Differing Priorities

As we drove north on the Parkway, we could see the glint of the gilded statues across the bridge (🏷️ $5.1 million) leading the way to the Lincoln Memorial and the botched reflecting pool restoration (🏷️ $16 million, so far). We knew street closures and other security and route preparations were underway (🏷️ $125 million) for the IndyCar road race on Sunday, so we stayed on our side of the river. 

Arriving at Great Falls National Park, I was appalled to see that entrance fees had risen to $20 per car, and I was glad I had a lifetime pass. Once we parked and unloaded Lucy, we strolled south from the parking lot toward the visitor center, overlooks, and trails. The disrepair we encountered along the way was notable. In the ladies' room, several sinks were broken, stalls were marked out of order, and many of the split rails marking the trail boundaries were broken or missing. All of the water fountains had notices informing patrons that the water was untested and not safe to drink. There were also many unemptied waste baskets and broken picnic tables. I sighed and hoped conditions would be better once we were on the trail, but along the way we found boardwalks, bridges, and stairs with rotting and missing boards, not to mention faded and missing trail blazes.

The operating budget for the park is roughly 3-5 million dollars a year, which is generally covered by the visitor fee revenues. However, in the last two years, much of that revenue has been diverted for other "beautification" projects in and around Washington, D.C. Added to that are the 25% cuts all national parks have faced during the same period.

That? Is a travesty.

Errand Day

Stop 1: The Post Office

"Drop this in there," I told Heidi, handing her the prepaid box and gesturing to the big silver door on the package bin. 

"Just put it in?" she asked. "Then what?"

"Close it," I advised. "It will drop when you do." She was skeptical, and I laughed when she opened it back up and peeked in to be sure, because I do that every single time.

Stop 2: The Pet Store

"We'll take one of these, too," I said, handing a reusable bag to the cashier.

"There's no tag," she noted, and so I compliantly found another bag that had one.

"Just ring this one, and give us the one without the tag," I suggested helpfully. "That way you can avoid this situation next time."

She nodded and pulled the trigger of her scanning gun. Nothing happened. She tapped the monitor on her register a few times, but without success. Next, she called to a coworker, but he couldn't do it either and went to fetch the manager.

"They're free!" he called from the door of his office.

"Great!" I laughed. "We'll take ten."

Stop 3: The Off-Price Department Store

"I'm hungry," I said to Heidi as we waited in line. "These look good," I continued, grabbing a bag of "probiotic chocolates" from the displays that lined our way to the register. 

Flipping over the bag, I read the origin story out loud. I love chocolate, it started. I love my gut, it continued. So I followed my gut and made a bite that loves both.

"Sold!" my hunger replied, and I tossed them in the cart.

Stop 4: The Grocery Store

"I need to run to the ladies' room," I told Heidi as we wheeled our cart in, and I peeled off through the cafe seating. 

On my way to the facilities, I passed several people on laptops, four tables of families eating lunch, an eight-top of women laughing and chatting in Vietnamese, three ladies playing Mahjong, and a couple of guys a few years older than me playing Risk.

All that and groceries, too!

Last stop: Home

I'm going to miss running errands with Heidi when she goes back to work!

Live Demonstration

I looked up at the light tapping on my kitchen window. "Sorry," a young man mouthed, then crooked his finger at me to come to the door.

Noting the plumbing company logo on his hat, I nodded, then wiped my hands and went to see what he wanted. I assumed they were there to fix the common spigot in the courtyard, which had sprayed everywhere when Heidi and I tried to use it to hose off our floor mats.

"It seems to be working," he said, showing me the fixture. He turned the hose on, and his partner picked it up and gestured to the water flowing freely through it. "If this black ring is up, though," he pointed to a fixture on the spigot, "it might leak."

"The problem is that if there is a nozzle or any other pressure on the hose, the ring slips and it sprays everywhere," I told him.

"Like this?" His partner bent the hose to create some pressure on the line, and the black ring flipped up, spraying water all over me.

