Status Check

One of the women in my bowling league was the teacher who had the room next to me my first year.  Linda taught self-contained special ed, but moved to ESL the next year, and on to Spanish a few years after that, but we both stayed at the same school for the next thirty years. She called me "rookie" for at least the first ten; it wasn't until I was team leader and instructional lead teacher for the whole school that she finally said, "I guess you're one of the veterans now!" 

Because we taught on opposite ends of the building, we could go for weeks without seeing each other, especially if the monthly staff meeting was canceled. Even so, we remained, if not friends, a little closer than just colleagues: I attended her first wedding; I commiserated over her divorce, congratulated her on her second marriage, and cheered when she earned her doctorate. 

I was as surprised as everyone, though, when she pulled an Irish goodbye of a retirement by submitting her paperwork over the summer a few years ago. She was just gone when the rest of us showed up in August. 

I was looking forward to seeing her again when I heard she was one of the Ladies Executive League bowlers. The way the draw is set up the league has ten lanes and every week my team competes against one other team of three, so while I've seen Linda, it wasn't until this week I got to bowl with her. And it just so happened that the other two bowlers on her team were out-- one had pre-bowled and the other took a vacancy score-- so we had a lot of time to catch up.

She is the same as ever, a funny mix of kooky and very serious. She laughs readily, but is very focused and competitive. She is also supportive and a good coach, cheering for and giving pointers even to a competitor like me. 

"It's been really fun bowling with you today!" I told her at the end of the match. "Thanks for all the help."

She gave me a quick little hug. "You did well!" she said. "Especially for a rookie!"

Fair Weather Fans

The home team was already down by two runs when we made it to our seats at the bottom of the first inning. Despite the Sunday afternoon game time, traffic had been atrocious, and getting to the park had taken us nearly an hour. When the Nats went three up and three down for the first three innings, Heidi scoffed in disgust. The White Sox hit a couple more homers in the next couple of innings, and Heidi doubled down on her dismay. "No, really," she said. "Why do we bother?"

"I think it's fun to see players hit home runs," I shrugged. "Even if they're on the other team."

"No. It. Is. Not." Heidi replied, and we left it at that.

It was 7-0 in the middle of the sixth. "If they don't score at least one run here, we can leave," I offered.

"Deal!" Heidi accepted, and we were on our way within minutes. 

As we trotted down the ramp to the mezzanine level, I reflected on the past season. My friend Mary and I had been there the day the park opened for preseason, and here I was on the last day, too. That first game was a rainout, and this one was a blowout, but my expectations were low, so I was never disappointed. 

And it's always fun to go out to the old ball game.

(My Fancam photo!)

There's Always Next Year

Despite the warm weather, there are some signs that summer is subsiding into fall. The days are shorter-- darkness fills the windows when we sit down to dinner at 7:30 or so. There is a hint of color in a few of the trees, and the squirrels seem super busy. 

Today is also the last game of the season for our home baseball team, and we have tickets to watch them take on the White Sox in a late afternoon matchup. Neither team is any good; both have spent the last few years "rebuilding," and it looks like both have a ways to go if this year is any indication. 

Even so, it will be pleasant to sit up in the third tier with a view of the river and the monuments. There will be a light breeze tempering the warm afternoon as we wave our caps, make some noise, and sing along to Take Me Out to the Ballpark one more time this year.

Don't Mind the Sideline

"What do you think these are for?" Emma said to her big brother as they stood on the sideline of her soccer game. She was pointing to the red plastic locks on the poles of the canopy tent the coach had set up to keep the rain off his team.

Her brother shrugged, so I entered the conversation. "I think they're to make the tent go higher or lower," I said.

"They use them to take it down," Emma's brother agreed with me.

"Wouldn't it be funny if the tent were only this high?" I asked, pointing to the level of the locks.

Emma's eyes widened, and she crouched low, considering the idea.

"How would you even get out of there?" I said.

"You would have to army crawl," her brother suggested.

"Or do the worm," Emma added, flopping to her belly to demonstrate.

