For Want of a Cup of Coffee

In general, I appreciate the compact nature of our home. Sure, storage is at a premium, but we have come up with some clever workarounds in the decades we have lived here. Even so, this morning my patience was definitely tried.

The inciting event was completely my fault. I stepped into the kitchen to make some sourdough pastry and thought I'd make myself a second cup of coffee first. Fetching the jar from the cupboard, I unscrewed the lid, and when I reached for the scoop, I swept the entire jar off the counter and onto the floor. Fortunately, it hit the mat and the glass didn't break. Unfortunately, all the beans scattered across the floor.

I went to the closet to get the broom and dustpan, but I had to move the leaf-blower out of the way. Then I had to drag the mats from the kitchen into the dining room to sweep. I couldn't get all the beans from the corners, and the tile could use a good mopping, so I went back into the closet and moved the dog food bin aside to get the vacuum and Swiffer. 

As I was mopping, I knocked the shoe moulding from the base of one of the cabinets, and the bottom kick plate came loose as well. Both had been attached with a nail gun, and the brads were bent, so reusing them was out of the question; however, I did retrieve a hammer from the tool drawer to try. Next, I went through the hardware tin to see if there was anything I could use instead, but as I struggled on my knees, I discovered that the best nail I could find was a little too big to hammer in because of the tight space it was in, between the stove and the refrigerator.

I decided to try the electric staple gun instead, thinking that perhaps the longest of the staples would go through the plate. But I couldn't find either a cheater or an extension cord that would take a three-prong appliance. Having emptied the tool drawer and placed its contents all over the dining room table, I went to look under the bathroom sink. There, I removed all sorts of cleaning supplies, first aid supplies, extra tissue boxes, paper towels, and toilet paper, as well as clean hand towels, a steam cleaner, and some spray paint, before finding the cheater I knew was in there, somewhere.

Back in the kitchen, the staple gun, finally plugged in, turned out not to be the right tool for the job after all, so I searched the picture-hanging hardware assortment and selected two brass nails. After a bit of cussing and banging, the kick plate was back in place with the shoe moulding wedged firmly beneath it. I wound up the extension cord and put away the staple gun (with the cheater in place) and went into the dining room to put away all the tools in their drawer. Then it was back into the bathroom to reorganize the assortment on the floor into the cabinet below the sink.

I still need to put the broom, vacuum, and Swiffer back into the closet and replace the dog food, and I never did get that coffee, let alone make the pastry dough.

Hard Truths

A neighbor jumped into the pool as we were treading and talking this afternoon. She ignored us and found her own space nearby to swim back and forth the short way, a choice I totally got and respected. As she swam, though, she made little noises, somewhere between a hum and a grunt, that were quiet but audible to us. We were still in the pool when she finished her workout and departed the pool, and as she walked into the locker room, I made a snarky remark to Heidi about the noises. 

Before she could reply, I laughed and apologized. "That was super unkind of me," I shook my head. "I don't know why I said that."

"Well," Heidi replied, "it was unexpected and noticeable."

I shrugged. "So what, though?" 

"You didn't say anything mean to her," Heidi pointed out, and I agreed.

As we floated, I thought of a friend and former colleague who quite often used to inform me that I was making little noises when we ate together at lunch. I knew her well enough to apologize, confess I was lost in my own thoughts, and then give her a little grief right back. "But if your goal was to make me uncomfortable? You succeeded!"

She usually rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I thought you would want to know!"

Did I, though?

Situational Awareness

There was an itchy spot on my shin when I sat down to meditate this morning, and I scratched it in surprise. Upon examination, the tiny crescent of blisters and its tiny adjoining constellation of the same revealed themselves to be poison ivy, which was hardly surprising since I have been tramping in and out of the woods across the way every day to check my wildlife camera.

In general, I'm fortunate not to be affected by many of life's dermatological irritants. I don't know if mosquitoes avoid me, or if I don't have a reaction to their bites, or a combination of both, but I can live my life repellent-free without consequence. The same usually goes for poisonous plants, although I am careful to avoid them.

But, I have noticed that the older I get? The more accident-prone I seem to be. Six decades on, my unconscious doesn't seem quite as sharp as perhaps it once was, and so I must be more consciously mindful. 

I guess it's a good thing I started my day with meditation!

Unwilling Participant

I was trolling the aisles of the discount clothing and home store, looking for Heidi, when a woman stepped in front of me, blocking me in. "Excuse me," she said. "Is this too much color?" She gestured at the top she was wearing as she surveyed herself in the mirror on the endcap.

Without pushing past her, I was stuck, so I took a look. The blouse had an orange, brown, and black botanical pattern on a backdrop of ivory. The colors were more muted than loud, and I shrugged and shook my head. "It has kind of an autumn palette," I told her as she fidgeted with the buttons and the waist tie at the bottom. "It's not really that bright."

