Foul Weather Fans

Before I booked parking for the baseball game last night, I checked and double-checked the weather forecast. There was no chance of rain, not even a pop-up thunderstorm. And so, as we crawled along 395 on our way to cross the 14th St bridge, the foreboding skies meant nothing to me. 

"Check the app," I said to Heidi when she expressed her concern, and sure enough? At Nats Park, there was no rain forecast. 

Even so, the trip, short in distance but long in time because of Friday evening traffic, was only beginning. And when fat raindrops began to sploosh against our windshield as we took the Capitol Hill exit to wind our way to our parking spot, I was still not alarmed. And then I got the text: weather delay. But it wasn't actually raining at the ballpark, so optimistically, I parked the car, and we walked the three blocks to the stadium, confident that the game would begin shortly. 

But the minute we walked through the gate, the skies opened. Still undeterred, we dashed to the merch store and spent half an hour perusing the gear. Lots of other fans had staked out floor space, though, as if settling in for the long haul. We hadn't eaten, and decided that a circuit of the concessions on the main level would be a good way to kill some time. 

As soon as we made it to cover, though, we recognized our error. The wide hall was packed shoulder to shoulder, and it seemed like most of the other patrons were college-aged kids in red, white, or blue t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan His Legacy, Your Voice. They were all from the Turning Point USA leadership conference. 

It took 40 minutes to weave our way around the perimeter from section 143 to 108, and there was literally no place to stop and stand, let alone eat. It was 8:15 by the time we made it back to the main gate plaza, and we stood in a light drizzle surveying the sky and the grounds crew trying to squeegee off the infield tarp. The game was still delayed. 

The setting sun was trying to break out from the storm clouds to our west, and I scanned the sky for a rainbow. There was none. The stands were still closed, every seat empty and wet, and the majority of the 38,000 people in attendance were still crammed into the sheltered concourse. 

"Let's go home," I sighed.

What a Stitch

The phone was ringing as I stepped into the tailor's shop. "Hello?" she answered, nodding to me that she would be a moment.

As I waited, I could hear the voice on the other end of the line. "I have a dress," she said, "and I need it fitted and altered, but I have a tight turn around." 

She paused, and the three of us in the shop waited expectantly.

"I need it in 24 hours," she continued with a frantic sigh. "Is that something you can do?"

The tailor was measured as she answered. "I'd have to see it first. Can you come in now?"

"I can come in about an hour," the woman replied with a thread of relief in her voice.

"See you then," said the tailor as she hung up and turned to me.

"I need this altered, too," I told her, gesturing to the hanger in my hand. "But I don't need it in 24 hours!"

"Good!" she laughed, gesturing toward the changing room. "Let's see it!"

Pebbly-Poo and Bubble Trouble

Our friends, who are expecting their first child in early September, are having their shower this weekend, and mutual friends who have moved away are traveling here to attend. These other friends have three little girls, and the kids are very excited about both the trip and the shower. The oldest even has some ideas for what to name the baby. She favors either Julia (her own baby sister's name) or Bubbles. 

Personally, I can get behind Bubbles, but not for this baby. This one is already Pebbles to me. We have been calling her that since last Halloween, when we saw a family dressed as the Flintstones. "That could be us next year," our friend said to her husband, since they were planning on starting a family soon.

"Oh my gosh! Promise me you'll call the baby Pebbles!" I laughed. "That would be so awesome!" 

And so she has been Pebbles to all of us, and will be until christened otherwise, and maybe even after that. But I know they are planning a second child in the near future, and she can totally be Bubbles!

You Are on the Quickest Route

Our route to and from Buffalo has definitely changed over the 25 years I've been driving there. On our earliest trips, we relied on maps or maybe printed MapQuest directions to find our way, usually up I-270 to I-70, picking up the PA Turnpike in Breezewood and taking it all the way west to Pittsburgh, where we would turn north onto the I-90. It was highway driving the whole way.

Later, the portable GPS system that Heidi's mom gave us consistently guided us through Gettysburg and along the Susquehanna, passing landmarks such as Bucknell University and the Little League Hall of Fame on our way up through the Southern Tier. Those turn-by-turn directions could be a bit glitchy, but they shaved about 15 minutes off the 8-hour trip, which was well worth it. Plus, I loved the scenery driving by the river and then over the mountains past the Tioga Reservoir.

In the last decade or so, though, the advanced algorithms and real-time data on our phones have directed us on a more central route: through Breezewood, then just a short jog west on the Turnpike to I-99. But after passing Altoona, we drive secondary roads up through the Alleghenies, past state forests, coal mines, and a lot of Trump signs. This route has whittled the trip down to a little over 7 hours, though, and I have become familiar with, and even fond of, some of the small towns, roadside stops, and landmarks along the way.

That's why it was so jarring this afternoon when my map app directed me to make a right turn I've never taken before just outside of Ridgway, PA. I was intrigued, though, and drove along the rolling route with interest, past several picturesque farms. We were back on a familiar track once we reached downtown, but 45 minutes later, I received another novel set of directions. This time, we were off our usual route for more than an hour, driving on faith through rural Pennsylvania. 

We did see the western branch of the Susquehanna, though, and a pretty little reservoir with an old stone dam. And we also had to stop in some nameless town at one of the many railroad crossings along the way. There, we observed people carrying lawn chairs and coolers toward what seemed an undetermined destination. When the bar lifted, and we followed the cars ahead of us over the crossing, we saw folks gathering along the train tracks. 

"Something is happening here!" I stated the obvious to Heidi. Ahead, I spotted the back of a canvas sign lashed up in front of the firehouse. "Read that as we go by!" I told her.

"Welcome the Big Boy Locomotive," she reported. "July 9."

"Google that!" I said, and after a bit of a dirty look at my bossiness, she did.

It turns out that the Big Boy was a giant steam engine manufactured in the 1940s to haul freight between Utah and Wyoming. Union Pacific ran 25 of them until 1962, when they were retired from service. Only eight of them still exist, and only one of them is still functional. Union Pacific sent that one on a coast-to-coast tour to celebrate the US's 250th birthday, and that locomotive was passing right there today.

I wish I could say we stopped at that railroad crossing at the perfect time to see that Big Boy steam through whatever town that was, but its arrival was an hour away, so we kept driving, eager to get home.

How Does That One Go?

The family chat was filled with disco requests yesterday morning when my nephew reported that he would be hosting the disco show on a local radio station on Thursday night. It was fun considering which songs might be considered classic musts, and which ones we still loved from back then. 

A little while later, Heidi and I went out to lunch with her mom and brother. We ate at a fun little bar and restaurant called The Howling Rooster, which served breakfast all day, along with sandwiches and salads such as the Roo-ben, the Hot Hen, and the Hen House. They leaned into their name with their decor, too, and as we sat and chatted, I spotted a piece in the window that took me back to the kitchen of our childhood home. 

I went over, snapped a photo, and posted it to the family chat with the caption "Ceramic Rooster."

Of course, the conversation was still focused on the disco show. "I don't know that one," my sister-in-law responded.

I laughed and provided some much-needed context. I guess Ceramic Rooster could have been a follow-up to Disco Duck, though. The 70s were famous for those novelty songs.

It Never Hurts to Ask

Unless it does. 

Witness the controversy swirling around tonight's soccer match between teams USA and Belgium. Folarin Balogun, USA's top scorer, was suspended after receiving a questionable red card in the preceding game. League procedures were followed at the time: the call was challenged, reviewed on video, and allowed to stand. Many fans disagreed, but that's the game. Or it was, until President Trump called the FIFA president, who overturned the ruling, allowing Balogun to play. 

One consequence will surely be a shadow cast on the US team, especially if they win. The incident also sends a message that the rules do not apply consistently to everyone, which is kind of the biggest thing that organized sport has going for it. What's the point of a game that's not fair?

Negative Pressure

The finished basement room where we stay at Heidi's mom's house is usually pretty comfortable. A space heater makes it cozy enough in the winter, and one of those portable air conditioners is usually all it takes to keep the place cool in the summer. Unfortunately, the days of unprecedented heat this summer have strained that setup to the verge of discomfort.

At first, I thought that simply giving the a/c a chance to run would cool the room down, but nope. Then we wondered if the unit was running properly, but it was. A quick calculation showed it was appropriately rated for the size of the space, so that wasn't the problem, and there was a separate dehumidifier as well, so the moisture wasn't overwhelming its function, either. 

Here in Buffalo, central air has only recently been added to most residential construction, and houses like this one, built in the 1960s, have piecemeal solutions to the rising temperatures we have experienced over the last few decades. Heidi's mom has a mini-split unit in the family room (that theoretically reaches the kitchen) and a bigger one for the second-floor bedrooms. That leaves the living room, dining room, and office without cooling, but those spaces just aren't used if it's too warm.

I think I've figured out the problem, though. The mini-split doesn't reach the kitchen, and they don't have screens in the windows. That means that heat has built up in the rooms that aren't air-conditioned, making them sweltering and stuffy. When it's running, the little a/c we have in the basement vents air continuously out through a duct hose. But what is happening is that negative pressure from that venting is drawing all the hot air down here from the rooms above us through the floor. 

It's counterintuitive, but the fix is to open the upstairs windows and maybe even run a fan to push air out that way. But nobody wants to "let any more heat in," so we're stuck in a sticky basement.

Virtually the Same

Visiting Heidi's mom in Buffalo during an extreme heatwave has forced us to get creative about recreation. Yesterday, for example, we dusted off the old Wii console that she has hooked up to the TV in the basement rec room. 

"I think the last time I used this was when Richard and Annabelle were here for our wedding party in 2015," I said to Heidi, but after replacing a few batteries in the controllers, we found that the system still works fine. We were also reunited with the Miis we had created over a decade ago; Heidi's has dark hair, and mine is much chubbier than I would make her now. The early avatars of other family members were there, too: a younger Kyle, Mark with hair, and Heidi's dad, called "Chief," which looked eerily like him, and made us a little sad.