"Emma! You're going into the game in one minute!" The coach delivered what he assumed was good news.

"I get to stay here for one minute!" Emma cheered and wiggled away.

Flash Bang

The organization could have been tighter.

In addition to it being the Friday of a week interrupted by a holiday and testing, today was also picture day at school, and I was subbing. My group was scheduled to go a little before lunch, which was actually the middle of fourth period. In addition to the class I had, the assistant and I were supposed to pick up "a few" kids from a math teacher on another team. As it turned out, thirty-five excited sixth graders and I busted into the theater, ready for their close-ups.

Fortunately, it was not my first experience with such picture day chaos. Unfortunately, there was not a single administrator or school employee in charge, nor did I know these kids. Fortunately, one of the photographers took matters into her own hands when I asked her where she wanted the students to stand and confessed that I was a substitute.

"Listen here!" she boomed from the stage, and the kids stopped wiggling like puppies for a minute and looked up at her with wide eyes. What followed was a crash course on preparing to be photographed quickly and well. As they combed their hair, straightened their collars, zipped their jackets all the way up (or took them off), and made sure their necklaces were clasped in the back, she divided them into groups and sent them to line up by one of the three makeshift studios.

"Oh, will you tell them to sit in the center section and wait when they're through?" I asked. She did, and they did.

In less than 10 minutes, we were on our way back to class. "The doors are shut," she told me, "because it's our lunch time. But just go ahead through; they're not locked."

"Thanks!" I said. "You did an amazing job up there."

"Thank you!" she shrugged. "I do a lot of middle school pictures."

Dog Whistle

I picked up a big acorn cap this afternoon on my walk with Lucy, and, wedging it between my thumbs and forefingers, made a V with the first knuckle of my thumbs and blew over them into the cap. Lucy turned sharply at the shrill whistle, and I wondered, a little apologetically, if it hurt her ears. 

I showed her the acorn cap on my outstretched palm, and she sniffed it. Then she took it, chewed it up, and spit it out. 

No more whistling today.

Family Business

"He knows your nephew," the sub coordinator told me this morning, nodding to the tall young man helping her. And to him she said, "This is Treat's aunt!"

He reached out to shake my hand. "Treat was right across the hall from me last year," he said.

"He's our school-based sub," the sub coordinator introduced him. "And she taught here for more than thirty years," she said about me.

"And Treat's mother is the art teacher here," I added.

"Oh yes," he replied, "I do remember Treat saying he came from a teaching family."

I carried the warmth of that remark all the way to my first period World Geography class, where I was the substitute co-teacher. I knew the teacher I was working with, and it so happened that Treat had worked with her as well. 

The block passed by quickly in pleasant consideration of various land formations and climates, and their appeal to the students personally. "You're pretty good at this!" the teacher joked when the bell rang. "Have you ever considered being a teacher?"

"Well," I laughed, "it does run in my family!

The Closer

"Hey, Tracey," my former principal said smoothly as she and her sister, the president of the league, approached me at bowling this morning. "You've always had an exceptional attention to detail."

I smiled at this unexpected compliment from a past supervisor.

"That's why we think you would be a great addition to the audit committee!" she continued, smiling broadly.

My eyes widened, and the three of us burst out laughing at this brazen recruitment ploy.

"I have seen this opportunity in the weekly e-mails," I conceded. "I just didn't know if someone with more experience would be a better fit."

"Oh no," she assured me. "You would be great."

"Then I accept!" I agreed.

"The president will fill you in on the details," she told me and walked back to her lane.

"She's still got that management flair," I said to the president, shaking my head.

"She always has," her sister agreed.

Don't Get Attached

"Do you want your cute little pumpkin in the bag, or would you like to carry it with you?" the cashier asked as he finished ringing up and packing my order.

"Oh, the bag is fine," I answered, gesturing at the small pie pumpkin I was going to steam and make a casserole from. "That one is food, not friend."

"Okay," he laughed as he dropped it in the bag. "Sorry, fella."