"What can I wear it with?" she asked me. "Is this white?" she pointed to the background. "Can I wear it with white?"

She was wearing it over her own clothes, a reddish T-shirt and very light, cream-colored pants. It went well enough with them that if she hadn't pointed it out, I wouldn't have known it was not part of her outfit. "You can wear it with those," I said, pointing to her pants.

She poked out her bottom lip and tilted her head, considering my feedback. "But what else will it go with?"

"Maybe black?" I suggested. "In the fall?"

"Does it fit me?" she continued, "because I don't have to buy it if it doesn't look good." She scowled, and I took a step back.

"I think so," I answered. "The seam of the shoulder matches your shoulder." I pointed. "It's kind of flowy, but it's not unflattering."

"Thank you," she said, stepping aside, but never taking her eyes off herself in the mirror.

"You're welcome," I told her, and spotting Heidi not too far away, hurried in that direction. 

I have no idea what she decided.

Ooh, Shiny!

I needed the salad spinner out of the closet to dry the greens we bought at the farmer's market, but I had to move the extra AC filters to reach it off the shelf. Since I had the filters in my hand, I decided to go ahead and change the old one; after all, the air handler was right there. However, when I removed the used filter, the vent cover was also pretty dirty, so I retrieved the lambswool duster and cleaned that grate as well. During that job, some cat hair wafted to the floor, and I took a moment to open the app and send the Roomba out for duty. 

Once the closet was closed, I decided to take the kitchen trash, along with the used filter, to the rubbish enclosure up the hill. On the way back, I made a quick detour into the woods to snag the memory card from the wildlife camera I got for my birthday, and I was just about to sit down and see if we got any pictures when I noticed the greens on the counter, still in need of a salad spinner.

And don't even ask what I did once I got back into the kitchen! It may have involved roasting carrots, making chicken stock, and peeling tomatoes from our garden for salsa, but that's a story for another day. 

Unless I get distracted.

Documentary, My Dear Watson

When the summer TV doldrums hit, which they still do, despite the kazillion shows we could watch, we turn to Heidi's favorite genre, documentaries. In the last week, we've spent some time back in 1984 and 85, learning about the genesis and unintended complications of Live Aid, and in 1988 and 89, sharing the sorrow and confusion of the people who lost loved ones when Pan Am flight 103 exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland. We also watched a series about the kids who were murdered at Idaho State University in 2022. The last two are not our usual fare, but somehow we got caught up in those sad stories. 

Maybe tonight? Something a little lighter and a lot more upbeat. It is Christmas in July over at the Hallmark Channel. 🤔

Movie Magic

A friend invited us to see the new Superman movie this afternoon, and given that temperatures were predicted to be in the 90s all day, we agreed. As the lights dimmed for the preview reel, that thrill of anticipation stirred, as it has all my life when I'm at the movies. 

There were actually a few things that looked promising as the teasers played, too, especially Project Hail Mary, based on the riveting book by Andy Weir (who also wrote The Martian) and starring Ryan Gosling. Christopher Nolan's take on The Odyssey, to be released in July 2026, looked pretty good, too, and so did part 2 of Wicked.

The feature itself was generally underwhelming. Despite generally positive reviews, I found it to be a cartoonish and campy version of the Superman origin story and his rivalry with Lex Luthor. The rest of the patrons in the full theater seemed to enjoy it, though, and when all was said and done, I didn't need to love it. It was a perfectly diverting way to spend a couple of hours on a July afternoon.

And? It was the movies!

Well, I Guess So

I've been reading a lot about summer coffee drinks, and I decided to pull the trigger and try the espresso lemonade I've seen in several articles. Everyone says pretty much the same thing: it sounds awful, but it tastes great-- complex and refreshing. When I thought about it, lemon and espresso wasn't really that big of a stretch, especially considering that the tiny cup of strong coffee is often accompanied by a lemon twist on the saucer when served in Italy.

The recipes I consulted offered several variations, which was helpful, since I don't own an espresso machine. Most agreed that cold brew, or Japanese iced coffee, made a bit stronger than usual, would be good substitutes. So, yesterday I made a pour-over using a decaf Kenyan coffee, and iced it. Then I added a splash of simply lemonde and finished it with cold seltzer.

It was pretty good! The coffee and lemon were surprisingly complementary, and the seltzer gave the drink a little buzz. At any rate, I liked it enough to play around with the recipe some more.

Bella Ciao

"Oh my gosh, I know this song!" I interrupted Heid and Mary at breakfast yesterday. I had been enjoying the eclectic playlist as we sat in the sunny dining room, identifying the Gypsy Kings and James Taylor playing quietly over the clink of tableware and the murmur of conversations at the tables around us.

The summer I was 18, I worked as a counselor at a summer school in England. A few programs were going on that summer: a high school drama camp, a couple of sports camps, and an intensive language program for English learners in grades 3-12. As the youngest member of the staff, I was the utility person, filling in and supporting other counselors and teachers as needed. I was also a dorm resident for the 10 high-school-aged girls. 