I got the thing working while Heidi was out with the dogs, and I clicked on bowling to test everything out. Of course, I wondered how the virtual version might compare, now that I've been bowling regularly. At first, I thought it was easier, and I picked up spares on my first three frames, but soon I found myself hooking the ball to the left, just as I do in real life. After a few adjustments, I got back on track, and my final score was 112, which just happens to be my average.

False Alarm

For some reason, my social media feed is full of information about aging gracefully and well. 🤔 As aged as the algorithm may think I am, though, I haven't declined to the point where I can't spot AI content designed to make me spend money buying equipment or subscribing to miraculous exercise routines. 

Even so, I do need to stay sharp because those robot hucksters are wily. For example, just the other day as I was scrolling, I paused to hear a fit, middle-aged man earnestly inform me that, as we age, losing balance is one of the biggest dangers. "Most people over the age of 50 can't put their socks on while standing up," he reported, shaking his head sadly. 

Oh my gosh! I thought. Can I put my socks on without sitting down? I pulled off my socks and jumped out of the chair to see. Oh, I could do it, all right, but in the process, I realized that usually?  

Nobody puts their socks on standing up. 

That's Why We're Friends

"Anyone who knows my middle name gets 5 points," Treat read from the game card he'd just drawn. We were playing a  fun and silly game that Courtney had sent for my birthday, following a fabulous meal prepared by Bill and Emily to celebrate my latest trip around the sun.

We all looked at Amy sympathetically. The rest of us knew the answer, of course, but she was visiting from Arizona and hadn't seen Treat in decades. Even so, Treat was encouraging. "I bet you could figure it out," he said.

"Is it William?" she guessed, logically choosing his father's name.

"No," he answered, "but you can still get it. You actually have all the information you need."

Heidi jerked her head at Treat and raised her eyebrows dramatically, trying to provide a clue, but Amy was still confused. "I give up!" she sighed, "unless it's Melvin?" she joked.

"It's Treat!" We all told her in unison.

Amy didn't skip a beat. "Your name is Treat Treat?"

The Flow

A friend from high school texted the other day to see if I was free either Tuesday or Wednesday of this week. She was in town to tend to her 90-year-old aunt and had some free time, so we made plans to spend the afternoon together today. It just so happened that my family birthday dinner was tonight, too, and so Amy was included in the celebration. We had a fun time! And it may have been even sweeter because all the pieces just fell into place.

The same was true of our stay at the beach last week: I happened to find a place in a great location that was available for a few days that worked for us. The weather cooperated, and we spent a magical three days walking on the beach, exploring the trails in the state park up the street, hanging with our friends, eating seafood and cooking out, and revisiting old haunts.

And this evening, Treat told us all about the kayaking trip in Maine he had recently returned from. Again, it seemed like the details fell easily into place, and even being fogged in for a day on a deserted island was a pleasant twist in their itinerary. They had osprey and harbor seals for company, and used the wetsuits that the outfitter provided to swim in the frigid coastal waters. They even had a Thích Nhất Hạnh book that everyone took turns reading aloud from.

I love stories of ease and flow almost as much as I appreciate that feeling of well-being when it happens. It often feels like there is so much to struggle against that it's easy to lose any sense of innate well-being and balance. I'm ever so m grateful I was able to reconnect with it today.

Mending a Fuse

I love my birthday! But because it falls at the end of the month? Depending on what else is going on in the next few days, I often end up paying bills. Even so, in addition to pickleball, yoga, and the pool, the chore just added to my sense of accomplishment today. 

Bring it 64!

Is it Me?

I'm not particularly excited about the Fourth of July this year. To be honest, I'm never that into the holiday, perhaps because one, it falls right after my birthday, and two, it's in the summer, so it's never even been a day off for me. I understand that to some, this may be a marquee year, in that it is the 250th anniversary of the founding of our nation (or as a rather pompous friend of mine chooses to optimistically call it, the quarter-millennium), but to me that level of enthusiasm seems a little, ahem, trumped up. 

Maybe it's because of the divisive politics of our time, the tussle to righteously claim the soul of the country, and thereby the right to celebrate it. But, really, I think it's because I was around to celebrate the bicentennial and all the 200th anniversaries of everything leading up to it, and honestly? Half a hundred just doesn't seem that legit.

Lost Opportunity

Dinner was over, and the sunlight was waning to summer gold when I heard it: the unmistakable jingle of an ice cream truck sounded from somewhere nearby. My jaw dropped in disbelief. In the 28 years we've lived in this condo complex, tucked away from the rest of the county as it is, there has never been an ice cream truck.

My first instinct was to grab a dime and run for my popsicle. In fact, I did leap off the couch and crane my neck, peering through the window to see if my ears deceived me. A moment later, the Mr. Softee truck cruised into view, and I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out on the balcony, my thoughts racing.

Clearly? A dime would not be sufficient, and anyway, I would want something better than a popsicle, which was the only thing my brother, sister, and I were ever allowed to buy. What was on the menu? I wondered. And how do you even conduct a transaction with the ice cream man these days? Can I tap my watch? Use a credit card? Must I have cash?

But before I could form a plan of action, the jingle started up again, and the truck rolled away, probably because there were no customers. 

I sighed and returned to the couch. Maybe I'll be more prepared in 2054.

A Dozen Signs of Summer

Nothing is comfier than shorts, a tank top, and slides
The pool is a daily destination
All the fruit is delicious-- even when it comes from the grocery store
The air outside surrounds you like a warm hug
The air inside greets you like a cool kiss
Bottomless iced tea and lemonade
Rain is great:  it's good for the garden and a good time to go to the movies
The snack bag is packed and ready to go at a moment's notice
Your main accessories are a ball cap and sunglasses
Pickleball is back on the morning schedule
Sliced tomatoes are a side at every meal
Heidi is home all day

Pinch Me

I picked up a pound of jumbo lump crab meat on my way to the beach on Tuesday night. My plan was to make crab cakes for dinner, but by the time we had unpacked, I'd walked the dog, and Heidi had finished her board meeting call, a simple tossed salad with a lemony deviled crab on top seemed more reasonable. 

It was delicious, and there was plenty of crab meat left-- enough to have crab and egg breakfast sandwiches every morning for the rest of the week. I think we may have found a new beach tradition!

Right at Home

Back in the 80s, when we lived here at the beach, one of the few grocery options was a rustic chain called Be-lo. The stores were small and under-provisioned, but we made do because we didn't really have a choice. The whole company is long gone now, though, but their locations around here still have grocery stores: a newish Food Lion on Shore Drive and a big Harris Teeter over on 27th and Arctic. 

It was to the Harris Teeter that we went this morning to pick up a few things for the little girls we will be hosting a little later today. The layout of the place was familiar, similar to several of the HTs near us, but with a hefty dose of beach equipment and vacation essentials sprinkled throughout. 

Even so, we noticed that the average age of the shoppers was at least 10 years older than I am. At first, I wondered what was going on that brought all the retirees out on a Thursday morning, but then it hit me. It was Thursday, which is senior discount day at the Harris Teeters near us. And when we checked out, I asked the cashier if it was the same down here. 

Ca-ching! We saved an extra 5% plus all the sale items when I punched in my loyalty number.

Third Watch

"We'd love for you to stay for dinner," our friends with three little girls under the age of five said this afternoon, "but fair warning-- we eat pretty early."

We accepted the gracious invitation, but she was not exaggerating! Dinner was over by 5:15, and the girls were bathed and in their pajamas by quarter to six. Everyone was getting a little cranky, and it was clear that bedtime for all five of them was on the horizon. "I have to grab some sleep when the baby naps," our friend apologized, "at three months, she's not sleeping through the night yet."

We thanked them for a fun day with the kids and a nice dinner, too, and were on our way back to the beach house before six. The whole evening stretched before us, so we drove the strip down to Rudee Inlet to see what was new, took a spin past all the houses I lived in when I was here, and then walked a couple of miles on a piney trail in First Landing State Park (formerly Seashore State Park), which has an entrance just a block from our house. 

Even now, in these longest days of summer, daylight lingers: I just poured an ice-cold beer, and it seems like there are hours more of fun left in this day. (Lucy is wiped out, though!)

Take a Beat

"Would you ever want to live back here again?" Heidi asked me this afternoon as we neared Virginia Beach.

"Not today, I wouldn't," I scoffed. We had been crawling toward the tunnel in torrential rain under a tornado watch for 30 minutes, and the map app predicted it would be at least another 20 minutes, ultimately taking us two hours to go 40 miles.

My mood softened considerably the moment we turned onto Shore Drive and turned 180 when I punched the access code into our rental home, a classic beach cottage that had been renovated into a light and spacious retreat. And by the time we made our way across Atlantic Ave and down the block to the beach, I was wondering why I had ever moved away.

Quite Contrary

I was there first.

In general, I try to avoid gardening when the lady from the next plot is there, mostly because she's snide and judgmental, and I don't really need that vibe when I'm struggling to tame my plot. Oh, sure, it would be easier to tame said plot were I to spend more time there, but I dread running into her, so it's a conundrum.

This morning, my heart sank when I heard the clank of the gate latch and looked up to see her familiar blond pony stalking my way. I'd already fed, watered, and pruned all the vegetables, but there was so much more to be done, I decided to stay. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk about the dry weather and hot day approaching. I weeded my side of the border between our beds and then moved on to the ubiquitous wiregrass along the fence. 

When she went out to the other side of that fence with her shovel and gardening stool, I knew she was modeling what she wanted me to do next, which was clear the fence line and dig up the grass out there. I continued in my own garden, though; Lord knows there was plenty to do in there. I did show her that one of the strands of barbed wire that tops the chainlink fence was broken and sagging into both our gardens.

"Can you stretch it and hook it on that clasp?" she pointed, but I showed her that the snapped wire would no longer stretch that far.

"Who's responsible for the fence, us or the county?" I asked.

"Probably us," she answered in disgust. "Do you want us to cut it or repair it?" she asked. 