Both plumbers looked at me wide-eyed.

"I'm so sorry--" the guy with the hose started, but stopped when he saw me laughing.

"It's fine," I said, shaking off the water. "Refreshing! And even better? You can see the problem for yourself!"

Open and Closed

"If it's an open casket, I'm not going up," Mimi told us as we got in the car for the drive out to the funeral home in Manassas for French's memorial gathering. She shook her head. “The last body I saw was my mother's after she passed, and I told myself that was enough for one lifetime."

We completely understood, and as we drove, I thought about how old-fashioned such a practice seems these days. Obviously, I respect any grieving family's choice in deciding how best to honor their loss, and I understand that people find closure and comfort in the tradition of seeing their loved one at rest. 

I don't find the practice shocking or morbid, but it does make me uncomfortable and, of course, sad to view the dead, and that was so today as well. 

"He looks pretty good," I told Mimi after Heidi and I had returned to our seats, which was true, based on my limited experience. 

"I'm glad," she said, "but I don't want to see."

I admired her self-awareness, and she does have a good point. 

Quick Turn Around

We went into Heidi's classroom today to replace the furniture after the summer deep clean and floor waxing. With help from her colleague Maggie, the three of us made quick work of the job, even with extra time for Heidi and Maggie to tweak the layout and order a few new items. 

The office staff seemed happy to have the extra company to break up the quiet of summer in a school, and they were chatty both when we arrived and when we left. "See you in a week!" they said cheerfully as we headed out into the mid-August afternoon. 

A week! I thought and shook my head. This year, school starts as late as it possibly can, given that Labor Day is September 7. But really? 

Where has the summer gone?

Fourth Time's the Charm

"You're the fourth guy who's tried to do the job," I told the deliveryman this morning. "I hope you can do it!"

"Four? Why?" he scoffed.

"No stacking kit, wrong stacking kit, short hoses," I sighed. "But I've got everything now." I gestured to the stacking kits and hoses piled neatly in the corner.

"How did he know he needed longer hoses if he never even pulled the machines out?" he asked.

"I don't know." I shrugged. "Maybe he just didn't want to carry them up the stairs."

"This is no problem," the guy assured me. 

And he was right! In less than 30 minutes, he and his partner had everything installed and running. "I hope you have the receipts for those," he pointed to the hoses and extra stacking kit.

"Oh, I do," I told him. "I sure do."

Broken Delivery Chain

We had the stacking kit ready to go when the delivery crew pulled up with our washer and dryer. As before, they sent an emissary to make first contact and scope out the job. To be honest, I didn't detect any change in his demeanor as we headed up the steps, but when we hit the landing and he eyed the installation space, he started talking fast. The upshot? They couldn't possibly install the appliances unless by some chance, we had longer hoses for the washer. 

He helpfully pulled out his phone and showed me the part. "It's standard," he reported. "You can get it anywhere." 

I proposed running to the nearest hardware store while they pulled the existing washer and dryer to haul away. "I can be right back."

"We can't wait," he told me. 

"Where are the rest of your jobs for the day?" I asked. "Can you come back?" 

He promised to speak to his dispatcher. "Not gonna lie," he shook his head sadly. "Prolly won't be possible."

And before the truck had pulled away, the job was marked "missed delivery." 

Even so, I went and got the hoses, hoping against hope that we would be able to do some laundry today, and then I called the company we had ordered from and firmly requested that they contact the "delivery partner" and direct them to add us to the end of the route. The agent put me on hold, and a few minutes later came back and reported my request was impossible. "Then cancel my order," I told him.

While I'd been waiting, I'd found the washer dryer ready to be purchased, delivered, and installed tomorrow from another purveyor. I have the hoses and the stacking kit, and the delivery window is 8 am to noon. 

"I don't believe it," Heidi said, and off she went to a neighbor's to wash a couple of loads of laundry.