We were only in session for five weeks, but like any intense, residential situation when you're that age, we shared a lot of memorable experiences. The song that I heard playing at breakfast transported me to the center bench seat of a VW van on its way to Wales. We were going to hike Mt. Snowden, and one of the girls, Manuela, was telling us the story of her grandfather, who was a partisan in Italy during WWII. "There is a song we always sing when we hike with him," she said, "that was the song of the partisans."

And she began to sing the very catchy folksong, Bella Ciao. We all learned the first two verses, and we sang them at the top of our lungs up and down the mountain, as well as at dinner, and any other time it occurred to one of us to start for the rest of the summer. The version I heard yesterday was by the American cross-genre orchestra, Pink Martini, and the Italian lyrics came flooding back to me, so I sang along. 

Una mattina mi son svegliato
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
Una mattina mi son svegliato
Eo ho trovato l'invasor 

One morning I woke up
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
One morning I woke up
And I found the invader

O partigiano porta mi via
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
O partigiano porta mi via
Che mi sento di morir

Oh partisan, carry me away,
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
Oh partisan, carry me away,
For I feel I'm dying

Influencers

"Oh my gosh! Jack's is closed today!" I reported in dismay. Mary had just settled in the back seat, and the three of us, wearing our matching breakfast club t-shirts, were about to embark on our latest adventure. (Regular readers may recall that after a Denny's disappointment last summer, Mary, Heidi, and I went out to breakfast once a week or so to compare local restaurants.) This year, we decided to focus on breakfast sandwiches, after a great one at Metro 29 Diner.

I tapped the map app on my phone and searched for "breakfast near me." The first place it listed was Del Ray Cafe, not two miles from where we were, and off we went. The restaurant was welcoming from the start: located in a converted home just off the main thoroughfare, we climbed wide wooden steps to the front porch and pulled open the screen door. Inside, we were greeted by friendly staff and led upstairs to a bright dining room with farmhouse tables and a natural wood ceiling open to a skylight at the peak. Red and white gingham napkins and porcelain coffee cups were at each place setting.

And it only got better from there. Our waiter was charming and efficient, and the French-inspired menu with house-baked pastries and locally sourced ingredients was interesting and inviting. We all quickly settled on our orders, and as we sat there, another patron stopped by the table on her way out. "This place is fantastic," she told us. "If you've never been here, you'll love it. I eat here about once a week." Then she told us she loved our Breakfast Club t-shirts and asked how to join.

Our food did not disappoint, and we had all agreed on our first-ever straight five-star rating, based on food, service, and ambiance, when our waiter offered us a complimentary dessert. A short while later, he brought us six mini profiteroles, dusted with powdered sugar and served with house-made raspberry sauce, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream. 

We wondered if it was the t-shirts, the other diner, or the pictures that Mary took and posted of our food that may have led him to believe we were more important than we might be, but it didn't matter. The dessert was delicious, and we will definitely return to Del Ray Cafe! 

And you should, too!

I'm Never Gonna Stop the Rain by Complaining

On the night we arrived at Heidi's mom's house, we made a calendar of things the three of us wanted to do in Buffalo over the next five days. "I'm a planner," Louise likes to tell us, and so we made a plan. Lobster rolls at Olcott Beach were on it, and so were the movies and replacing those screen doors. The final item on our list was to visit East Aurora and have brunch at the Roycroft Inn before shopping at America's largest five and dime, Vidler's, which is what we did yesterday.

The Inn is part of the Roycroft Campus, one of the early centers of the Arts & Crafts movement of America. The architecture and furniture are lovely, and the food is fine, although we were soundly reminded that all-you-can-eat buffets are not a good value for three women over 50. 

Even so, the highlight of the day for me was when we came out of the beautiful old building to find a torrential downpour. Rather than dash across the street to the car, we opted to take seats in some mission-style rocking chairs on the enormous porch and wait out the storm. As I rocked contentedly in the warm, humid afternoon air, considering the enormous raindrops splashing into puddles on the sidewalk, I couldn't remember the last time I sat outside and watched it rain, but I was sure I would find the occasion to do it again soon.

A Shopping Excursion

Since we love to do so at home, we thought it would be fun to shop at a local farmers market while up here in Buffalo, and a nearby Saturday market seemed like just the ticket. 

The village of Williamsville is one of the many suburbs that flow into each other on the outskirts of Buffalo. It is one of the older of the many hamlets in the area, settled in the mid-1800s around a mill built on Elicott Creek. The architecture along the tree-lined streets is mostly early 20th-century eclectic, much like that of Arlington, and unlike the midcentury colonials, ranchers, and prairie-style tract homes that populate Heidi's mom's subdivision.