Our Man in the TSA

Our neighbor, James, was sitting outside this afternoon when the cab from the airport dropped us off. "That was a quick trip!" he said.

We laughed, both because he was right - we had flown to Atlanta for just the weekend - and because he knew how long we had been gone. James is a TSA agent, and he and his mom have lived right across from us for the last four years.

"Whenever we fly out of DCA, I always ask Heidi if she thinks we'll see you," I told him, and he smiled.

"I'm always there," he said. "And that side is always quicker than the other one."

Even so, we have never seen James at work, and Friday morning, as we entered the security line, I turned to Heidi and asked my customary question. She scanned the sea of deep blue shirts and black armored vests behind the glass and shrugged.

"I know he's working," I said. "His car was gone when we left this morning, and his shift is until noon." James and I often see each other when he's coming home and I'm taking Lucy for a walk. 

"Wait!" Heidi pointed at a tall, bearded figure with glasses. "Is that him?"

"Yes!" I answered. "James!" I waved both my arms and hopped up and down a couple of times. All the TSA agents looked our way, and he did, too, with a bit of a scowl. Then he recognized us, smiled, and gave us a little chin nod. His colleagues relaxed, but with raised eyebrows.

When we were through security and on our way, he waved again from his post. "Have a good trip, guys!" he called across the hall.

"Thanks!" we waved back. "We will!"

"Everyone at work was like, Who are they?" he told us this afternoon. "And I was like, Those are my neighbors. They're cool."

Keeps You Humble

"I feel like I'm living two separate lives," my cousin laughed this afternoon as she held her two-year-old on her lap. "In one, I'm a successful executive and people actually listen to me and do what I say," she paused and looked at her daughter, "and in the other, children ignore and throw up on me."

As we nodded in amusement, she gasped. "She's peeing on me!" Then she stood up quickly and deposited her child on the floor, standing.

Sure enough, a puddle formed at the little girl's feet, but the toddler did not seem bothered. In fact, she widened her stance and doubled down on the peeing, side-eying her mother with a devilish little grin.

Stunned at the perfect timing, we all stood in silence for a moment before scrambling for the clean-up kit.

Rebranding

"She likes seltzer?" we asked my cousin in surprise as her almost three-year-old daughter took a big slug from Heidi's can.

"They both do," she laughed, gesturing at her ten-month-old. "Can I get you another one?" she added apologetically.

"No," Heidi shrugged. "It's fine." Then she turned to the little girl with a teasing smile. "Hey! What do you have?"

"Fuzzy water!" she answered, and ran away laughing.

Jeepers

Our go-to pet sitter, a recent college graduate, lives in a one-car household with her parents and 20-year-old brother. She's reliable, though, and when we go out of town, there's always a car left behind, so we lend her the second vehicle when she's on the job. 

That used to be a Honda HRV, a basic little subcompact crossover SUV, which was similar to her folks' C-RV, and which she liked very much. Recently, though, our second car became a Jeep Wrangler, and when we communicated the good news, she was clearly a bit daunted, as was her mother. "She keeps asking me how a Jeep handles and whether it's different from a car," confided a former colleague about conversations with the mom.

"Can I come over and test drive the Jeep?" our pet-sitter texted earlier this week. "Just to see how it is?"

"Sure," I replied, "but we're flying on this trip, so you can have a choice of either the Jeep or the Subaru."

"Oh, then I pick the Subaru, lol," she answered.

"The Jeep is really fun," I assured her, but she stood firm, and this evening came by to pick up the keys and the car.

As Heidi walked her out, they ran into our downstairs neighbor (who also happens to be a Jeep driver) and his dog. After a quick chat, the pet-sitter excused herself and headed home.

A minute later, the neighbor turned to Heidi, wide-eyed. "Wait!" he said. "She's taking your car!"

"I know," Heidi laughed. "But it's not the Jeep!"

He nodded, satisfied that the situation wasn't as dire as it could have been.

