both Treat and Victor were born, usually with one of their grandparents when they were living.
He got a bit of a dreamy smile and a faraway look in his eye. "I haven't been there in ages," he said nostalgically.
I texted the rest of the group a little while later to see if 11 a.m. was a good time. "The restaurant of brunch!" Emily replied, using the name the boys did when they were small.
Our party was in good spirits as we climbed the grand staircase to be seated. "Are you going to have the Squibnocket scramble?" Emily asked. "With the smoked trout?"
"Maybe they'll give us our usual table," I joked, and sure enough, the hostess led us to a round table by the windows, where we had eaten many times. But when we examined the menus that she gave us, we were confused. There was no brunch listed.
When the server approached our table, we had questions. "No, we don't serve brunch," she told us, and the expression on her face suggested that they hadn't for quite some time. "We do have some brunch specials," she added, "steak and eggs benedict or salmon with eggs, but that's all for brunch."
"Not even any beignets?" Emily inquired wistfully, but our waiter shook her head firmly and asked for our drink order.
The meal was very good; the company and the conversation were great, and we had a nice time. In the end, we agreed that we had nothing to complain about.
Except it wasn't brunch.
I took it as a compliment the other night when we were playing Spot the Intro, a fun but flawed game that challenges teams to identify a song from some decade between the 60s and the 10s within 15 seconds, and Emily said, "Wow, you can really tell Tracey is a writing and reading person. She knows a lot of the words to these songs." I also reacted with a moment of sonder when I realized that not everyone interacts with music that way.
But it was definitely that tendency that got me through the movie A Complete Unknown today. Clocking in at 2 hours and 20 minutes, the film depicts the life of Bob Dylan from his 1961 arrival in NYC to his performance at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. And that would have been a long time to spend with that asshole, except that the movie gave me the opportunity to revisit the lyrics of songs I have taken for granted all my life.
Somehow, watching the creation of such songs as "Don't Think Twice," "Blowin in the Wind," and "The Times They Are a Changin" allowed me to really listen to the words, and I was dazzled (yes, dazzled) by the craftsmanship. Dylan's songs are genius: simple but profound, effectively using metaphor, repetition, and word choice to convey messages that are both timeless and timely.
I totally get the Nobel Laureate thing now. (But I still think he's a jerk.)
"This is a hot sauce I made," I announced as we sat down for New Year's dinner.
"What's this?" my brother pointed to a nearly identical bottle.
"That is also hot sauce I made," I answered.
"What's the difference?" he asked. "Is it that this one is hot, and that one is too?" he continued dryly.
"I made them on different days?" I shrugged. "They do taste a little bit different."
In retrospect, of course, a label or two would have been handy, but when caught up in creating such condiments, it just seems impossible I'll ever forget what I put in them, even if I'm using whatever happened to be ripe and/or plentiful that day.
With spice mixes, I'm a little better, and by that, I mean I put the name of whatever it is on the jar, and once last summer, I even listed the ingredients in a chili powder I made, but that was an anomaly. I guess I also just figure it will be me using, and then eating, these products, and I usually season by taste rather than measurement or recipe. In that case, if it tastes good, who cares what's in it?
On New Year's Day, people just tasted the sauces and then picked one or mixed them together, but it might have been nice to know what the comparison was. Tonight, though, I was annoyed at myself when I added a couple cubes of unidentified frozen pesto to my tomato sauce and discovered (by tasting) that in addition to basil, they also contained cilantro and mint. It wasn't exactly the flavor profile I planned for our tomato tart, and I was a little disappointed.
Not enough to label the rest of though, because really? I'm sure I'll remember what it is next time.
How was your Christmas season? a friend texted today.
I considered my reply a moment before typing, Christmas was good. I think being retired really allowed me to slow down and enjoy the season.
Later, I was still thinking about the exchange. "I really had a good Christmas this year," I told Heidi.
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean you're choosing to ignore all the bad parts?" she asked skeptically.
I knew what she was saying. The holiday was not perfect: we missed my sister's family, and Heidi's mom and brother are going through some tough times, too.
"They were impossible to ignore," I answered, "but there was so much more."
"I only want to do 500-piece puzzles!" Heidi told me after we finished one in just a couple of hours.
"They are fast and fun," I agreed and went to the bookshelf. "How about this one?" I held up a puzzle of Christmas cats.
"Where did that come from?" Heidi asked.
"We've had it over here for years," I shrugged. "I probably bought it on clearance or something."
As we emptied the bag and started turning over the pieces, Heidi sighed in dismay. "They are all the same!" she pointed to the box.
I'd never noticed, but the puzzle had identical images of five different cats randomly scattered across it. Plus, there was a lot of white space.
"I don't think I'm going to like this one," Heidi shook her head.
Even so, we persisted. It was a little challenging, but we put the second-to-last piece in just after midnight on the first day of the new year. "Where's the last piece?" I wondered out loud.
We had somehow lost a piece of the puzzle in the eight hours it had been on the table, and despite searching thoroughly, it has not turned up. Added to that irritation is the fact that this is the second puzzle of the last three we have completed, where one of the pieces has gone inexplicably missing. The first was our advent puzzle, which we burned in the fireplace once we came to terms with the reality that it would NEVER be complete.
I'm afraid those cute cats may meet a similar fate because, as we are unfortunately well aware, no one wants to do a puzzle with missing pieces. In fact, I'm kind of skeptical about doing any puzzles at all for a while.
Take that, Universe.