We felt at home as we parked in front of one of the several small independent businesses on Main Street and walked over to the city hall parking lot, but it quickly became clear how far north we are. There were no tomatoes or peaches, but they still had winter apples from last season, as well as lots of greens, onions, a few ears of corn, and some small zucchini. But the most surprising thing to us was that it was a cash-only market, which left us out since we are accustomed to the mostly cash-free economy in the DMV. 

Oh, we could have gone back to the car to tap the emergency money we have hidden away, but in the end it didn't seem worth it. We ducked into the local coffee roaster and snag a bag of single estate beans from Huila, Columbia before driving a mile back up Main where we found a locally-sourced green grocer. Still no tomatoes, but we bought a quart of housemade chicken stock and some pickled red onions before heading home, not unsatisfied in the least.

Need to Succeed

“We could probably do that ourselves,” I said as we looked at the rotting screen doors leading to Heidi’s mom’s summer room.

“Really?” Louise asked, since she had just told us that the job would cost her over 500 dollars.

“I think so,” I replied, and whipped out my phone to google the cost of replacement doors. They were 65 bucks each at the local big box home improvement store, and another 50 for delivery, and the three of us headed over there to make arrangements to have them dropped off yesterday so that we could complete the project today.

Later, I was having second thoughts, but by then we were committed. “What are you worried about?” Heidi asked.

“One, things are never as easy as they seem like they will be, and two, your mom is very particular,” I answered.

“I have faith in you Babe,” she said.

Kyle, our nephew, was not so confident, when I mentioned the project while texting him on his birthday. He had a job installing doors a few years ago, so I asked him if he had any advice.

“My advice is to not mess it up,” he wrote. “Damnma will be very angry when they’re crooked.”

This morning we went out to get a couple of last minute supplies; we needed new screws for the hinges we intended to reuse, in case they stripped when removing them, and a thin piece of wood to attach to one of the doors as the center stop. Once back at the house, I gathered the tools and set to work, with Heidi’s assistance and Louise’s oversight. 

An hour and a half later? The job was done, and thank goodness! It looked great, and even Kyle thought so.

Different Day

Overall, we are grateful that Lucy wakes us up when she has bad belly rather than handling it herself and making a mess in the house. Even so, it’s hard not to groan when you feel that paw on your shoulder in the wee hours. That said, at least here at Heidi’s mom’s house, instead of leashing her up and taking her out, all you have to do is stumble up the stairs and open the back door, which is what I did at 3:30 this morning. 

I was rewarded for my effort, though, when refreshing 61 degree air spilled in the door as Lucy hurried out; a cold front had dropped through, promising a beautiful day ahead. And after sleeping a little later than usual to make up for the restlessness that followed my middle of the night adventure, the day did not disappoint.

We drove up to Olcott Beach on Lake Ontario (Yes! It’s in the book.) A cool breeze off the lake kept the temperature to 70, despite the clear blue skies and warm sunshine. They were celebrating Christmas in July, and all the cute little independent shops were decorated. The famous carousel park, outfitted with a Wurlitzer self-player and other vintage kiddie rides, had a mailbox for letters to Santa as well as the man himself.

For lunch, we dined on Western New York’s first and only lobster roll shack, and the sandwiches were delicious and authentic— loaded with tender lobster claws lightly dressed in a chive and lemon mayo and served on a griddled New England hot dog bun. Then we took the scenic route home, skirting the southern shore of Lake Ontario on a day so clear we could see the Toronto sky line 75 miles away.

Once home, Heidi and I pumped up the bike tires and took a spin through the neighborhood, returning home briefly to leash up the dogs so they, too, could enjoy this glorious day. Next? We’re fending for dinner, enjoying leftover steak, grilled sausage, chicken cacciatore, potato salad, a nice tossed salad, and watermelon.

And tomorrow looks like it might be just as great.

Still Missing the Musts

The day dawned gray and blustery, yet still managed to be uncomfortably humid. Even so, we set an alarm to walk the dogs early so that we could get out there and get going, but first we were stalled by french toast with fresh peaches for breakfast, and next we were disappointed by the rug installer who promised to be here and gone by noon, and then there was a hair appointment and those movie tickets we purchased the day before.

In the between times, I scanned my book for places we might quickly visit, but nothing presented itself. The closest attraction, a haunted church-funeral home-museum, didn't open until 5 for scary tours, so we were out of luck. Tomorrow is going to be a success, though, I know it. The plan is to actually go to Olcott Beach and try the new lobster roll joint there. (But only if those screen doors get delivered in time.) 🤞🏻

Best Laid Plans

I know how hard it can be to get everyone organized and on the same page when on vacation. That’s why I’m not entirely surprised that we didn’t;’t get that jump on my 111 list that we all agreed to last night. We did do one iconic Buffalo experience, though it isn’t actually in the book. Today, for 716 day, Ted’s Famous Hot Dogs had a 2-for-1 deal, which we took advantage of. The Sahlen dogs are grilled over a charcoal fire and serves on Martin’s Potato Buns, for a classic hot dog experience.