Timing is Everything

In general? I trust the service department at the car dealership where we bought our Subaru in 2018, and we have taken the car there for its every need since. Their service representatives are responsive and transparent, and I feel like the dealership is playing a long game: they value their reputation enough to avoid any shenanigans aimed at making a quick buck at the expense of repeat customers and good consumer ratings. 

But lately, every time I bring our aging Outback in for a scheduled service or to address a specific issue, the complimentary scan reveals another major repair that needs attention. Oh, I know our car is seven years old, and admittedly, they have a conflict of interest, selling new cars as they do. I also confess to occasionally clicking on offers for newer models when I receive them. Still, part of my strategy in bringing the vehicle there, despite the distance and extra cost, is to make that good old station wagon last a while longer.

Today, though? They may have tipped their hand. The estimate for service (on something I didn't suspect was a problem) was a couple grand, and the repair time was long enough that they offered me a loaner. And when I went up to the cashier to get everything squared away, I saw an envelope with my name on it clipped to a little easel nearby. 

"What's that?" I pointed, curious.

"That's a personalized trade-in offer," the cashier told me. "Do you want to look at it before you sign the approval?"

"No thanks," I answered, tucking the envelope into my bag. Not gonna lie. I left feeling less confident in the service I was receiving.

Presently Missing my Robot

I was sitting on my yoga mat yesterday, immersing myself in my morning practice, when I noticed the Roomba was gone! I scanned the room, and, seeing no robotic vacuum, closed my eyes, vowing to set this distraction aside and stay in the present moment.

"Om," I chanted.

Where could it be?? I thought.

"Om," I chanted.

When was the last time I saw it? I thought.

"Om," I chanted.

Am I sure it's not here, somewhere? I thought.

"Om," I chanted, and then hit pause on the recording and went to find that Roomba!

Ask and You Shall Receive

Heidi, ever the conscientious coach, did some research into dribbling drills for 5 and 6-year-olds when the head coach let her know that she would be handling that station at today's practice. She found one that looked fun but required hoops, like croquet, but big enough for a soccer ball. 

"Are you going to the store today?" she asked me this morning. "Will you look for hoops?"

"Where, at the hoop store?" I grumbled irritably, but agreed. 

My first stop was Target, and although I thoroughly scoured their sporting goods aisles, I did not find anything useful. At my next stop, the big box sporting goods store near us, I found two dozen adorable little cones, which I purchased, but no hoops. It occurred to me that a hardware store might carry something we could repurpose, so that big box was my next stop, unfortunately, to no avail. 

I knew there was a craft store around the back of the strip mall, and so I headed there next. On the way, I spotted a five-dollar store I'd forgotten about, and so I parked in between and went there first. There was nothing in their sports section that would work either on its own or with the mini cones, and I was just about to walk out when I saw a box of pool noodles on clearance for a buck a piece. 

I plucked one from the box and bent it into an arc thoughtfully. A possibility was definitely there, but I needed something to hold it in place. I figured I could spare two dollars in pursuit of the concept, and so I skipped the craft store and headed home, mulling the situation over.

The cones were out, although they were so cute I knew both Heidi and the kids would be charmed by them, and so they were in on their own. Back at the house, I cut the noodles in half and considered how they could be kept in the shape of an arch. I thought of garden stakes, and then it hit me. Wooden skewers! I took one of my half noodles outside with a couple of skewers and stuck them in the ground. Then I bent the noodle and threaded the skewers through the center hole. 

Voila! There was a colorful dribbling hoop. Total cost? Fifty cents.

And? They were a big hit at practice, too.

Off Peak

When Heidi and I pushed our way through the plate-glass doors into the black-lit gloom of the bowling center this afternoon, the place seemed deserted. Once our eyes adjusted to the light cast by the enormous TV screens playing a combination of music videos and football games at the end of each darkened lane, we saw just one other couple sitting at a table, eating chicken wings. 

It took a little while for anyone to emerge from the back and check us in; so long in fact, that had I not been committed to testing out my new ball, I would have been tempted to leave. Eventually, a personable man of perhaps 30 waved to us and made his way behind the counter. "What brings you in today?" he asked, ignoring the obvious.