Milkweed Munchers

At first, I thought it was a big pollen bloom. The vining milkweed, which really is a weed in our garden, the volunteer swamp milkweed, and the common milkweed were all covered in a coarse, bright yellow dust. But as I cleared the fence line, I became curious about the nature of this incursion, and so I did a photo search. 

It wasn't until I got the results that I pinched open the picture to magnify the canary-hued grains. 

They were bugs! Oleander aphids, to be exact, an invasive species from the Mediterranean that targets milkweed. The article I found assured me they probably wouldn't harm the milkweed, or any Monarch eggs or larvae sharing the plant with them, but they do compete for the same food source, absorbing toxins from the plant to make themselves taste gross to predators. That's why they are so brightly colored; it's a warning. Also, there are no male oleander aphids; they are all female clones, and they are born pregnant, which explains the rapid rate of infestation. 

That is borderline cool and yucky. I disposed of many of them in the course of weeding the garden, but there are still plenty around. Maybe a swarm of ladybugs will arrive next and gobble them all up.

Stacked Against Us

Managing an appliance malfunction always seems to be a dilemma these days. Most machines are not designed to last much more than a decade, and scheduling a technician usually requires at least a week's lead time. Then the question becomes one of cost and time efficiency: how much will the repair be, and how long will it take to secure the part, versus how much and how long it would take to simply replace the appliance.

That's where we were on Saturday when the digital LED display on our washer stopped responding. After clearing and draining several tubes and reservoirs, scanning the error codes, consulting the manual and the internet, as well as implementing the old standby of unplugging and rebooting, all to no avail, we were faced with just such a dilemma. The issue seemed to be a circuit board assembly or interface, and the repair was estimated at hundreds of dollars once the part was identified and secured, which could take a couple of weeks.

The sensible choice seemed to be to replace the washer with its newest version, which I did, delighted that it could be delivered and installed by Tuesday. On the morning our new washer was to arrive, we cleared our entry hallway and landing so that the installers could do their work, then settled in to wait out the four-hour window.

When at last they arrived, they never even took the washer off the truck. We needed a new stacking kit-- the one that held our washer and dryer was not acceptable. Also, since the dryer was on top of the washer, we would need to schedule and pay for the dryer's removal and reinstallation, too. As the delivery truck drove away, I canceled the order and began to shop elsewhere. 

We decided it might be prudent to replace both the washer and dryer at the same time, given that the dryer could fail at any time and the compatibility issues involved. And I was delighted to find a pair that could be delivered and installed today. When I purchased the stacking duo, I did not select the storage pedestal option because our space would not accommodate the extra height. Unfortunately, that was where I needed to check the box for the stacking kit, and when the delivery man called me this afternoon, he asked where they were to be installed because "We don't have the stacking kit on the truck."

Damn! It happened again. And so we are on to Saturday, when they will be delivered and installed at the earliest possible time. Oh, and I'm going to the big box store tomorrow, where I will pick that effing stacking kit up myself.

Seasonal and Cassoulet Adjacent

Craving protein and an empty freezer, I concocted a summer cassoulet for supper. White beans, one pork chop, a couple of chicken thighs, some authentic Buffalo white hots (white hot dogs, not spicy at all but a little like the bratwurst from the Zurich train station), and an assortment of summer veggies all came together for a light but hearty stew. Served with some toasted homemade sourdough and a tossed salad, it was actually a perfect summer meal.

And that Mustache

"I don't think I would have recognized him!" my 89-year-old aunt said today as I showed her my nephew's wedding pictures. She paused and examined the picture more carefully. "He does look like Bill, though, especially in the mouth."

"That is Bill!" I laughed.

"Oh my gosh," she laughed, too. "But look at his hair! No gray! And that mustache! He looks great!"

"I'll tell him you said so," I replied.

Did you hear that, Bill?

Well Prompted

I let the algorithm choose my workout music this afternoon, and for the most part, the so-called "personalized set of upbeat music" was pretty good. I did have to skip a few clunkers early on, but soon I was moving to some nice pop tracks from the 70s and 80s, a few that I love but haven't listened to in a while. And I laughed out loud when, as I was doing a cooldown on the rowing machine, Neil Diamond serenaded me with his lesser-known song, "The Boat that I Row." Who says AI doesn't have a sense of humor?