We also made a calendar of things we’ll do each day of our visit, and so I’m hopeful that, in addition to replacing the screen porch doors and seeing a couple of movies, we might visit some places in Buffalo that are not to be missed.

P.S. 716 is the Buffalo area code, and so July 16 is celebrated as a day of local pride, mostly by small, independent businesses, of which there are still quite a few up here.

Seeing the Sights

Treat and I were working in the garden yesterday when we got a friendly wave from the other side of the fence. My friend Mary had been driving by when she spotted the car and stopped to say hello. After pointing out the highlights of the plot and handing one of the first tomatoes of the season over the fence, we turned to our plans for the summer week ahead. 

Mary was going to the beach, and I to Buffalo. "Any plans while you're up there?" she asked. 

"Emily gave me a book for Christmas a couple of years ago called 111 Places in Buffalo," I told her. "I'm thinking of bringing it up and going through a few."

"That sounds fun," she said.

"AND it will give me something to write about," I laughed.

"Well, you do like your lists," she agreed. "Can't wait to read all about it!"

No Question

A deafening clap of thunder shook our house and set off car alarms down the street this afternoon. Lightning flashed through the sky, which was as dark as dusk, even though the July sunset was three hours away. Huge raindrops pounded the pavement until a torrent of water ran down the hill.

"I guess the pool's closed," I said as I watched the storm out the window.

Safe and Sorry

A gentle rumble of thunder sounded as we sat down under an umbrella at the pool. It had been raining when we headed up there, but it was mostly a sun shower, and we figured we would be getting wet anyway. We eyed the guard, but he seemed unconcerned by the storm. "It will be break time in a few minutes," I said to Heidi, "I guess we can wait and see if it thunders again."

She scanned the sky and agreed. The darkest clouds were far away, and there was no sign of lightning. We heard a few more peals of thunder in the next 15 minutes, but they sounded far away. When the break was over, a woman and her young son came and jumped right in the water. The lifeguard sat on deck with his flotation device slung over his shoulder. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark, and I didn't think we should go in.

"We should just go home," Heidi said, drumming her fingers.

"But what if it's over?" I replied. "I'll be mad if we leave for no reason."

"Do you want to get in, then?" she returned.

"The rules say 30 minutes," I said. The woman and her kid were merrily splashing in the shallow end beneath gray skies. "Let's give it ten more."

"Let's give it five," she countered. 

The water rippled beneath a light breeze, and there were patches of blue between the clouds.  "Let's go now," I shrugged, and I shucked my tank top and shorts and dove in.

Wrecking the Curve

"How do you think you scored?" our host asked us as we exited the escape room and filed into the lobby. Bill, Emily, Heidi, Treat, and I had just celebrated Treat's birthday by outwitting the pharaoh and solving the puzzles to complete the tasks in the three chambers of his tomb. 

"Not very well," I laughed. We had escaped, but it hadn't been pretty.

"Really?" the guide said, looking a little hurt. "Well, come on over here and check out this screen."

An 88 flashed across the monitor mounted over the door.

"88's not bad!" he told us, "You beat the three other groups before you."

"Were they children?" Emily asked suspiciously. We had seen several birthday parties waiting before our reservation.

"No, no," he assured us. "They were adults. You did the toughest room. Most kids go for the dragon one." He gestured at the screen again. "Look at the bar graph on the bottom. Most groups score 60 or below."

We nodded as two girls of about 12 approached the door. "Can we go in?" they asked.

"I'll be right there," he told them.

"Just those two by themselves are going to do it?" I said. "That explains the average!"

Screw Ups

I must have dropped the screws a dozen times, but Heidi, bless her heart, picked them up every time and handed them back to me as I stood on the ladder. 

We were helping our friend who was injured in an accident by installing new shades on her windows, and I was resistant to drilling pilot holes since it meant switching back and forth between the bit and the driver. Eventually, though, I had to reassess my strategy, since I was working on a ladder and over my head, and it was impossible to hold the bracket, the screw, and the drill without having it rain screws all day. 

But then, once I had both brackets tightly fastened in place, I realized that by using the rear screw holes, I had blocked the lip of the bracket, so the blinds could not be snapped into place. So I had to remove all four of those damn screws and drill two more pilot holes before refastening the brackets and locking the blind in place. All of this as our friend and four dogs watched the show from the couch across the room. 

Fortunately, I was able to keep my cussing to a minimum and maintain my good humor. "That was the learning curve!" I laughed as I moved the ladder over to the next window. "This one will go much faster."

And it did.

Mainstream

We have a good friend who works for an intelligence agency, and we were all sitting around a couple of months ago when she blurted, "I need to tell ya'll about my latest purchase."

We nodded, ready to hear about some electronic gadget, home decoration, or fashion item. "I bought some 20-liter water jugs," she reported, "for my go bag. I also got some really great MREs," she added, referencing some freeze-dried entrees.