"I don't have a strong feeling either way," I replied.

"I'm in charge of the next two work days," she told me. "We'll take care of it then."

I nodded, but before I could return to work, she continued, "Can you believe that every single garden got a satisfactory in the last inspection?"

I inhaled sharply. Here we go, I thought.

"I called them on it," she said. "There are definitely some plots that need attention, at the least." She shook her head. "There are going to be some upset people in the coming weeks," she said, "because I refuse to look the other way."

"Well," I nodded, "you've been here a long time, and you're not afraid to speak your mind."

At that, she guffawed, and I laughed a little, too. "I don't think anyone will be too surprised when they see the inspection," I finished.

Do You Mind?

"How old is elderly?" I Googled this morning.

The AI bot tactfully informed me that there is no set age at which one becomes elderly, but traditionally, in the US at least, anyone over 65 could reasonably be put in that category. 

My query was in response to a headline I had seen about the tragic deaths earlier this week of "three elderly people" hiking in the Grand Canyon. Their ages? 73 (I can see that), 68, and 67. Um...

I remembered a story my mom used to tell about a time there came a knock at her door early one Saturday morning. One of her neighbors had called the police about some suspicious activity, but she was unaware of it when she answered in her pajamas and found a police officer on her front porch. "Is everything all right here?" he asked, looking over her shoulder and into the house. 

She assured him it was, and when his radio squawked, he reported the all clear. "Nobody here but an elderly woman," he told the person on the other end.

She laughed when she recounted the incident, because at 68, she felt anything but elderly. 

I sighed and extended my search. "Is it rude to call someone elderly?"

Swimming in the Memory Lane

We ran into an acquaintance at the pool this afternoon. She is a neighbor, but to be honest, we usually only see her in summer when we all frequent the pool. "Do you have any travel plans this year?" I asked as we waited for the required 15-minute break at the end of the hour.

"Oh," she waved her hand. "No. But I could go to Oakton and back, and never remember even being there, so there's that.' She laughed wryly.

I nodded in amusement and slight confusion.

"But I'm also starting my infusion treatment," she continued. "It's every other week for 18 months, so I don't want to go far."

Again, I nodded, but I was lost.

"I don't remember if I told you or not," she added, "but I have early-stage Alzheimer's. I did the genetic testing, and I qualify for the new treatment. I'm so grateful and optimistic."

I expressed my support, and she went on. "I might tell you all this again," she laughed. "But so what?"

Blue Skies Smilin' at Me

Although the day dawned a bit gray, the first day of summer break turned out to be gorgeous: a high of 82, breezy, with plenty of sunshine by the afternoon. We went to the pool for the first time this season, and the water was pleasant and refreshing. When the guard called for the 15-minute break at the end of the hour, Heidi and I sat wrapped in towels, chatting about the future—in addition to a trip to the beach next week and other travel plans, this summer and fall bring a wedding and 2 babies to our immediate circle. Plus? On a whim, we toured a nearby house for sale yesterday afternoon, and who knows?

Anything seems possible on the first day of summer break.

A Wrap and a Roll

"When did you start this tradition?" someone asked at the table this afternoon as we enjoyed our traditional, last day of school lobster rolls.

"Tracey and Heidi did it first," Mary explained, "and then they invited me. They used to go to the movies afterward."

"We've been doing it for years," I nodded. "Maybe ten?" I looked across the table at Heidi and thought back. "I think the first year we went to see Finding Dory after lunch, right?"

She shrugged. "That sounds right."

I grabbed my phone from the center of the table and tapped the screen. "Finding Dory came out in 2016, so that must be when we started."

I put my phone down and considered the seven of us at the table, and then thought of all the folks who had joined us over the years. It is a nice tradition, indeed. 

Top Down

I closed out the school year on my consulting gig at a company lunch. All my interactions with the president, educational officer, and my fellow coaches had been virtual, so this was the first time we met in person. It was almost as awkward as it sounds, but not quite. Everyone was easy to recognize and not so difficult to chit chat with. Once the president arrived, she commanded our attention with her wrap-up report and remarks of thanks. 

I listened carefully and tried to make sense of my place in the organization. The firm was founded 3 years ago by a former school administrator and leadership coach, and the world of applying for contracts and vendor opportunities was alien to me. Less so was the notion of designing programs and curriculum, but all the women present were very focused on leadership rather than the everyday frontline classroom teacher.

Such an attitude is anathema to me, but I stayed silent on the topic. The work I did involved coaching teachers, and I expect to be offered an opportunity to continue. Despite its leadership-skewed focus, the culture of the company is nurturing and expansive, so there's a chance that I can nudge them in the direction I know would be productive and impactful.

Expert Advice

As I wheeled my cart around the corner to the seltzer aisle, I noticed a woman, perhaps fifteen years older than I am, scanning the endcap. There was something about her hair and makeup that looked vaguely familiar, and I momentarily lingered on her face, trying to place her. We made eye contact then, so I smiled as I passed. 

"I've been feeling a little faint and weak in this heat," I heard a voice behind me say, and I turned to see her closing in on me, "so my mailman told me I needed Gatorade!" she laughed. "And here I am."

"Maybe the electrolytes?" I offered.

"But my mailman!" she repeated.

"He probably spends a lot of time outdoors," I suggested.

She shrugged in amusement. "My husband is a doctor!" she informed me, and he never mentioned any such thing. "Now, where do you s'pose that Gatorade is?"

Farewell Tour

I met my friend Mary for breakfast this morning before we headed over to our old school to sign a retirement gift for a former colleague. It was a delightfully civilized morning: we enjoyed egg sandwiches, split a muffin, and talked about books before wandering over to school. 

Today was the end-of-year activities, so only the sixth grade was on campus, and the building was eerily quiet when we walked in. Our first stop was to pick up the book, sign it, and take it around for others to sign also. As Mary transcribed her message, a student challenged me to a game of Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, Pizza, which was a fun way to spend a few minutes. 

It was also fun to see everyone greet Mary-- she hasn't been back since she retired last June, and everyone we met was so pleased to see her. 

Upstairs, I excused myself from a conversation to drop off the book with a teacher in another room where the students were doing karaoke. Once again, I got to play while she signed, grabbing the inflatable microphone a student offered and singing along to Taylor Swift's "Romeo and Juliet". 

"Look at you!" Mary said when she found me, "doing all your favorite things at school. If it were always this fun, we never would have had to retire!"

Class of '26

I couldn't resist clicking on the recordings of the high school commencements when I happened to see them on the district website this afternoon. The kids who were graduating were in my sixth-grade class when we shut down for COVID six years ago, and, with few exceptions, I hadn't seen many of them since that day. The beauty of a recording is that I could fast-forward to the students I wanted to see, but I ended up wiling away a couple of hours watching hundreds of seniors cross three stages, just waiting for a name or a face I recognized. 

As always happens, some were so changed I would have passed them on the street without another look, but most were just slightly grown-up versions of their 11-year-old selves, perhaps a little more serious and poised. Like graduates everywhere, they seemed happy and proud, and I was glad to see that they made it through the turbulence of the last six years, even ending their school years on a pretty traditional note.

It's hard to believe, but the students entering kindergarten this fall weren't even born yet when the pandemic struck, and in another six years, almost all the kids whose schooling was directly impacted by the shutdown will have graduated or moved on from school. Something that had such a profound effect on all of us will be history to them.

Time is crazy predictable in that way.

Fifteen Years Later

Back when I was in my late forties, I used to think it was funny when I started receiving invitations to join AARP.  It seemed impossible that I was that old, and I felt as fine and well as ever, so AARP seemed like a humorous mistake.

My reaction was different this morning when I went to get the mail and received a large-format postcard reminding me that Medicare is only one year away and that it's time to prepare. I didn't think that was amusing at all; in fact, if I had to choose an adjective for that reality, it would be terrifying!

The Shoe Fits

"More testing?" one of my colleagues asked this morning.

"Yes, but it's the last day," I told him.

"What a joy it must be to lock up kids in the library and force them to answer questions for hours," he noted acerbically. 

"You know I love that stuff," I laughed with equal irony.

"Well," he sighed, "I guess you're just like everyone else--" He paused and shook his head sadly. "Selling out for the almighty dollar."

"Ouch!" I yelped. "That stings!" We walked silently down the hall for a moment. "But, it's kinda true," I admitted.

Shhhhh Nanigans

There was a mysterious whistle softly piercing the quiet of the library as 60 students tested late this morning. It would have been nothing except that everyone was willing to be distracted by it, including the adults in the room. So much so that an assistant principal was eventually called in to threaten the students with invalid tests and other such dreadful consequences. 

To be honest, my aging ears could only pick it up occasionally, but when I passed a rather impertinent young man whistling under his breath to the amusement of the others at his table, I pulled him aside.

"I was just trying to see if I could do a whistle," he claimed impudently. "I didn't know I could."

'Why don't you try to see if you can do math?" I suggested with a bit of a tone myself. "Since that's what we're here to find out!"

Not So Small Talk

"How did you decide you wanted to teach art?" I asked a young woman at Emily's retirement party.

"That's a complicated story!" she laughed.

"I don't mean to be nosy," I told her. "Skip that question if you like!"

"I'll give you the quick version," she answered amiably. "I studied video game design in college with a minor in Japanese. After graduation, I moved to Japan to pursue a career in games, but my entry was teaching English. I decided I liked teaching better than game design, and here I am!"

I nodded appreciatively. 

"How about you?" she asked. "Are you from this area?"

"That's a complicated story!" I laughed.

Duty Calls

I was standing in the library of my old school this morning, waiting for the next round of testees, when my phone chimed with a text notification. The screen displayed the former assistant principal's name and a message asking whether I was free to talk briefly. I was, and as I waited for her call, I looked around the room. It was practically unchanged in the decade since she retired, and I thought of all the meetings we had sat in there over the twenty years we worked together. My phone buzzed, and I smiled to hear her voice. 

The business at hand today was not educational in the least; she needed a sub for her summer bowling league and wondered if I could do it. "Yes, ma'am," I said, since after all, she was the boss.