So Long, Mr. French

It's rarely good news when the phone rings unexpectedly right at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, and today was no different. "It's French," I said to a half-asleep Heidi when her screen lit up and the Looney Toons ringtone blared out.

But it wasn't French, Heidi's friend and mentor of over 30 years. It was his wife, calling ot say that there had been an accident and he had died on Friday. He'd been trimming trees from the balcony of his home and had somehow tumbled over the railing, causing severe spinal injury. He was the only one at home, and when the neighbors found him some time later and called 911, they could not stabilize him, and he died. He was just a couple of weeks short of his 73rd birthday, which seems too young to us now.

"Oh my God," was all Heidi said for most of the call, and then, "I'm so sorry." 

Later, I felt sure I knew the exact moment when he died. I came home Friday afternoon and heard the Avett Brothers' No Hard Feelings playing upstairs. Heidi rarely listens to the song, but that day, she played it twice. I came in toward the end of the second time, and when I heard the words When my body won't hold me anymore, and it finally lets me free, where will I go? I got a chill.

The next lyrics have always comforted me, though. 

Will the trade winds take me south through Georgia grain?
Or tropical rain? Or snow from the heavens?
Will I join with the ocean blue?
Or run into a savior true? And shake hands laughing,
And walk through the night, straight to the light,
Holding the love I've known in my life,
And no hard feelings.

Safe travels, French. 

Epic Epic

We saw The Odyssey this morning. It was a lot. A lot of noise, fighting, monsters and remonstrating, storms, beards, killing, and more. But my recent preoccupation with geography and history, a la travle.earth and other online games kept me wondering distractedly, Where in the world is Odysseus? 

The Sum of its Parts

My friend Ruth, who has a summer place in Maine, introduced me to one of her family's favorite summer desserts, gingerbread with wild blueberries. It's a surprisingly tasty combination, but the sharp warmth of the ginger complements the tart sweetness of the berries, and she usually bakes it right after we've been berry picking, which is very satisfying. 

A few weeks ago, my friend Brandon showed me the cookie cookbook he and his son Charlie have been exploring all summer. Some of the techniques were intriguing, especially the use of brown butter, and I snapped a few pics of recipes to try, most notably brown sugar cookies and classic chewy oatmeal.

And then, I had all those blueberries! I froze a bunch and made a blueberry spoonbread that my brother had served and was delicious as well as coincidentally gluten-free, made with almond flour and cornmeal whose dense richness was a perfect venue for the jammy Jersey berries. But with plenty of berries still left, I decided to pull out my dehydrator and see what I got.

The outcome was sort of raisiny, definitely not as cloying as the sweetened product you will get should you buy dried blueberries at the grocery. I stored them in a Mason jar on my counter and spent the next few days pondering how best to use them. What I came up with was a mash-up of the gingerbread and oatmeal cookies. I swapped the cinnamon in the cookies for a combo of dried and fresh ginger, kept the brown butter and dark brown sugar, and used my dried blueberries in place of the raisins. 

I ended up with a really good cookie, and a reminder of fun times spent with some really good friends, too.

Sucker

"I hate the county fair!" I said to Heidi the other day. She nodded, because we have this conversation every summer.

I was responding to the cumulative inconvenience of the gym and rec center being closed for 2 weeks and the mess that's usually left at the fairgrounds, which are our former school. The smell of garbage, divots and truck tracks on the playing fields, and cooking oil stains on the sidewalks greeted teachers when we returned at the end of August and lasted for weeks after the fair closed.

Plus? It's so inconvenient to get there! I feel irrationally resentful of having to take a shuttle bus to the place I spent most of my time for the better part of 31 years.