"Believe it or not, we're here to bowl," I answered, stating the obvious.

He laughed and looked around the cavernous, nearly empty building. "Well, thanks for renting out the whole place!" he said.

Go Cheetahs

This fall, Heidi agreed to co-coach a kindergarten soccer team with one of our former colleagues, and today was the first game. The weather at the park when we arrived at 10 am was classic: blue skies, lots of sunshine, and a light breeze. The place itself was chaotic: cars were parked along the entrance drive, families packing their minivans to leave the first set of games, while others arrived for their own contests. 

Ordinarily set up as two regulation soccer pitches, the green was now haphazardly dotted with a dozen or more small nets. Upon closer inspection, we could see faint chalk lines marking the space into six or possibly seven small fields. It was disorienting until we spotted the blue and red jerseys of the Cheetahs and headed over that way. A minute later, the other team arrived in their black and gray kit. It turned out that they were the Cheetahs, too.

The match was four-on-four, played in four 8-minute quarters with at least three squad substitutions per quarter. Neither team fielded a keeper, so it was open goal. There were no referees, and the coaches ran the field with their teams, reminding them of the rules as they played. 

Of course, no one kept score. Officially, that is. I did hear a couple of dads talking about how many goals their players made. Even so, two things were certain: the kids had a good time, and the Cheetahs won.

You Crazy Kids

"What does he look like?" I asked a friend and former colleague about the teacher I was subbing for. He was a new hire this year, and I hadn't met him yet. Still, the way the kids talked about him in the first two classes made me curious. 

"Oh!" I heard more than once. "Mr. C. does NOT play!" and I sort of believed it based on his notes to me. If anyone even looks at you the wrong way, he wrote, leave the name. I will be the bad guy!

"He looks like Benson Boone," my friend laughed. "Young and kind of goofy."

"Who are you in for today?" a young teacher asked me at lunch, and when I told her, she nodded. "I went to grad school with him."

"Someone told me he looks like Benson Boone," I said.

She looked at me skeptically. "Do you know what Benson Boone looks like?"

"Of course!" I answered, a little indignantly, although it was a fair question. 

She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture of her friend. He had a mop of curly hair and a wispy beard and mustache.

"I guess there's a little Benny Boone vibe there," I shrugged. "Does he do backflips?"

"No," she replied, and I think she was satisfied that I knew what I was talking about. "But he does do handstands!"

It sounds like he plays a bit to me, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

Back in Time

My continuing exploration of the sub life brought me to my old classroom this morning. Just a little over a year since I packed all my things and turned the lights off on what had been my professional home for over 30 years, the room has gone from being a longtime English classroom to U.S. History and now, math. 

For all that, I didn't feel strange or even the least bit emotional at all walking back into room 275 as the teacher in charge. And despite having the same old vintage trapezoidal tables that had been mine for so many decades, the original chalkboards, and even a couple of decorative stuffed dolphins that were gifts to me, it almost felt like a different room. 

Then at 9:38, the principal came on over the loudspeaker and asked for our attention. "Oh, it's September 11," I recalled out loud, and as we listened to her words of remembrance and then observed a minute of silence, I thought how right it seemed to be back in that room, just a mile from the Pentagon, and the place where I was 24 years ago.

Plus One

"Do you have a minute?" a teacher across the hall asked me this morning when I was subbing. We were standing outside our doors as the students arrived, which is the expectation for staff. I did not have a homeroom assignment, so I had more than a minute.

"Sure, what's up?" I replied.

"This student needs help with her locker," he told me.

"Oh boy!" I said gleefully, because teaching sixth graders how to open their lockers was always one of my favorite parts of the beginning of the year. (I also thought of my recently retired friend, Mary, who told me just yesterday that helping kids with their lockers was one of the things she absolutely did not miss.) "I'd love to help! Take me to your locker."

She gave me a curt nod and, with an anxious expression, turned and walked away, her backpack slung over one shoulder. I caught up to her, and as we threaded our way through the crowded halls to the even more crowded locker area, I tried to reassure her.