Testy Testers

"I don't even want to take this test again!" an 8th grader scoffed as I escorted her from the retake session to the restroom.

"Why didn't you tell your parents that?" I asked neutrally. "They had to give their permission for you to do the retake."

"My parents gave permission for this?" she responded, appalled.

Soon enough, it was her turn in the restroom, and then we returned to the library. Not 10 minutes later, she raised her hand to indicate she was finished. She did not pass.

But that was part of the pattern today. A little over half of the students who were eligible for an expedited retake, based on how close they were to passing on the first go-round, passed on the second try. It was pretty clear as they worked which of them were engaged and hopeful, and which were not.

Perhaps we should make it part of the process to ask the students, in addition to their parents and teachers, if they want another chance. Otherwise, really? What's the point?

The Library of Things

A couple of months ago, I discovered "The Library of Things" on my local library's website. In addition to an alluring name, the collection's premise was also enchanting, featuring sub-collections with dolls, memory kits, nature backpacks, puzzles, games, and tools. Of course, I wanted to browse! 

Even though I didn't need a darning egg, a white noise machine, trekking poles, or a stud finder, it was comforting to know they were available if I ever did, and I also found a telescope and a metal detector, two big-ticket items I have always coveted. Oh, there was a waitlist, of course, but I added them both to my holds and promptly forgot.

Until this morning, when I received a notification that the telescope was ready for pickup. At first, I planned to walk down to the library to get my prize, but I thought better of it, uncertain about the telescope's size and weight. I was glad I drove, too, when the librarian dragged out a huge nylon bag from behind the desk when I inquired about my hold, and soon I slung the three-foot duffle over one shoulder, lugged it to the car, and headed home to set it up.

As of now, I have a nice viewing platform on the upper deck, and I am just waiting for darkness to fall. Coincidentally? This morning, we booked a house in Virginia Beach for three days, the week after school gets out. Unfortunately, my telescope is due a couple of days before that, but I'm hoping for a renewal. That or the metal detector.

Maybe both!

Silly Americans

"Have you ever taken your children to the aquarium in Atlanta?" I asked my hairstylist this morning. We were talking about her plans to visit her sister down there this summer.

"No," she replied. "Is it nice?"

"It's amazing!" I told her. "My niece and nephew are 18 and 20 now, but they have loved it all their lives."

She nodded. "We'll have to try it."

"In fact," I continued, "my nephew actually swam with the whale sharks in the big tank last month."

"Wow!" she said. "I would be much too afraid to do that!"

"He said he was afraid," I laughed, "but glad he did it."

"I'm African," she shook her head, "I would never."

I tilted my head and considered her reply. Yorda grew up in Ethiopia during a time of famine and civil war, and she often expresses her gratitude for the relative stability she has found here in the U.S. I guess maybe it is a privilege of Western society to take unnecessary risks for fun, even if they seem harmless. 

Five Little Monkeys

Now that both our cats and our dog are approaching the decade mark, there seems to be a consensus among them that all five of us belong in the same bed every night. Oh, they don't agree on territory, no, no, no; in fact, there is some competition, not always friendly. But at some point, every night, they each spend some time snoozing on the bed.

In general, it doesn't bother me. I'm a sound sleeper who contorts myself in my sleep to give the other four space. You might reasonably wonder, then, how I even know about their nocturnal habits. Well, Lucy grumbles when she is disturbed, and that does occasionally wake me, as does Heidi's yelps whenever Milo walks on her face. And just this morning, I woke up with white cat hair all over the navy tank I was wearing. Clearly, somebody (ahem, Tibby) had been cuddling up to me.

I may have to start keeping a lint roller on my nightstand.

Just a Little Something Sweet

"I don't suppose Z is here today," I said off-handedly as I passed a teacher in the hallway this morning. I had been scouring the school for a handful of elusive, test-avoidant students.

"Actually," she nodded, "he is! He's right over there." She pointed to a classroom down the hall.

I tapped on the door and walked in. "Is Z here?" I asked, and the co-teacher pointed at a young man seated to her right. "May I have him for testing?" I continued.

He was full of woe and sighs as we headed down to the testing office, but I refused to acknowledge his angst, choosing instead to engage in friendly chatter. His disposition did not improve as I set him up with a laptop and headphones and proceeded to read the directions for the test. "I can see your progress on my computer," I told him. "Let me know if you have any questions."

He worked steadily at first, but was quickly fatigued. Fortunately, it was lunch time, so I escorted him to the cafeteria. "You're going to have to have a working lunch," I said, and he nodded gloomily. "You're making good progress, though," I told him. "You're almost halfway."

What I didn't mention was that I was going to have to test him for reading tomorrow, and I was working hard to make this as painless as possible. After his second walk to the water fountain, I suggested we scour the cupboards for a cup so he could bring it back with him. There were no cups among the testing supplies, but there was some candy. 

Do your best on the test, you Smartie, read the package. "You're a smartie," I told him, "I think this must be for you!" 

That got a smile! And as he munched happily on what my brother, sister, and I used to call power pills, I broke the news to him that he would have to come back tomorrow. "Can I have more Smarties then?" he asked.

You betcha.

I'm Not Tired, You're Tired

Oh sure, I worked a ten-hour day yesterday to coordinate a staff of 75 to test 700 kids, overcoming internet outages, a visit from a state monitor, and last-minute call-outs. We even moved 100 kids to 3 locations when the session was through so that they could complete their untimed math assessment, and we got them lunch, too, all while keeping test security intact. 

And that was me in the library until 4 with the last of the last, and then down in the office setting up the makeup sessions for this morning, which I also ran single-handedly. I gamely laughed it off when the principal commented on how tired I looked around lunchtime today, and just headed down to unpack 50 bins of test materials. 

But to be honest, my proudest accomplishment over the last couple of days was calling a stranger at the central office and arranging to drop off paper tests at an unfamiliar location. This was a process I was unsure about, and of all the things, I felt most anxious about looking dumb in front of someone I didn't know. 

But? That was fine, too.

Now, to get a good night's rest—tomorrow is another day of makeups and retakes, and I don't want anyone accusing me of testing fatigue.

Shaggy Hair Story

A little more than two years ago, the stylist who had cut my hair for some time announced that she was retiring from the business. Not to worry, though, she had a referral for both Heidi and me, another skilled stylist at the same salon. We were disappointed, but eventually adapted and came to appreciate the talents of our new hairstylist. 

Then, last year, the first woman told us she was opening her own loft in partnership with the other woman she had referred us to, but she also asked if we would be interested in coming back as her clients. If that wasn't enough, a few weeks later, the two of them had a falling out, with each deciding to strike out on her own. Oof! I didn't know who should cut my hair! Heidi decided to stick with the second stylist, citing the first's unreliability, so I decided to split our business and go back to our original haircutter. 

To be honest, my every 8-12 week cut is nothing compared to Heidi's regular color and cut, but the two women continued to compete for my business. It's uncomfortable! And I haven't had my hair cut since January, both because I was fine with it growing out a little, and it was really awkward to choose one over the other. But now? I need my hair cut! 

I just don't know who to call.

Just a Pinch

This year, I have mostly foregone the showy flowers I usually plant in the hanging pots on my deck. Instead, I have a kitchen garden going out there. Along with my olive, black pepper, cinnamon, coffee, and lemon, I also have a chili arbol and some laurel, basil, lemongrass, oregano, rosemary, nasturtium, and mint.

When people discover that I cooked professionally for a few years in the now very distant past, they often ask whet my favorite thing to cook is (or was). It's a tough question, because my favorite thing is always what I'm hungry for, and so I have a robust pantry, a full freezer, and a penchant for grocery shopping even at the end of a long day.

So, having fresh herbs and aromatics at arm's reach all summer long? What more could I ask for?

Insta Stock

I love having homemade chicken stock around to cook with, but preparing it used to be a bit of a traumatic trial.

When rendering all the necessary bones and scraps, what is at first a delicious aroma becomes cloying and almost sickening after the hours of simmering that the broth requires. Over the years, I've tried several strategies to lessen the pungency-- cooking with open windows when possible, running the vent fan when not. I've even been tempted to let the stock simmer all day while we're at work, but that seems reckless and ill-advised. 

It finally occurred to me a few months ago to try cooking my carcasses in the instant pressure cooker. There, the concoction is sealed in by a steam gasket. Bonus? The whole process takes a fraction of the time and yields a concentrated, rich, and very flavorful product. Oh, there's still a hint of chicken broth in the air, but it's very tolerable, and the clean-up is fast and easy. And now I almost always have one of my favorite cooking staples on hand.

We All Scream

A couple of weeks ago, we found ourselves in Atlanta for my niece's graduation. There we spent a fun weekend with family, including my sister's mother-in-law, Lyn. As we wiled away the time between ceremonies and celebrations, our conversations meandered, as they do, around family news, current events, media, movies, and of course, food. 

"I love ice cream!" I declared at one point, even though there had been no ice cream on the agenda. "I don't know why I don't eat it every day!" I laughed. "Well, actually I do," I added, patting my stomach. "But a small daily portion? I would enjoy that!"

We moved on from there, and although I haven't added ice cream eating to my regular routine, the conversation has stayed in the back of my mind. And when Lyn kindly invited us to a simple supper to collect some of our forgotten belongings that she had brought back from Atlanta, I immediately offered to bring dessert. "So nice of you," she replied, "but please keep it simple."

Oh, I will.

Driveby Compliment

I parked out in the back lot this morning when I arrived at school, and I'm glad I did. First, the weather was glorious, and getting a few extra steps in while spending extra time outside was a great start to my day. 

And then, when I left a little before 4, a few 7th graders I knew whizzed by me on scooters as I trekked back to the car in the sunshine. "Hey, Ms. S!" they hailed me, and then turned around to scoot on back and give me some fist bumps. "Do you work here again?" they asked.

"I'm just helping out with SOL testing," I said, "but I'll be around until it's over."