So I was surprised by the inadvertent thrill I got today on my way to the gym when I saw the first of the brightly colored rides and concessions lined up for unloading in the parking lot. I pictured the midway at night with its thousands of lights, the screams from the rides, the laughter from the games, and all the people strolling excitedly through the grounds. I thought of the bands that would play, the local agriculture exhibits and competitions, and the beer garden. It actually seemed like it might be a fun time.

"Oh my gosh!" I thought. "I don't hate the fair!"

The Right Questions

Larchmont Farms. The name came unbidden into my mind as I enjoyed my breakfast of fresh, sliced peaches. Was that the place Mom took us to pick peaches and apples? I wondered. 

I did have a powerful computer in my hand, so I swiped open my phone and searched for the farm in New Jersey. It was much farther away from our home than I would have thought, and a further search informed me that they did not have any pick-your-own crops available. 

Did they ever have pyo? I asked the AI function but was informed that it had always been a commercial wholesale farm. 

What are some pick-your-own places near Willingboro? I asked next and was provided with a list of places that did not sound familiar in the least. 

Which of those were open in the 70s? I queried, and that narrowed the names down, but still, none rang a bell. 

Are there any pyo operations from the 70s that have since closed? I asked. Again, the list was substantial, but not what I was looking for. 

Finally, I sighed and typed, I remember riding on a flat-bed truck out into the orchards to pick peaches and apples. 

And AI really delivered! Here's what I found, complete with source citations from the NY Times and local history sites:

That vivid memory of riding a flatbed truck out into the rows of peach trees in the early 1970s almost certainly took place at the original Larchmont Farms orchard grounds in Mount Laurel, New Jersey. While that specific orchard property is gone today, the history lines up perfectly with your memory of a unique peach-picking tractor ride right near Willingboro. 

Why Your Memory Lines Up Perfectly:

The Location: Long before moving their central operations down to Elmer, NJ, the Haines family operated their sprawling, primary Larchmont Farms peach and apple orchards right in Mount Laurel. This sat directly adjacent to Willingboro—making it just a brief few minutes' drive down the road for local families. 

The 1969/1970s Timeline: As noted in historical regional records, a massive, devastating hailstorm battered the region on July 3, 1969. The hail cosmetically scarred the skins of the ripening peaches and apples. Supermarkets refused to buy the "ugly" fruit, prompting the Haines family to completely pivot. They opened up their massive commercial orchards to the public for an unprecedented, emergency pick-your-own harvest event that spilled over heavily into the early 1970s. 

The Flatbed Tractor Ride: Because Larchmont Farms was an enormous commercial wholesale operation spanning hundreds of acres, it lacked the simple walking paths of small family farms. To get the thousands of local suburban families out into the deep, expansive rows of stone fruit trees, they utilized their industrial farm equipment—hooking up large flatbed orchard trailers and wagons to transport public pickers straight into the fields.

Buy Jiminy!

As Heidi paid for our dog food, I wandered over to a sign posted on the wall of the pet store. Due to an issue with the vendor," it read, "crickets will not be available until further notice."

"Uh oh," I pointed to the sign, "Looks like it's time to get into the cricket business."

The cashier laughed and rolled her eyes. "Sooo many people are upset," she told us.

"How long has this shortage been going on?" I asked.

"Oh," she shook her head, "it's been a good three weeks. And people are still asking every day."

"All right then," I said decisively, "I'll have to start my cricket ranch right away!"

"Yasssssss," she replied. "We're going to need small, medium, and large."

Straight Up Crooked

I had the bright idea of adding shelves to our deck by screwing brackets into the 4x1 upper brackets. It worked beautifully on the back railing, so I bought another shelf board to add to the side. I brought the level out to make sure my work was true, but when I stepped back, the shelf was crooked. I put the level back, but the bubble was perfectly balanced in the center of the hash marks, so I stepped back again and literally scratched my head. 

I moved the level to the rail cap so I could take the shelf down, and I saw what the problem was. The whole railing is slanted toward the house, and so the shelf was objectively level, but crooked relative to the railing. I decided I'd rather keep it level, but dang! Every time I look out there, I see what appears to be a terribly sloping shelf. 