"Don't worry!" I boasted. "I've taught hundreds of kids to open their lockers! Maybe even a thousand."

She looked at me skeptically. 

"No! Really!" I said. "I used to work here. I taught sixth grade for over 30 years. I have a very high success rate!" I laughed, but she didn't crack a smile. "I predict you will be able to open your lock in less than 10 minutes," I added confidently. "What do you think?"

She raised an eyebrow. "No," she answered.

She handed me the combination, and I removed the padlock. Then we stepped to a quiet place along the wall, where I snapped the lock closed and gave it to her. I talked her through the process once, twice, and then again. I reminded her to turn the dial slowly, reverse directions, and spin it clockwise a few times and start again if she messed up. 

When she had opened it successfully four times, she looked up. "I've got it now," she said, walking back to her locker. "Thanks," she tossed the word over her shoulder.

"Yasssss!" I said to myself. "Make that a thousand AND one!"

Bottom of the Standings

I was optimistic that my new bowling shoes would improve my game this week. And? During warm-up, they seemed to. I bowled three strikes in my five practice frames. Unfortunately, I only bowled three more the rest of the morning, and with mostly open frames, my average actually fell. All around me, women ten years (or more) my senior were killing it, especially compared to me. 

My teammates were patient, but our third-place ranking from last week is gone, and I know I'm substantially responsible. "I look at it like this," our team captain told me philosophically, "you have some good days and some," she shrugged, pointedly, "better days. It's just a game." 

And afterward, a friend told me that when she first joined the league a few years ago, her husband asked her how she did. "Not too bad," she told him. "I got fifty-something."

"Aren't you bowling ten frames?" he replied incredulously.

She laughed when she told me the story and added, "We have a lot more bowling this season! Have fun and don't worry."

Even so, I went right out to the pro shop and got myself a ball. And you better believe I'm going to practice this week!

Budget Cuts

When my friend from high school, Amy, and her sister were in town late last year, my brother and I met them for dinner. At the end of a delicious meal, full of laughing and catching up, Amy was kind enough to pick up the check. "You're retired!" she teased me, "On a fixed income, you probably can't even afford meat!"

She was referring to the steak frites I had ordered. "Things aren't that dire, yet!" I told her.

"Don't worry," my brother said. "I'll buy meat for her if she can't afford it!"

Sadly, that conversation has come up several times in the last nine months as prices have steadily increased on many things, but especially meat. According to the Independent, a combination of livestock diseases, extreme weather, and, of course, tariffs has driven national beef prices up 12.4% since last year, and they are expected to rise as much as 10% more by the end of 2025.

And I thought of it again this morning at the grocery store when I picked up a nice ribeye steak. It was grassfed, about an inch thick, and weighed a little over a pound. The price? Fifty bucks, more than double what the same steak would have cost two years ago.

And while I could afford that? 

I sure did not buy it. (And don't even get me started on coffee!)

Tag Team

When Heidi and I stopped into Trader Joe's for a few things this afternoon, the line wrapped counterclockwise all around the interior perimeter of the store where the dairy case meets the produce section. Rather than abandon our plan, Heidi joined the line with our empty handbasket while I shopped, stopping back with two or three items every minute or so. 

I wondered if our strategy was cheating or if it would annoy our fellow shoppers, but when I finished our list and joined Heidi in line by the cheese case, the lady behind us expressed her admiration. "That's the way to do it!" she laughed. "I'm going to bring backup next time!"

That's Not Creepy at All

A year ago, as I was just beginning my retirement, I was curious about National Park Service jobs and regularly read descriptions of open positions with the agency. Of course, a few months later, many of the people who were hired into the jobs I had read about were summarily fired by the new administration. Even so, I still get notifications about employment opportunities for NPS from a job website I'm subscribed to. 

There are some key differences in the postings now and those of last year. First, all the jobs are paradoxically described as "Temporary, Part-time, Seasonal, Full-time." The hours of these positions are usually capped at 1040 per year, which means that career security and benefits are not part of the deal. 