"Will you be in the library after the test on Tuesday?" one wanted to know.

"I will," I nodded.

"Good!" he declared, hopping on his scooter. "'Cause I'm probably going to be there, and I'll need someone nice like you," he called over his shoulder as he sped away.

Angel Numbers

In the short time I've been filling in as testing coordinator, I have found that there are a number of slippery students who are masters of avoiding their testing. Today, though, I changed my approach; in addition to sending messages to them, their parents, their homeroom, and their first period, when they still didn't show up, I checked the attendance and finally found them in third period. Once the call was made, there was no wiggling out of the test today.

Kids are so funny, though (which, of course, is one reason I willingly spent three decades in middle school). Of these elusive testers, one kept putting his head down, pretending to sleep, although he was very good-natured whenever he was prodded awake. "I'm thinking," he would yawn.

Another kid banged her way quickly through her science test and then reported for her pass back to class. "Promise me something," I said as I jotted her name.

"What?" she asked.

"Come on time to your math SOL on Tuesday," I suggested. "That way you can avoid all this make-up stuff."

"What time would that even be?" she asked in horror.

"The usual time that school starts," I told her. "7:50."

She made a noncommittal face. 

"Say 'I promise!'," I insisted, and with a laugh, she complied.

I turned back to the pass, checking my computer for the time. "It's 11:11!" I said. "Make a wish!"

Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

"Did you wish that you would be here and pass the SOL on Tuesday?" I asked, "Because that's what I wished."

"No," she shook her head. "I wished for wings."

"I hope at least one of us gets our wish," I said as I handed her the pass.

"I hope we both do," she answered, and flitted out of the room.

Meh Stars

When a staff member asked our party to vacate our table right after we paid for lunch yesterday, I was a bit incensed. The six of us were still gabbing and finishing coffee, and the restaurant was not overly busy; the lunch crowd had cleared out, and no one was waiting for a table. So, when I got home, and there was an email asking for my thoughts on the place, I did not hesitate to report what had happened and how I felt about it. 

Even so, I don't usually think of myself as "that" patron. And today, when I entered the rental car office at my appointed time and found it deserted except for one other customer, I simply took a seat and waited for service. But when the phone kept ringing and ringing unanswered, and different guys with the same logo polo shirt sauntered in and out without making eye contact, I confess to wondering what on earth was happening. The din of construction right outside the window did not improve the wait, and I finally stood up so the next employee might at least acknowledge me.

As I paced, I considered where I could leave a review of this purgatory, until at last one of the polo shirts greeted me and courteously asked me to wait a few minutes. When he returned, he handled my business quickly and was so friendly that I forgot to be peeved anymore. I can't say I was one hundred percent satisfied, but I did put the cap back on my poison pen.

You May Begin

That could be some good dye right there, I thought to myself as I carried the pot I had poached some baby beets in to the sink. In fact, I had to restrain myself from adding a little vinegar just to see the color change from a deep blue to a vibrant pink. Natural dyes are never that good, though, I reminded myself as I dismissed any notion of dying and poured the liquor down the drain.

I considered next the Top Chef challenge we had watched a few nights ago. In general, that is a cooking show I enjoy, mostly because it seems grounded in good food, and local provisions and traditions, rather than gimmicky challenges. The episode I was reminded of was more of reach, though. The competition is based in the Carolinas this season, and the cheftestants were charged with making a dish that used two natural food colorings in an unexpected way. The connection to their locale was the textile mills that drove the economy in the early 20th century.

To be blunt? The competitors didn't get it, and the judges were not pleased. The chefs tried using chlorophyll, turmeric, charcoal powder, spirulina, beet powder, and other ingredients to make a colorful, delicious dish, but the judges wanted more. They were looking for something visually surprising, maybe even unnatural (in a natural way). When they didn't get that result, they were frustrated and aggravated with the contestants, blaming them for failing to deliver.

Heidi and I watched with our own aggravation. To us as viewers, the challenge seemed vague from the beginning, starting with that tenuous connection to the mills; it was never clear what they were supposed to do, other than incorporate two natural food-coloring ingredients into their dishes. And any teacher worth their salt knows that if no one in the group can accomplish the assignment? 

Then it's your fault, not theirs. If it is to have a chance of being well executed, the task must be well designed and well explained. That takes time, experience, and a little humility, should things go wrong.

But if we were looking for any ownership from the production team and judges for the obvious breakdown in communication, we were disappointed. I have a friend and former colleague whose ex-husband used to be surprised by how tired she was at night after a day of teaching. "What do you even do all day?" He asked her once, "Except sit behind your desk and say, You may begin?"

He would have been a good judge on Top Chef.

Lackluster Not Blockbuster

It was fun to go to the movies yesterday, but times have really changed. Our movie, Project Hail Mary, was playing in a medium-sized auditorium in a multiplex a little farther from home than we usually venture for the movies. The first thing I noticed was the frosted glass over the box office windows: all six stations were permanently closed, and it was hard not to imagine the throngs of people in lines that might have snaked all the way back to the fire lane on such a holiday weekend a decade or so ago. 

Instead, we were greeted by a teenager with an iPad who scanned the ticket QR code on my phone. The line for the massive concession stand was short, and there, too, we saw evidence of downsizing. Bare stainless steel counters flanked either side of the line; gone were the self-service, Ferrari soda stations, replaced by mini-fridges with Gatorade and Smart Water, along with a basic Pepsi fountain behind the service counter. There was popcorn, but not much else, and the cavernous lobby seemed empty and nearly deserted. 

The same was so as we made our way down wide, empty hallways leading to a dozen theaters; before we got to our show, we may have seen five other patrons. The auditorium itself was about a third full, which was not all that surprising, since the movie had been out for a while. As we settled into our seats, the sound seemed muted, and I briefly toyed with the idea of taking the long walk back to the front to see if there was a problem. 

In the end, we just listened more carefully than seemed right in a theater, probably missing something here and there, but I guess that downsizing of expectations was prudent.

Nice Schmice

"Sure, lady, just take your time," Heidi snarled with irritation as we slowed to a roll in the parking lot. "She's lucky you're driving," she continued, "Because I would run her and her brats down."

"That's not very nice," I chided mildly.

"I'm not nice," Heidi replied. "You knew that when you married me!"

"Nice can be a choice rather than a character trait," I noted as we parked the car. "Choose nice!"

A little while later, Heidi's phone chimed, and she laughed as she read the text. "I got a meme that says Nice is my go-to, but fuck off is my wingman," she told me. "Does that sound like me?"

"Maybe the reverse?" I suggested. "Fuck off is your go-to, but nice is your wingman?"

"That's about right," she agreed.

On the First Day of Summer

I read today that this will be the longest summer we could possibly have: Memorial Day is at its earliest date and Labor Day at its latest. Impressive!

And yet, despite days in the 90s earlier this week, today dawned gray and rainy, struggling to get out of the 50s. I was tempted to start a fire and hunker down, more like in March than May. Still, I rallied in the early afternoon and took advantage of a break in the downpour to walk the dog for a couple of sodden miles. It was pretty pleasant, actually. We had the streets to ourselves, except for a soggy rabbit and a great blue heron. Oh, and all the lifeguards working their first day of the summer season-- we passed at least four young men huddling in pool houses, staring idly at their phones. 

A couple of months ago, I toyed with the idea of forcing challenging myself to go to the pool and swim every day it's open this year. Today I sure was glad I didn't do that.

Happy summer, though! Warmer days are no doubt ahead.

Damage Done

I was feeling more than a little bleary and crosseyed when I left school yesterday afternoon after eight and a half hours of non-stop testing coordination, so perhaps I could be forgiven for what happened next. I cut the wheel too soon as I was exiting the dimly lit parking space in the dark, subterranean garage, and the result was a sickening scrape and a crunch, leaving an egregious dent in the car's front driver-side panel and bumper. 

It has to be replaced, of course, and I have an appointment at the body shop on Tuesday. But even if my transgression is understandable? I still feel like a total dumbass. And the deductible on my insurance comes out to just about what I earned that day.

Outer Limits

I totally get why we give students all the time they need on many high-stakes tests. It only seems fair and right to let people have the time they need to demonstrate proficiency, if not excellence, especially in a learning environment. 

But in my decades of teaching, I have also witnessed the abuse of such flexibility, especially kids using their unlimited time to miss classes or other non-preferred activities. Recently I have also seen how having all the time you need can actually feed the anxiety we are trying to allay. "What if this is the one question that means I'm either above or below grade level?" a student asked me when I checked win with him after literally hours of testing.

And today? We had six kids who had to stay an hour after the final bell had rung to complete their state assessment. Mind you, they had started at 8 am, worked through lunch (they ate as they tested), and did not tap submit on their 55 questions until 7+ hours later. At one point, a student waved me over. He was in tears, fretting about finishing the test, which, although untimed, must be completed in a single school day unless you have specific accommodations that allow otherwise.

"I know I get one and a half times on tests," he said, and although he was right? One and a half times of unlimited is still unlimited (but completed in a day). 

And yet, once he came to terms with an actual wall, he locked in and worked a little faster. He also passed advanced.

Years ago, a colleague told me about a study in which they placed one group of toddlers in the middle of a huge field and another group in the same field, but with a fence they could see. Those in the open stayed close to their starting spot, and did not explore, but those with the enclosure went right up to the edge. Presumably, the enormous expanse was overwhelming and threatening, but the boundary was reassuring.

I don't know if it's a real study or not, but it is certainly a parable that I have never forgotten.

The Same Page

"You should print that portrait," my testing colleague suggested.

"Why?" I asked. 

"It will take up fewer pages and look better," she shrugged.

"But it won't fit," I said, tilting my head at the spreadsheet on the screen.

"It will," she insisted.

"If I hide these columns," I agreed.

"Oh, yeah," she nodded, "do that."

"Now it really does look better in portrait!" I told her.

"Y'all are crazy about the details," said another teacher who was in the office listening to our conversation. 

We laughed in acknowledgment.