Sigh. I might have to "fix" that.

Well Groomed

That smells great! I thought to myself and glanced down the line of treadmills. Somebody was wearing a scent I really liked—warm with a little musk, but not too spicy or powdery. A little while later, I caught another whiff of it, and it honestly made my workout a bit nicer. 

It was pouring rain when I pushed my way through the plate-glass doors, and I got drenched as I dashed to the car. Dripping in the driver's seat, I opened the console and pulled out the little hairbrush we keep in there to comb my wet hair out of my eyes. As I did so? That same pleasant scent wafted through the car. 

I realized that it was my hair product, and had been all along; the smell was released by my sweating. At least I don't stink today! I thought and headed home.

Not Cool, Cats

The weekend schedule is a little more relaxed around our house, even in the summer. Most weekdays, Heidi gets up before six to walk with a friend and make sure Lucy has exercise well before the hottest part of the day. 

On Saturday and Sunday, then, she can be forgiven for trying to catch up on her rest and sleeping in. Lucy has no problem with that arrangement: it's been years since she got up even one second earlier than Heidi. The cats, however, have a different opinion altogether. It is usually me to whom they express their displeasure, yowling by the door to the deck as I make my coffee, and scratching furniture if that doesn't work. 

This morning, they had both been outside a couple of times before Heidi and Lucy made their appearance, but they were outraged, as usual, that the dog went out and she and Heidi took a walk before anyone was fed. I heard them fussing by the front door a little while later, and couldn't imagine why they were directing their fury there until voices drifted in, and I realized that Heidi was right outside, visiting with the neighbors. 

It wasn't a brief conversation, and I thought the cats were going to lose it, meowing loudly and scratching at the door, before Heidi came inside. I shook my head and looked at the clock. It wasn't even 10 am yet, but I guess that's late when you're used to eating at 7.

Not as Sharp as They Used to Be

I ran by the grocery store this afternoon after I was finished at the gym. The last gym I belonged to was right next to a big grocery store, and I often picked up a few things before heading home. Then, there seemed to be several other sweaty patrons like me, and the proximity to the gym was its own explanation. 

Today I felt a little self-conscious, though, because I had to drive to the store from the gym, and it seemed like I was the only shopper in damp workout duds. I didn't think I smelled too bad, but I kept my distance from other people as best I could, in case. I was reminded of a joke my grandfather used to tell.

An old lady went to the doctor, and when he asked her how she was, she said, "Fine, except I've been passing gas a lot lately. It's silent and odorless, though." She paused, "Oh, it just happened!"she reported.

The doctor nodded, prescribed some medication, and told her to come back in a week.

"How are you?" he asked at her next appointment.

"Okay," she answered. "I'm still gassy, though, and they are still silent, but now they really stink!"

"Well, we've fixed your sense of smell," he told her. "Time to work on your hearing."

DC Downer

There was some debate this morning as we tried to determine the best way to meet friends at the Lincoln Memorial to tour the new undercroft exhibit. Finding a parking space would be time-consuming and inconvenient, especially since we had lunch reservations at Equinox later. We considered driving to Pentagon City and parking so that we could metro, but the closest station was Arlington Cemetery, which required crossing Memorial Bridge on foot. 

We weren't against that, but the trip would take nearly an hour and a half. In the end, we decided to Uber, which would be comparable to paying for parking and subway fares for two, and Emily drove down and joined us, so it turned out to be quite reasonable and quick, too. Even though I didn't realize I had mistakenly booked the car for 11 PM instead of AM until 10:50, our Uber came by 11 AM anyway, and we were crossing Memorial Bridge by car 10 minutes later. 