We continued nodding politely as she proceeded to outline her emergency plans. "I guess you can never be too prepared," I said.

And I didn't so much write it off as put it out of my mind until today, when I was looking at Wirecutter's list of the best Prime Day deals under 25 dollars, and noticed a link to another of their articles,  called, The Best Gear for Your Go-Bag. 

This is getting real.

Or is it?

Green Lining

It's always exciting to visit the garden after having been away for a while, and it has been a while. I haven't gone up there since before we went to Charlottesville on June 28, and so I was eager to see how things were growing.

When I finally made it this afternoon, I was a little disappointed. This has been a tough year: a cool and rainy spring was followed by a hot and droughty early summer. Torrential thunderstorms have been hit or miss, and while everything is growing, not much is setting fruit. My tomatoes, squash, beans, and peppers are weeks away from producing. A stroll by the other gardens in our community plot confirmed that everyone is in the same situation.

The only upside? The weeds aren't growing either.

Scent Hound

Once we got off the interstate and were just a mile or so from our house, I rolled down the windows and let the warm, humid air fill the car. After nine hours on the road, Lucy sat up and lifted her nose, swiveling her head around and snuffling deeply. I swear she made eye contact with me in the rear view and smiled as if to say, We're almost home!

Classic Summer Fun

Decades ago, I attended a dinner party where one of the other guests told me all about a novel he had recently read. The premise was so inventive and fascinating that I bought the book the next day and read the whole thing. The story was about scientists extracting dinosaur DNA from mosquitoes in resin and cloning it, filling in any gaps with frog DNA. Once the dinosaurs were hatched, they were to become the main attractions of a theme park funded by an eccentric billionaire. Of course, it was Jurassic Park.

I couldn't wait to see the movie version when it was released in 1993, especially since it was a Stephen Spielberg film. With the combination of state-of-the-art special effects and Spielberg's storytelling and action sequences, the movie did not disappoint. It was an instant classic and a cultural phenomenon, changing the way we think and talk about dinosaurs.

The same cannot be said about the other six films in the franchise. Lacking the novelty of the first movie, they were at a disadvantage from the start. That is not to say that they can't be entertaining, though, particularly if you manage your expectations, which is why I was looking forward to seeing Jurassic World Rebirth this afternoon. I wasn't expecting to be blown away; I was just looking for some summer blockbuster fun.

And? I was not disappointed.

While You Can

On July 4, 2011, I wrote this:

There's something about a hunt, whether scavenger, treasure, or other, that captures the imagination. Yesterday, when we arrived in Atlanta for our four day visit with my sister's family, one of the first things that Richard wanted to do was to "make a treasure hunt." At almost six, he had some complex ideas about hiding and seeking treasure, and even though I immediately recalled my mother's version, we played his way, and it was fun. 

This afternoon, though, as the threatening rain clouds ultimately gave way to thunder, lightning, and even some heavy rain, I sat down with a pencil and some slips of colored paper, and sketched a few of the more easily recognizable cardinal points in the house. Next I placed them carefully just as I remembered my mother doing, and then I handed Richard the first clue, and off he went on a hunt for treasure through his very own home. It was as big a hit with him and his three-and-a-half year old sister, Annabelle, as I remember it being with us.

I was a little worried that the kids wouldn't recognize my drawings, but they did pretty well.

"That's my hamper!" Annabelle exclaimed, looking at one of the clues.

"No, it's the basket in the dining room," I gently corrected her.

"That is her hamper," my sister told me, "I just haven't put it away, yet."

"I know just what this is," Richard assured me a few minutes later with a confident grin as he scanned another of the clues, "I've lived here a long time." And with that, he dashed off in search of treasure.

And the next day, this: 

 Around the same time that we were having treasure hunts on rainy days, courtesy of my mom, Saturday mornings were spent under the care of my dad while my mother taught religion classes at our church. He always fried bacon, cut oranges into eighths, and served us coffee with lots of milk and sugar. He would also use all the furniture cushions and some blankets to help us make forts in the living room where we would eat our bacon and oranges, drink our coffee, and peek out to watch cartoons on TV.

As I write, Richard and Annabelle are camped out on top of their bed pillows, surrounded by couch cushions with a Diego blanket draped over the top, and watching Scooby Doo on the iPad. It is a pretty impressive structure, if I do say so myself. Thanks, Dad.

This early July finds us once again in Atlanta, but now Richard and Annabelle are in their late teens, and of course, their lives are a lot busier than they were in 2011. Over the last couple of days, Richard put in two shifts at his job at a pet supply store, and Annabelle was off to a lake house with friends. 

And now I understand that the real treasure back then was having so much time with them.