"But since it's working?" she added. "Keep doing that!"

Packing Wisely

"How's it going, packing up your room?" I asked my sister-in-law this morning. After 15+ years of teaching art, she is retiring at the end of the year.

"Pretty good," she said. "I've thrown away a lot of stuff. I bought 5 Banker boxes, and I've already filled one and taken it home."

"That's good," I agreed, "but 5 boxes isn't very much."

"I don't want very much," she laughed. 

Requirements of the Job

I was tired after traveling this weekend, but Heidi had a fitful night and neither of us slept very well. No worries, though. I got up at the usual time, but made the decision to go into school a little later than I planned. I had some time to relax and recharge before heading off, and what do you know? All the work was still there when I arrived.

After three decades of classroom teaching, the luxury of a flexible schedule is unfamiliar to me, but I like it! There are still people to see, places to be, tasks to complete, and objectives to meet, but the hours are so much more forgiving.

Who knows? If I'd had one, I probably could have lasted a while longer in the workforce. But then, I wouldn't have been a teacher, would I?

Ballsy

There was a 20-minute wait when we entered the TSA security line at the Atlanta airport this afternoon. At first, we moved quickly, speedwalking with our fellow travelers back and forth past the stanchions marking the parallel lanes, but soon we caught up with the real line. As we moved forward one or two steps at a time, our attention was drawn to a young man behind us, but moving quickly forward. 

"Excuse me," he said firmly, but courteously, to passenger after passenger, without explanation. Everyone stepped aside to let him pass, and some people even apologized for being in his way. When he got to us, we did the same, and he was long gone by the time anyone thought to question him. 

Because of the chute formation of the line, we watched incredulously as he excused himself all the way to the front of the line, without ever being challenged. 

"So, all you have to do is be polite to cut?" Heidi asked with irritation.

"Maybe he has permission? Like, he lost something, and the agents told him he could just come straight back?" I theorized. "He seems so confident."  But the longer we looked on, the less likely that seemed.

With one person ahead of him, he finally stopped and waited for his turn. Then he headed off through security, less than ten minutes before he got in line.

Refreshing By Any Name

 “Do you want some water ice?” a roll poly little fellow sang out this afternoon on the Beltline. He was following a young woman, perhaps his mother, who was pulling a heavy duty wagon loaded with some coolers and cups. 

“Are you talking to us?” I asked as he passed, gesturing with raised eyebrows at me and Heidi. “Are you asking if we want some ice water?”

“You could call it ice water,” he sighed patiently, “but it’s really water ice. Want some?”

I laughed and his partner did, too. “Let’s go,” she told him, shaking her head. And away they rolled. 

Buh-Bye

“Bye, Beautiful,” the flight attendant said to Heidi as we disembarked in Atlanta. “Bye, Precious,” she said to me. “Bye, Gorgeous,” she continued as we passed.

“Did she just call you Gorgeous?” Heidi asked.

“No,” I answered. “I’m Precious. Gorgeous is behind us.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “And you’re Beautiful.”

“Aww,” said Heidi. “Well you’re gorgeous to me.”

“What about precious?” I asked.

“That, too,” she allowed. “That, too.”

A Deal's a Deal

"Do you want to hear a really funny joke?" a student asked today as I handed out test tickets for the makeup reading SOL.

"Not right now," I answered. "We're busy," I added, gesturing to the tickets.

"It's very funny, and it's short," they assured me.

"What if I don't think it's funny?" I said.

"You will," they assured me, "or else I'll be quiet."

"Maybe later," I told them.

"What do you call a lesbian dinosaur?" they started.

"See?" I interrupted, "I already don't think that's funny."

"Lickalotap--" they started.

"That's a no!" I said sharply.

"How about another joke?" they asked. 

"Nope," I shook my head. "That was your one chance. Now you have to take your test."

"Fine," they sighed, and they did.

Stumbling Stones

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed something new on my regular walk with Lucy. Two small brass discs were embedded in the sidewalk of a corner right up the hill from our home. It's a place that we pass all the time, so the new additions were notable, and I stepped over to them curiously. 

"Milly," the first one read. "Once enslaved here. Born before 1770."

"Henry," said the second one. "Once enslaved here. Born ca 1775."

As heartbreaking as it was, it was hardly surprising to be reminded that people were enslaved here; it is Virginia, after all. But when I got home, a little further research revealed that the plantation where Milly, Henry, and several other enslaved people were held captive actually extended to the property that our house is on. 

Discovering that my home was built on the site of such barbarism was gutwrenching. As I continued my research, I found that the commemorative plaques were called stumbling stones, inspired by the German, stolpersteine, which are meant to give passersby the chance to stumble upon local history. 

Personally, I think the name is doubly effective because it also highlights one of our nation's greatest moral stumbles. But maybe stumble is too kind of a word; failure is a much better fit.

I Do Got This

On the first day of testing, I was suffering a crisis of confidence when the experienced coordinator disappeared, off to troubleshoot problems in individual classrooms. I was unsure how the testing platform worked and a little afraid of messing anything up. 

"Here's a help request for you," one of my colleagues in the command center said. "Two students can't log in to their tests in room 87."

"What if I don't know what to do?" I said.

"You literally helped hundreds of students start their tests when you were a teacher," she scoffed. "You can do it."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I laughed as I headed out. 

She was right, of course. I was able to get both kids into the test right away. And when I returned to the command center, I figured out how to restart tests on the clunky platform, too.

"A teacher needs help with a student's behavior in 278," she said a little while later. "Wanna go?"

"I don't know that kid," I said.

"I don't either," she replied, "but you taught here for over thirty years; I'm pretty sure you can resolve a sixth-grade behavior issue."

I laughed again. "I'm going to express doubt whenever a problem comes up," I told her. "Just so I can hear you tell me how competent I am!"

Can't Say No to the Boss

The bins were packed, and almost everything was ready for testing tomorrow, when a knock came at the door. Stopping my work on the sign-in sheet, I called, "Come in!" and was surprised to see the principal standing at the door with a small cardboard box. 

"Are those the bins?" she asked, gesturing at the organized stacks of materials against the wall with a note of surprise in her voice.

"Yep!" I assured her. Considering the test was less than 24 hours away, I expected her to be pleased, but she seemed a bit disappointed.

"I have these bookmarks," she held out the box. "One for every student."

"Uhhhh," I hedged, raising my eyebrows. "Can we give them to teachers when they pick up their bins in the morning?"

"They're in stacks of 25," she sighed. "It might take too long to count them then." She looked again at the 70 bins, bags, and baskets of test tickets, examiner manuals, and dictionaries, already packed and in alphabetical order. "I can put them in," she offered.

"I'll help," I said, and showed her the list of examiners and the number of students in each group. Then I opened each bin, placed the bookmarks she counted out and gave me inside, reverse-stacked them, and then restacked them when we finished each group. Only one basket of dictionaries tumbled out, and we were finished in about 20 minutes.

"I have something for each testing day," she told me, and I made a mental note to pick whatever it was up before we packed the bins next time!

SOL Week Eve

I dreamed about testing last night. Somebody somewhere needed to take a test, and I could not get there to give it.

It was not a nightmare.

A Good Night's Sleep

The handyman was arriving bright and early this morning, so in order to let Heidi sleep in a bit, I thought it would be a good idea to take Lucy out right before he got here. That way, she could take care of her morning business and greet him without barking up a storm.

That was the plan anyway, except that Lucy refused to get up. She snuggled in closer to Heidi every time I whispered my invitation for her to go out. Short of dragging her off the bed, which would have woken Heidi up and defeated my purpose, I could not get that dog up. When Heidi began to stir, I sighed and left the room, closing the door behind me.

I needn't have worried, though. I saw the truck through my kitchen window and opened the front door, so there was no knocking or ringing; hence, there was no barking, either. A couple of hours later, Heidi and Lucy tromped down the stairs, both looking quite refreshed.

Discretionary

"Are you going to be at school tomorrow?" a friend asked me at dinner last night.

"Nope," I said. "We only work as needed."

"Who decides what's needed?" her sister asked.

"We do!" I laughed. "As long as the testing gets done." 

"Sounds like a pretty sweet setup," my friend noted.

I could not disagree. And when I heard there was a lockdown at school today, I was doubly glad I'd missed it.

Animal Testing

Then there was the mouse. 

Four kids sat taking a standardized test in a tiny basement room of the school. It was the final makeup opportunity of the testing window, and I was initially just glad they had even shown up, unlike the seven other kids on my list. 

Each of them had a different story. One was chronically absent and just happened to be there today. One had been out sick for a week. One was completely test-avoidant and tried to miss any scheduled testing day. And the last was super anxious about doing well, and consequently spent way too much time on each question.

So there we were, about to enter the second hour of testing, and no one was even halfway through. That's when the test-avoidant guy jumped out of his seat. "There's a mouse!" he pointed, dancing a little jig.

There was indeed a tiny mouse scurrying along the baseboard at the far side of the room. "It's just that we've been so quiet, he probably thought the room was empty, and it was safe to come out," I told them. "Now he knows otherwise," I shrugged, "and he probably won't bother us."

"How can you be so calm?" the chronically absent student asked incredulously.

I was about to answer when I noticed that the student who had been out sick had her test suspended because she had been guessing too quickly. "Is it because of the mouse?" I laughed.

"Ya!" she shuddered.

I resumed her test, and although it wasn't suspended again, she was flagged for rapid guessing. "I need a pass back to class," she gasped the moment she submitted it.

Chronic absentee guy was right behind her, but the other two? Put their feet up on their chairs and settled in, one pondering deeply over each question, the other staring off into space, intentionally wasting time.

My attention wandered around the room, over the cinder block walls and scuffed tile floors, and I sighed, wishing that mouse would come back.

Gracklin Rose

We went over to some friends' house to let their old dog out, because they were stuck at work. Their backyard is small, but today, as I stood in the kitchen overlooking it, a wildlife drama was unfolding. 