As we neared the Lincoln Memorial, we were blinded by the new gilding on the statues flanking the bridge. The shiny gold looked gaudy and cheap under the breezy blue July sky. The new National Service Monument was a surprise, too: a pair of big boxy structures blocked the left and right sides of the stairs from the drained reflecting pool to the memorial. It is a temporary installation made of stone-facsimile-covered plywood and LED screens, sponsored by USAA and designed to honor every service member ever. I had the impression that many people would be glad when it is dismantled on August 23, although it was awkward to speak freely in the company of all the USAA employees and National Guardsmen surrounding it. 

The security to enter the Undercroft was very robust, and both Heidi and Emily were searched thoroughly. Unfortunately? The new space was underwhelming to me, poorly designed and organized. The promised film was brief and with very little substance, and I was disappointed by what I had hoped would be a cool new experience.

In general, the whole trip left me with a sense of wasteful decadence and the decay of the dignity that has always been a hallmark of any trip to the National Mall. 

Two Birds

I picked up my ukulele today for the first time in months. I think I was inspired by all the musicians at Vic and Julie's wedding, but it could have been the 30 minutes I spent singing "Friend of the Devil" to myself as I walked Lucy this afternoon. I just got it into my head that I could play it and sing it, and briefly even imagined being confident enough to have performed at the jam session after the rehearsal dinner.

"Can you play?" my friend from high school asked when she was here a few weeks ago and noticed my ukulele.

"Not really," I shrugged. "But I do work on it sometimes," I laughed.

"For me music is like a foreign language that just never clicks," she said, and I realized I felt the same way. 

Despite the years of French I took, I never achieved anything near fluency. "She's very good at the class," my high school teacher told my parents. "She probably just needs to get drunk in France and start talking!" 

It was the 70s, and no one considered the advice unsuitable in the least. Plus? She may have been right. Even though I continued taking French in college, I never did get over the fluency hump.

I'm not sure if music is the same way. I do know that I've been strumming away on my ukulele on and off for nearly 15 years. I've even had lessons, and I still can't say I play. Maybe I just need to get drunk in French Polynesia.

Eye Roll Please

At first,  Lucy was happy to see us when we got back yesterday after nearly six days away. But soon she remembered how put out she was to have been left behind. Cue the heavy sighs and bombastic side-eye, which we were subjected to well into this morning.

Make Me a Cake

Courtney, Heidi, and I spent a fair portion of our time in Michigan working on our assigned task, the wedding cake. We had done some research in advance: exchanging photo ideas, recipes, and YouTube videos about assembling and decorating a tiered cake. Courtney also contacted the venue, a beautiful church that had been converted to a brewery and restaurant, and they generously arranged a work area and some space in the walk-in for us to use. 

So we were not unprepared on Friday afternoon when we arrived, as they were closing down the beer brewing operation for the weekend. Our plan was to fill and frost the layers so they would be ready for assembly the next day, and we started by chopping and macerating the strawberries and whipping some cream stabilized with cream cheese and meringue powder. We only had a couple of hours before the rehearsal dinner, but we accomplished our mission for the day and left the three layers on their cake boards, filled and frosted with a bottom coat. 

The next day was the wedding, and we got over there around noon, ready to assemble and add preliminary decorations. These tasks were a bit trickier, involving cutting cake dowels to size and using a skewer to punch through the cardboard rounds the second and third tiers were sitting on. The whipped cream was softer than we hoped, and considerably less stable than the buttercream they used in the videos, but we were making a strawberry shortcake, so we had to work with what we had. 

It was also challenging to thread the cake dowels through the skewer holes, so they weren't as tight in the cake as we wanted, and it was a little wobbly. Even so, our model had always been a less constructed, more organic look, which we definitely achieved. We had ordered some edible butterflies to go with the insect-theme of the wedding (a riff on how the couple had met, their shared love of performance art, and deconstructing classic princess iconography) and, as a tribute to their musical backgrounds, ribbons of edible musical notes to go around one or two of the layers. We had strawberries and fresh flowers, too, but the final decorations would have to wait until after the ceremony, and we dashed back to the rental house to change for the wedding. 