The other significant difference is the following sentence included under "Additional Information": Candidates should be committed to improving the efficiency of the Federal government, passionate about the ideals of our American republic, and committed to upholding the rule of law and the United States Constitution.

Hmm.

Catching Flies with Honey

In the months after I earned my teaching degree, I worked a few different jobs to make ends meet. I was a retail salesperson at a bookstore, I did some catering, and I was also a substitute teacher. In my opinion, that last job was a necessary evil. I needed to make connections and contacts to find a full-time teaching job, but subbing is usually thankless: teachers leave minimal plans; kids act up; and no one has time to offer any support. 

In the thirty-one years I worked as a teacher, I saw things from another side; I did my best to leave clear plans that would keep students busy and engaged, but I knew that some kids would be rude and disrespectful anyway, and I understood why everyone was too busy to be of much help. And when I retired, there was one thing I was certain of-- I would never substitute teach.

But last spring when a friend and former colleague needed to take several weeks for surgery, I agreed to help out. The gig was ideal-- I knew the school, the team, the curriculum, and sixth graders were my specialty. It went very well, and I accepted a few other jobs at the end of the year.

I still did not think I would ever sub again unless it was nearly under such perfect conditions, but last week I noticed that another friend and former colleague needed coverage for her sixth-grade English class. Again, I knew the school and had helped write the curriculum. I'd even taught the lesson, and since it was only the second week of school, I figured the kids would still be too disoriented to misbehave. And I was right! Even though it was a one-time job, everything was easy and fun. 

Furthermore, I didn't anticipate that there was a new sub-coordinator at the school. The person formerly in the position had always been perfectly nice to me. Still, she had a reputation for being unfriendly and demanding, especially when it came to assigning subs to work extra classes during the teacher's planning time. 

This new coordinator greeted me effusively and told me how much she loved my nephew who worked at her former school. Then she showered appreciation on me and seemed to go out of her way to make the job as easy as possible. So, when she called the room at lunch and asked if I could come back the next day, I couldn't say no. 

Today I subbed for another friend and former colleague in a sixth-grade history class, and it was another good day. I'm also booked for several more jobs at the school in the coming weeks. I'm not fully converted, but I'm not a hard no anymore, either. (Plus, I've already paid for my bowling shoes and bowling ball!)

That coordinator knows what she's doing-- in the past, our school has had so much trouble finding coverage that they have paid teachers to work during their planning time. But as of today? There are 90 sub jobs posted countywide, but not a single one is there.

The Big League Part 3

I was a Road Runner, and my teammates were Maria and Renee. We were bowling against the Pin Pushers, but they were down a player, so it was just the five of us on two lanes. Today's match of three games would also be used to establish our handicaps, a concept I had heard of but had no understanding of the logistics behind. In our league, your handicap is determined by subtracting your scratch (or raw score) from 180 and then multiplying the result by 90%. Using handicaps levels the field for team competition, allowing bowlers of all skill and experience to participate without penalizing their teams.

My first frame was passable; I got a nine. I stepped up for my next turn and rolled the ball right into the pocket for a strike. Before I could celebrate, though, my teammates broke the news that in league play, you alternate lanes so my strike didn't count. "You can just do it again on the other side," they encouraged me, but that did not happen. Although I had a few good frames out of the next 28 I bowled, with my fresh new handicap of 75, I have lots of room for improvement.

One of my teammates, a former PE teacher, offered some helpful coaching. She and her husband, a former professional football player, bowled all summer and took some clinics and lessons, and she shared some of the tips they found helpful. Our team captain is somewhat reserved, but she was welcoming and supportive. The age span of the league is 39 to 80, and I was told that some of the women just walk up to the line and drop their balls for strikes. I can attest to that story-- I saw it happen several times just a few lanes away.

As I approached the desk to return my borrowed shoes, the manager of the bowling center crooked her finger at me. "I know this was your first week, but you need to get your own shoes after this." 

I nodded.

"You're going to need a ball, too," she added, giving me the name and address of the local pro shop.