A fledgling bird sat peeping plaintively in the middle of the grass while 3 pairs of grackles swooped around. At first, it was unclear if they meant to harm or help it, but then one of the iridescent purple and black males deposited some sort of juicy worm right into its gullet. 

I was still suspicious of the others, especially when the daddy grackle had to puff up all his feathers a few times, but in the end, it seemed like a cooperative effort. A little research revealed that fledgling grackles are ground-bound for 3-5 days. They are obviously very vulnerable, but their parents stay nearby to feed and protect them. 

Just as I saw today.

My Writing Assignment

My niece is graduating from high school, and it is a tradition at her school for friends and family to send notes of encouragement. On graduation day, each senior receives an envelope of letters. 

It's a nice tradition, but a lot of pressure! I have been stewing about the assignment ever since my sister forwarded the email a week ago. Over that time, I have been drafting and redrafting my ideas, looking for a thread to pull them together. Fortunately, inspiration struck last night as Heidi and I ran an errand at the dinner hour. "Look at the road," I said. "It's so clear!" 

Dear Annabelle,  

It’s hard to believe that you are graduating from high school! It doesn’t seem that long ago that you were a little girl sitting on the couch in the family room and strumming the ukulele in a princess dress, singing a song about all the people you love. I know that when someone is the youngest in a family, like you are in ours, the rest of the family may hold on to their idea of the child and overlook the adult you have become. 

But, in our defense, you were not just any old cute kid. There were several things that you said as you grew and explored the world that have become part of the shorthand language that Heidi and I use all the time. For example, when we told you how great your ukulele playing was, you explained, “I’m a bit of an expert at this.” And you were right! Your confidence and creativity were shining in that performance, and Heidi and I say that to each other often when we try something new, to show that we’re not embarrassed to be novices, especially when it’s fun! 

Another one of our Annabellisms started on one of our road trips back from DC to Atlanta. Somewhere in South Carolina, the traffic got so bad that after crawling along for what seemed like an hour, I just took the next exit and headed south on some back roads. As we picked up a little speed and cruised along past peach orchards and corn fields, you could barely contain your relief and excitement. “It’s so clear!” you said from the backseat, so perfectly capturing my feelings in the moment, that we rolled down the windows and let the warm summer air blow through the car. 

One more of our catchphrases was also from the time we spent with you in the summer. After a day spent at the pool, or hiking, or on a pirate ship, or shopping, or bowling, or mini-golfing, or at the aquarium, we would all try to figure out what the perfect dinner to cap off the day would be. “How about hamburgers?” I might ask. “Or fried chicken? Or tacos?” 

No matter if you liked the menu or not, you always had one question: What will Aunt Heidi have?” And we still ask ourselves that question all the time, not just for Heidi, but for anyone we care enough about to prepare a meal to share. It’s simply the considerate thing to do. 

Finally, whenever we see someone a little sketchy or suss, one of us will undoubtedly turn to the other and say, “Who dat guy, NiNi?” just like you did whenever you were watching The Lion King, and Scar made his first appearance. You knew who he was, but you wanted to confirm that you were right to be wary. That’s smart. 

So, forgive us when we think of the little girl you were and not the accomplished high school graduate you have become, but she was very wise, that little you. I don’t have any advice for you other than the advice you have given us over the last 18 years:

Try something new– you might be a natural. 
If the road is too crowded? Take another way and enjoy the ride.
Always think of others. 
Listen to your gut. 

 But you know that already! 

 I love you,
 Aunt Tracey

Trading Places

"I wish I could stay home with Lucy all day!" Heidi said for the umpteenth time.

"I can't stay home another day while the handyman works on the kitchen!" I said.

"It would be so great," Heidi continued.

"It's soooo boring," I sighed.

We locked eyes.

"Should I?" she asked.

"Could you?" I replied.

She could, and she will! Yay-- I can go to work tomorrow!

The Ides of May

I did not want to go.

But the deadline in our community garden to clean out your plot and plant something is May 15, and ours has been untouched since last fall. It's been a busy spring, and the calendar promises to stay full, so today was a window of opportunity I could not ignore. The only hitch was that the contractor bags I bought for the chore are in the back of my car, which is in the shop. We had four on hand, though, and I took those, knowing that when they were full it would be my cue to head home.

The minute I stepped out into the sunshine in my garden togs, tie-dye shirt, faded hat, and dirty sneakers, my attitude flipped 180 degrees. The day was glorious: sunny and cool, perfect for outdoor labor. Once up at the garden, I found the soil dry and the weeds quite yielding. My bags were full in a couple of hours, and I might have stayed longer if I could. My glutes will thank me for the moderation, though; they are already a little sore from bending and squatting.

I think I can steal some time a few afternoons this week to finish the clearing, and maybe even repair and top off the soil in some of the raised beds. I already have four tomatoes and a pepper to be planted, too, so take that, May 15!

Temporary Inconvenience

We have a handyman coming on Monday to replace the original fluorescent fixtures in the kitchen with recessed lights.  The job will require drywalling and painting the ceiling, so in preparation, we've packed the counters and pot racks. It's a lot of stuff! But, considering the cabinets and drawers are still full? I made bread and biscuits earlier in the day, and cooked dinner tonight. 

It was a little like fending in a sparsely provisioned rental kitchen. I think we'll make it until the job is done on Wednesday.

Back to the Grind

I remember this.

I didn't have to go to school today for my temporary job, so I...

• got my stitches out
• joined a call with another coach
• took the car to have that rattle looked at
• went grocery shopping
• bought packing boxes for the kitchen light project that starts Monday
• walked the dog
• had acupuncture

ALL that productivity crammed into a single day? Makes full retirement look pretty good.

Empty Pockets

"Do you have a poem in your pocket?" my friend Kerry asked me last Thursday. We were in the middle of administering a schoolwide math assessment, but there was a temporary lull in the action. 

"No," I shook my head, confused. 

"I have mine!" she waved a copy of Byron's famous poem, "She Walks in Beauty."

"But isn't it next Thursday?" I said.

Her face fell. "What? No way! I was thinking I finally got one over on you!" she sputtered as she searched the date for this year. "Dang it! You're right again!"

"I just happened to look it up yesterday," I laughed apologetically, "because I've been doing the poetry challenge in the Times."

She shook her head in mock disappointment.

"Next week!" I said cheerfully as we returned to our task.

"Do you have your poem in your pocket?" my friend Mary asked today.

"No!" I answered, aggravated with myself. "I totally forgot!" I sighed. "I guess I'd better fess up to Kerry!"

Old Habits

As I left school this afternoon, the late buses were gone, and my steps echoed in the empty stairwell down to the garage, where my good ol' Subaru was the last car left. I was weary, my eyes were bleary from looking at screens all day, and the job was not done.

What a familiar feeling!

At least I'll be off on Friday.

Nowhere to Hide

"What is it like being part of the brain?" a teacher asked me today as he was returning his testing supplies. "You're like a neuron or something now," he laughed, referring to my temporary position as co-testing coordinator.

"It is definitely a different perspective on the whole testing situation," I agreed. Then, gesturing around me, added, "We actually call this the command center."

He looked at the cinderblock walls of the basement office we were working from. "It definitely has a bunker vibe," he noted. "You'll be safe from any testing attacks down here."

I thought about the glitches and outages we had already faced, with the state assessments yet to come. "I wouldn't count on that," I sighed.

Use What You Have

"What happened to your arm?" a student asked me with a salty chin nod as I escorted him to the bathroom this morning. He'd been acting up in the makeup test session, so he required extra supervision.

"You mean this?" I pointed to the big bandage covering my forearm. "I had a thing there, and it needed to come out."

His eyes widened. "Yeah," I confirmed. "They cut a three-inch slice into my arm, and then they had to grab it with pliers and pull on it really hard to get it out. I have like ten stitches in there now, so it needs to stay covered."

His eyebrows were raised to his hairline. "Did it hurt?" he asked.

"No," I answered. "But only because they gave me four big shots of numbing. Even then, I could feel them digging around and yanking on it because it was so hard to get out." 

He looked a little pale.

"I know, right?" I said, nodding. "Hey, thanks for asking."

He didn't give us any more trouble after that.

Too Much Zen Ain't Zen at All

Twenty-seven years ago, when we moved into our current home, my sister-in-law gifted us a gold Godiva tin filled with hardware. "It will get you started on whatever you want to hang," she said. She was right, and that tin has become a catchall for miscellaneous screws and nails and other odd stuff ever since, stuffed so full that its shiny, round lid can barely contain its contents.

When I was on my tool-drawer organization kick yesterday, I ordered a box that held other little boxes, thinking that at last, I might get to the bottom of that tin, both literally and figuratively. And I was excited when it arrived today, immediately beginning a zen-like task of sorting three decades of tiny metal things into like piles. 

It was very satisfying and restful until it wasn't. I looked up an hour or two into the chore and realized my back was tight and my head ached from squinting. The dining room table was still strewn with hooks and anchors and nuts and washers and wires and allen wrench keys, so many allen wrench keys, but I was fried. There would be no more organizing today.

I was tempted to question the task itself, chastise myself for spending precious hours on such a trivial pursuit, but I restrained myself. I knew I was just overtired. I cleaned up, confident that another day soon I will return to this chaos and set it to order.

Tackling the Tiny To-dos

Today was one of those days when we actually tackled a bunch of the little things on our to-do list. The toilet hasn't been filling properly, so I replaced the fill-valve assembly. The switch on the lamp wasn't clicking, so I replaced the socket. I found the new hardware for the bathroom cabinets in the tool drawer and replaced those, too. Then I ordered some organizers to sort out the tool drawer itself; they'll be here tomorrow. 

Now that the danger of frost is officially over, I potted a couple of the dahlia tubers we purchased a month or so ago. Heidi cleaned out her shoe bin and swapped the broken one for the new one I found at the thrift store. She also went through her closet and found several items for the donation pile.

Does the house actually look any better? Not really. But we have a sense of accomplishment nevertheless, and such satisfaction may even fuel us into another productive day tomorrow.