Looking Back

On July 2, 2010, I wrote this post:

So often after I visit a place I develop an intense curiosity about it. As a teacher, I know how important it is for students to be able to make a personal connection to instructional material, how such a tie makes it easier to learn and retain skills and information. As an adult, I see this principle in action in myself. Researching activities and destinations for a future vacation in a place I've never visited is too abstract; the information slides from my brain like butter on hot teflon-- no more than a skim coat of retention. Once on site, though, I'm motivated to voraciously consume any material I can get my hands on, but it is usually unsatisfying, perhaps because I am distracted by actually being on vacation and all. Back at home, I spend lots of time researching the place I just left, a bittersweet experience because I'm essentially discovering every cool thing I missed on my visit.

Take my recent trip to Fort Valley, VA for example. I stayed for a couple of nights at a ranch there and took a trail ride through George Washington National Forest. It was beautiful-- the mountains of western Virginia at their summer finest-- all dappled light and fragrant hayseed fern, elder berry, hemlock, and mountain laurel-- and so much less inhabited than this urban area where I reside. Our bunk house cabin may have been a little rustic, but there were bull frogs and river otters just outside our door, not to mention all the stars in the sky which were only obscured by the blazing camp fire we had each night.

Once home, though, I found that this valley within a valley was not only the site of three iron forges destroyed by the Union Army because of the Confederate canon balls they were churning out, but also the location of the very first CCC installation, Camp Roosevelt, built in 1933. AND it is named Fort Valley because it was George Washington's fall back plan. The first access road was built so that the Continental Army could retreat to this naturally fortified place for a last stand against Cornwallis. Fortunately, the Battle of Yorktown made Fort Valley a footnote to history, but now that I know a little more about the place, I can't wait to go back. 

A few weeks ago, I went through a John Brown phase in which I read The Good Lord Bird by James McBride, followed by Midnight Rising: The Raid that Sparked the Civil War by Tony Horwitz. John Brown's plan was to rob the armory at Harper's Ferry, spark a slave rebellion, and hide his army in the hollows of the Blue Ridge Mountains, like Fort Valley. He had worked as a surveyor in the area as a younger man, and he was relying on his knowledge of the land to defend his position.

Brown's beliefs and actions make for a compelling story, and the history reminded me that there have been times in this nation's past when we had weak and corrupt national leadership, as well as occasions when people felt they must take the law into their own hands to right an immoral injustice. Considering that past offers thought-provoking context to the present.

I do have to wonder, though, what would have happened if Brown's plan had succeeded.

Try, Try Again

Back on July 3, 2009, I wrote the following piece:

Happy Independence Day weekend! I read today that Sylvia Brown, the famous psychic, says that Thomas Jefferson never reincarnated after his death on July 4, 1826. According to her, that was his last life, although he continues to offer spiritual and political guidance to the leadership of America. That came as a surprise to me.

Back when I was in college, I had a job one summer selling chipwiches on the boardwalk. The zoning laws in this particular beach town were kind of picky at the time, and even though my cart was quite mobile, I had to stay put on the private property of the hotel that my boss had made a deal with. Even so, the chipwich cart and the blond girl in the straw pith helmet who sat beside it eight hours a day became a reliable boardwalk amenity, and I had both steady beach-goer business and some regular customers, too.

This particular seaside town is also well-known to a certain segment of the population as the home of Edgar Cayce, the "Sleeping Prophet." There has been an active new-age community there for well over 50 years. It is such a fixture, that most year-round residents of the oceanfront are surprisingly well-versed in such topics as reincarnation, dream interpretation and holistic health. Be careful, or they will startle you.

My chipwich gig was a one-woman operation, and as much as I liked the solitude and independence, I was also a captive audience for anyone who knew where to find me. There were a few people who stopped by regularly, not so much to buy some ice cream, as to spend a little time chatting. That's how I found out that Thomas Jefferson had indeed reincarnated-- one of my regulars told me. "See that bum down there?" he asked me one afternoon. "Everyone calls him TJ, because he used to be Thomas Jefferson."

I'm sure my eyebrows did a little dance, but I was right there with him. "Really?" I said, examining the lean, strawberry blond man with shaggy, chin-length hair and full goatee, as he picked carefully through a mesh litter basket. "It seems like kind of a big change of scene for him."

"Oh, that's exactly what he wanted," he answered. "After all that democracy stuff in his last life, he needed a break."

I've been thinking about Thomas Jefferson a lot since we visited Monticello last Sunday. The injustice and of his slaveholding was so present there, and it continues to plague me. Jefferson himself wrote in an early draft of the Declaration of Independence that the slave trade was "execrable commerce," an "assemblage of horrors,” and a “cruel war against human nature itself, violating its most sacred rights of life & liberties.” How he could reconcile those thoughts with his actions is a question historians struggle with to this day.

And of course, I have to wonder if his purported reincarnation was not so much a break as an opportunity for growth.

I'd like to think so.