I thanked her and headed back to my group to say my good-byes. "We'll have the league fees published by next week," Mimi told me. "Bring your checkbook! We don't take Venmo," she laughed.

This is going to be a pricey little hobby, I thought to myself. Thank goodness it was fun!

The Big League Part 2

I confess that I was nervous when I pulled into the parking lot at the bowling alley. Our former principal, Sharon, had been very specific about arrival time. "See you between 9:20 and 9:29," her welcome email to the league had read. The preseason meeting would start at 9:30 sharp, and bowling would commence at 10.

I had read the detailed message carefully and reviewed the bylaws again right before heading down there. Now, at 9:10, I sat in my car and watched the arrival of other bowlers. They all seemed to be seniors with rolling equipment bags, which made sense considering the weight of bowling balls. I didn't recognize anyone, but there were other leagues there, and I didn't know everyone in our league, either. I took a deep breath and headed in.

The bowling center was packed, but in the far left-hand corner, I saw that the chrome and red pleather chairs had been pulled from their formica-topped tables and arranged into makeshift rows. Several women were milling about, and as I approached, Sharon waved to me from the front. I found a seat and introduced myself to the lady sitting next to me, who, it turned out, was also new. The next few minutes passed in a blur of shoe rental and bowling ball hunting. I noticed my initials on the monitor at the end of a lane and put an 8- and a 10-pound ball on the return.

Back at the meeting place, I looked around to see who I knew and waved to a couple of folks. The staff at the center was making loud announcements about lanes, rules, and outside food and drink as our meeting was called to order with a prayer. Lord bless all your children who traveled here today. Give them and their families good health. Let us have fun and fellowship today: make our balls roll straight and our pins fall down. Amen!

"Amen!" we replied, and the season had begun.

In the Big League

At my former school, there is a legend among women of a certain age, specifically those nearing retirement, of a local bowling group where many of our already retired colleagues gather every week. Over the years, we've heard rumors that our former principal, assistant principal, director of guidance, and several teachers and other staff members participate in this mythic activity. It is such a familiar tale that whenever anyone retires, they can be sure they'll receive the tongue-in-cheek suggestion that they "can always bowl with Sharon."

The specific details of this weekly bowling outing are vague, however. For example, I heard it was on Thursdays in Falls Church, which isn't really very actionable intelligence. But this summer, when a former colleague passed away, I found myself on the phone with Mimi, our retired assistant principal. It had been a while since we had spoken. 

"So how do you like retirement?" she asked.

"I'm still getting used to it," I replied non-commitally.

"You do have to find things to do," she agreed sympathetically.

"Like bowling?" I joked.

"Well, yes," she answered, seriously. "Would you be interested in that?"

"Sure," I laughed. "It's legendary!"

"I'll talk to Sharon," she said. "It would be fun to have you!"

A few days later, I received a message from Sharon explaining that they had no openings this year, but substitute slots were available. If I was interested, she asked that I let her know. As I was mulling the offer, the phone rang. "I spoke too soon," Sharon told me. "We do have an opening!"

I was definitely interested, but I needed to know the details before making a commitment. I was stunned as Sharon explained that they were a formal league sanctioned by the United States Bowling Congress. Their league, The Ladies Executive Bowling League, consists of thirty women who bowl every Tuesday (not in Falls Church) for 32 weeks of the year. They have dues, officers (with stipends), and cash prizes at the end of the season.

"I had no idea it was so formal!" I told her, thinking of the picture in my mind of a half-dozen or so old friends lounging on the plastic chairs at the end of a couple of lanes at the bowling center, drinking coffee and rolling a few games. "You guys are the real deal!"

"Are you still interested?" she asked.

"You bet!" I told her.

"Then you're in!"

Smith Barney & Me

If you're retired, as I am, Labor Day may no longer hold quite the same significance for you. Although it was great to have Heidi home for a four-day weekend, and the weather has been unbeatable, I spent some time today applying for a couple of part-time jobs and then picked up a substitute gig for a friend of mine on Thursday. 

I like to celebrate my holidays the old-fashioned way: I earn them!