The Farm Down the Hill

Back in January, a friend mentioned a new farm in our area. "Apparently, it's all hydroponic and artificial light," she said, "and it's located in one of the warehouses by the dog park. They have a weekly CSA."

I was stunned! Surprised by the proximity and the set-up, but also by the fact that I had no idea it was there. And even though I still had several weeks left on my traditional winter CSA, I signed up for a four-week trial right away. 

Again, I was blown away. First, they delivered my veggies right to my door, and second, everything in the bag was amazing-- fresh and delicious. They had found a fan. Soon, I was in for the ten-week, auto-renewing plan. The flexibility to skip a delivery at any time made the move a no-brainer, and their partnership with other local producers to include honey, lentils, and other pantry items to complement their fresh vegetables was a nice bonus.

The farm also did lots of community outreach, sponsoring tours and field trips to its facility. There was also an opportunity to order heirloom seedlings for my own garden, an offer I took advantage of. Today was the day when I went to pick up my tomatoes and peppers, and to be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect when I pushed my way through the industrial door. At 8 am, a few employees also arrived with me, and they welcomed me into the cavernous space, filled with towering metal racks holding all sorts of plants and a honeycombed ceiling of LED light tubes.

The person coordinating my order was not there yet, but another farmer offered to show me around while we waited. He explained the complex system that moved the plants through light and dark on a 24-hour cycle while also weighing them at certain points and irrigating as necessary. He showed me the seed-starting tables, the harvest and packing area, and then led me to another shelf with a collection of plants. "Wanna try some of the crops we're not quite ready to distribute?" he asked.

Just as I finished my oyster leaf and cleansed my palette with some wasabi arugula, a woman approached with my seedlings. "Thank you so much for your support!" she said.

"And thank you for your hospitality!" I laughed. "I love this place!"

Too Big to Fail

It was an actual crisis. 

More than a thousand students were in 80+ testing groups with hundreds of accommodations and special circumstances following a special schedule, but no one could access the online test. Several staff members were at the ready, monitoring a help request spreadsheet, while my ever-capable temporary testing coordinator partner was simultaneously on a video call with central office and a conference call with the test purveyor's support line. 

After more than 30 minutes into the testing session, no one could find a solution. Out in the hallway, some of the grade-level monitors and I brainstormed troubleshooting strategies and joked around with a bit of gallows humor. "I just want to point out that everybody is in a group with an examiner and all their materials," I said with wide eyes. "That was my job!"

Just as technical support announced that there was no way we could fix the problem until tomorrow, which was useless, since it would be nearly impossible to reset all the moving pieces in less than twenty-four hours, a couple of our own teachers suggested a workaround. Five minutes later, the fix was in place, and our testing session began.

Until today, I'd only seen high-stakes, standardized testing from inside the classroom, and I thought that was ridiculously complicated enough. But watching my colleagues pull together to solve an enormous problem and then troubleshoot the three-hour session, providing equipment, online support, and behavior intervention, I was witness to another category of complexity altogether.

Good Riddance

"You did great!" the dermatologist's assistant told me as I was getting ready to leave the procedure room, where they had cut a two-inch incision and yanked a marble-sized cyst out of my right arm. "Do you want to see it before you go?"

"No!" I said. "Well, maybe."

She held up a specimen cup with a gory little orb floating in saline. "You two have been together a long time," she noted wryly as she turned to place it back on the tray.

"That's true," I agreed. It had been at least 15 years. "Bye now! Take care of yourself!" I waved.

"You, too," she said cheerfully.

"Oh," I laughed. "I was talking to the cyst! I'll see you in ten days when I get my stitches out."

In Pursuit of a One Track Mind

I often advise myself to focus on one thing at a time as much as I can, particularly as I get older. I've discovered that when my mind is two steps ahead of my body, I am much more accident-prone. Whether it's knocking over a full pot of coffee, bumping my head on the freezer door, or tripping up the steps, when these little calamities strike, I know it's because I wasn't paying attention.

Strangely, it rarely happened at school, maybe because teaching was my jam and I was often in a flow state there. Before I retired, though, I often found myself distracted outside of work, and so I made an effort to be as mindful as I could. Then, once my days became less scheduled, it was easier to stay present most of the time.

But right now, I have two part-time jobs with kind of steep learning curves, and even just juggling the hours has become a little stressful. It's also a busy time of year-- in addition to birthday and graduation celebrations, I also need to get my garden cleaned up and planted, and we have some home maintenance projects on the calendar, as well.

Today is a good example of what I mean. This morning, I spent time writing up observation notes from my coaching job, updating details for the standardized test we're administering on Thursday, and making bread. This afternoon, I had to vote in the special election, fill the car with gas, and have a cyst on my arm removed at the dermatologist. 

I was thinking of those last two commitments as I checked in and filled out my ballot at the polls. When I stopped at the gas station on my way to the doctor, I realized I didn't have the magnetic wallet that attaches to my phone. I knew I had it when I voted, and I felt certain I had it when I went to the car. I thought I remembered clipping it to the back of my phone as I waited for Heidi to complete her ballot, so I really hoped I hadn't dropped it in the parking lot or on the sidewalk.

I was feeling extremely aggravated with myself when my phone rang. It was John Smith (yes, really) from the polling place calling to let me know I had left my wallet behind in the voting booth. There was just enough time to swing by and retrieve it before heading off to have my arm dissected, cyst resected, and incision sutured, but I tried not to focus on that!

The Profiler

As I pulled into our parking lot this morning, the sun glinted off something on the edge of the driving lane. Squinting, I could make out a pair of abandoned sunglasses, and I jogged back to retrieve them after parking. Judging by their undamaged condition, I figured they hadn't been there very long, but our lot was nearly empty, so they might have belonged to any number of residents. When I examined them more closely, though, I saw that they were gold Gucci aviators, and that, plus their general location, led me to believe they belonged to our neighbor across the way. I knew that she could be a little scattered at times, especially in the morning, so it wasn't unlikely that she had dropped them on her way to the car.

I placed them on the wall of her patio and promptly forgot all about my detective work until I happened to see her pull in this afternoon. From the window, I could see she was not wearing sunglasses, which, in my mind, strengthened my case. I opened my front door as she was passing. "Are those your sunglasses?" I sang out.

She looked confused. "I don't think so."

"Really?" I was disappointed. "Gucci? Gold? Aviators?" I shook my head. "I was so sure! You're really the only one in the neighborhood who could rock that!"

She laughed and gave me an impulsive hug, tickled by the praise. Then she looked at the shades. "They are mine!" she exclaimed. "I didn't even know they were missing."

Case closed.

Sunday DInner and HBD Bill

To accommodate everyone's schedule, we finally celebrated Bill's birthday tonight, at the tail end of his birthday week. Sunday is not our usual evening to gather, so as I was planning the menu, I tried to play on a Sunday dinner from our childhood, with some elevated elements. 

My dad loved chicken with white gravy, a kind of cross between stew and fricassee, with pieces of bone-in chicken and chunks of celery and carrots. My mom served it with biscuits, peas, and mashed potatoes, a recipe she got from his sister. It is a comforting dish, but it lends itself to a lighter version, particularly if you use spring vegetables. 

I made a version tonight with a sous vide chicken thigh roulade stuffed with herbs and pea shoots. Then I blanched haricot vert, baby carrots, tiny turnips, and baby leeks, and served it all with Yukon gold potato puree and white gravy, and of course, biscuits.

The dish was light but filling, so for dessert I made pumpkin pie tassies and mini cream puffs with custard and chocolate glaze. Just one bite each, if you could stop at one! 

I was pleased with the way the meal turned out but even happier to have the chance to cook for and celebrate my brother. I do love that guy!

Imagine That

 "Are you watching the second season of The Pitt?" a friend asked us a few weeks ago.

"Not yet," I told him. "We're waiting for the whole thing to drop, so we can binge it."

His eyes widened. "You mean you're going to watch it all in one day?" he said. "I guess it will be like you're working the shift with them." He shook his head.

"That's not exactly what we had planned," I laughed. "But, wouldn't that be something!"

Lost Art

"Hey there, John!" I hailed the tech guy as he wheeled the laptop cart into my temporary office. The other substitute testing coordinator and I had been hard at work organizing the lists and materials for the district assessment next week.

"Sorry, this is late," he apologized, "but I just got out of a two-hour meeting where they told us that all middle school kids are probably going to get a laptop instead of a tablet next year."

We all groaned. "This is their plan for managing screen time?" I shook my head.

What followed was a 20-minute commiseration about the downsides of technology for young learners. I shared my theory that many kids actually resent having to use a device they consider recreational to do work. "Technology is not as engaging as it used to be, because it's so ubiquitous," I shrugged.

John nodded. "In the summer, I go to the high schools to help distribute laptops to the rising freshmen," he told us. "I bring copies of directions with me so the kids can set them up once they're issued. It's like three steps." He sighed. "You would not believe the number of students who tell me that they can't read on paper!"

Slow on the Download

"I don't have the desktop version of Excel," I informed my colleague. "This is my personal computer, so..." I trailed off. "I couldn't actually figure out how to do it," I confessed.

We spent the next 30 minutes or so looking for workarounds to the complicated directions we had been left for printing testing rosters from an enormous spreadsheet. I booted up the loaner laptop that the school's Instructional Technology Coordinator had provided, but personalizing its settings and familiarizing myself with another brand was also very time-consuming. 

Finally, through a combination of converting, sharing, saving, and YouTube research, we completed the task and printed the 80 testing rosters they would need to prepare the bins starting tomorrow.

"Everything takes longer than you think it will in this job," my colleague sighed. "Thank goodness there are two of us!"

"No kidding," I agreed and thanked her heartily for all her guidance and help.

It wasn't until I got home that it occurred to me to just download Excel from the App Store. The days when you had to buy installation discs are long gone, and nowadays you just pay for a subscription to use the software you download for free. 

And, DUH! I already have a subscription through school!