Black and White

On our recent weekend in Charlottesville, we toured the mansions of two of the founding fathers, Jefferson's Monticello and Madison's Montpelier. Both of our guides were knowledgeable, respectful, and mindful of the complicated history of the men they were presenting. Even so, I came away with a huge ick feeling, specifically about the people these champions of democracy enslaved and the self-serving justification of that immorality, especially after standing in the room where the Constitution was drafted.

So, when we were looking for a way to spend our afternoon while visiting Atlanta, the chance to visit the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Historical Park seemed like a refreshing counterpoint. To be honest, it was King's childhood home that I most wanted to see; I'm drawn to the quotidian details of historic lives. But with the timing of our arrival, touring Ebenezer Baptist Church first made more sense, so we headed across the street and joined the line on the sidewalk stretching down the block from the heavy wooden entry doors.

At two o'clock sharp, we started to move forward, and soon we found ourselves in a small vestibule with stairs going up and down. We were ushered down to a large open room with green walls and tile and rows of folding chairs facing a podium on a low stage. This was the Fellowship Hall of the old church, and soon we were joined by a ranger who took the dais and began his talk on the history of the place and its association with Dr.King. 

His delivery style intentionally invoked a sermon like the many that had been delivered there and upstairs in the sanctuary in the century since the church had been built. The information he gave us was surprising and even shocking in how unfamiliar it was to most of the eighty or so people in the audience. Discovering that Ebenezer means stone of hope or stone of help was interesting, and considering that the church had had only five pastors since its founding in 1886, including Dr. King's grandfather and father, as well as Senator Raphael Warnock, who leads the congregation today.

But it was shocking to hear how Martin Luther King Jr.'s mother was shot and killed on the pulpit by a demented young man from Ohio as she played the organ for Sunday services on June 30, 1974. How could such a tragedy have escaped my notice for over 50 years?

More than an hour later, the ranger led us upstairs to the sanctuary, which has been restored to look just as it did on February 4, 1968, when Dr. King delivered his last sermon there. We all slid into worn wooden pews beneath pinkish plaster walls and a pressed metal ceiling as a recording of King's homily, "The Drum Major Instinct", echoed through speakers. These were the very words that would be played as a eulogy at his funeral here two months later; King's voice accompanied his mourners as they filed by his casket.

It was a genuinely moving experience, even more so in contrast to the other tours we'd taken earlier in the week.

The Price of Progress

For years, I-85 was a mess in South Carolina every summer. We told ourselves that the time spent crawling along was an investment as they widened the way. Think how great it will be when they're done! we thought, imagining ourselves sailing through the Palmetto State on the penultimate leg of our journey from DC to Atlanta. 

And then? It was finished, and the six lanes were mostly enough to accommodate all of us vacationers, as well as the commercial traffic to the inland port of Greer. For a couple of years, we flew through South Carolina, stopping only for a half-bushel of local peaches in Gaffney, if we chose, and making it from Kings Mountain to the Tugaloo River in under two hours. 

But today, just a few miles south of the border, the route on the GPS turned an angry red,  and as we idled at the top of a low knoll, the road ahead was clogged with shoulder-to-shoulder tractor-trailers for as far as we could see. Signs warned us of lane closures ahead due to a repaving project. 

It seemed too soon for the new road to need attention, but there we were, stuck again, and to add insult to injury? All the peach stands were closed.

The Americans

Living here in the DC area makes it hard to miss that our nation's 250th birthday is coming up next year. National parks, monuments, and memorials all around us are getting all spruced up for the big anniversary, which, to be honest, wouldn't be on my radar screen at all if it weren't on theirs. But here we are, nearly fifty years after the Bicentennial, a celebration which, by contrast, was on everybody's radar screen in the early 70s.  For three solid years, we were celebrating the 200th anniversary of something in seventy-six different ways.

For example, in December 1973, my sixth-grade class did a play about the Boston Tea Party 200 years after the fact. I played Sam Adams, and my mom made my costume out of a red tweed vest pantsuit, which I had fallen and ripped the knee out of. She turned the pants into breeches and let me wear one of her frilly blouses beneath the vest. With my hair pulled back into a ponytail, I really felt like I was channeling Sam himself. (Maybe that's where I got my fondness for New England-style ales.)

Around that time, the author John Jakes also began publishing his pulpy eight-part series The Americans about both several generations of the fictional Kent family and, by extension, the nation itself, as I was reminded when I read a piece by Carlos Lozado in the NY Times this morning. Like Lozado, the books we had in our house belonged to our parents, but as early teens, we read them anyway, despite a lot of mature content. In his essay, Lozado tells how he recently revisited the series, and his analysis of the saga and its message to and about Americans then and now resonated and made me curious to look up the books I read nearly 50 years ago, which made a lasting impression on me.

Just reading the names of the characters, Philip, Amanda, and Gideon, gave me a little shiver, so I went ahead and purchased the audiobook of volume one, The Bastard. It's thirteen hours long, but I figure I still have a year and three days on the calendar until the quarter millennial. And, as I wrote yesterday, birthdays are a time for reflection.