As the reception was warming up on the patio, we were shivering in the cooler in our summer dresses and sneakers, adding bugs, fruit, and flowers to our masterpiece, emerging a few minutes before everyone was summoned inside for dinner. The restaurant staff did the rest-- bringing the cake up a little while before the cutting so all the guests could admire it. 

And they did! Although one of the bride's more musical friends told us the notes we had so carefully placed were the song Happy Birthday. Honestly, it never occurred to us as non-musicians to even consider them beyond their decorative value, but he had been hoping for a more intentional Easter Egg experience. 

Our research told us that a cake that size should feed between 100 and 120 guests, but every crumb was gone within minutes of cutting it. A friend told Heidi and me that it was the first time she had ever finished a piece of wedding cake; it was that good, so light and delicious. 

As happy as we were at how it turned out, and as relieved as we were that we had accomplished our task, I couldn't help wishing I could make another wedding cake. We'd learned so much, and I had lots of ideas for ways that we could improve the process, and not just by finding more appropriate music!

Van Go

The minivan we rented is a hybrid model of a make I have never driven before. As such, using some of the features and controls has been a bit of a learning curve. For example, there is just a large knob on the center console that changes gears from Drive to Neutral and Reverse, with a button in the middle for Park. In addition, starting the car does not mean starting the engine, so once the start button has been pushed, the van waits silently for the driver to turn that knob and be on the way. 

Cutting the car off is equally without those familiar audible signifiers that the journey is over. The first morning we were here, I happened to look down the driveway from the backyard and noticed that the lights were on. The van had been unlocked in ready mode for hours. 

Without the keys, I doubt anyone could have gotten very far, but still. After that, I made sure to wait for the screen to go off after pressing the power-off button on the dashboard, and enlisted one of my passengers, often my sister, to check that the doors were locked after I stepped away with the key fob. The series of normally unnecessary steps turns parking into a kind of slapstick routine, especially when you're in and out of the van all day running wedding errands. 

At one of our many stops the other day, my sister had to take a phone call and elected to stay in the van while Heidi and I ran into the store. 

"You can leave it running with the a/c on," she said.

"Great!" I answered. "I definitely know how to do that."

They Do

And they did! A magical time was had by all, and there were even fireflies. 

The Chair

The vacation rental my brother booked for the wedding this weekend in Ann Arbor is definitely one of the wackier places we have stayed. The mid-century ranch house had a modicum of curb appeal, although our first impressions upon entering were a bit skeptical. 

It has been remodeled, but in a haphazard, DIY kind of a way. For example, there are five different types of flooring on the main level, and it isn't that big. And the curtains over the front picture windows are unabashedly secured with jumbo binder clips. The house had also been closed up for a while and was a little musty. 

But the nuttiest feature of all is the industrial-grade massage chair, the only other piece of furniture in the living room besides the leather sectional. It looks like an updated version of a medieval torture device, complete with a remote control. Of course we had to try it! The first night we all laughed hysterically as Treat sat in the chair narrating his experience as it hummed and farted, squeezing and pummeling him from shoulder to toe. 

For a while, the record for the longest time endured in it was 7 minutes, but Treat finally managed to withstand an entire 30-minute session late last evening. It's definitely not functional as regular furniture, but it makes up for it in conversation and entertainment!

Post Script: We were looking online for a manual to explain how to activate some of the chair's features we couldn't figure out when I landed on the merchandise page of the company who manfactured it. Actual retail value? 14 grand! Woof. I'm glad we didn't break it.

M Minus 2 Days

The weather was glorious today as we barreled around Ann Arbor running all sorts of wedding errands. The minivan did not disappoint, as any number from 2-6 of us and all the treasures for our big day projects piled in and out, here and there, back and forth, and all over town. At one point, we drove, windows down, along roads lined with woods and prairie plantings, past a former Esso gas station built in 1927 to resemble a gatehouse and turned into a coffee shop, and through the campus of U Michigan, the back of the van loaded with three buckets of flowers and six cake layers. We may not be super focused, but? We're here! And ready to do our part.

Blueberry Blues

I was just about to get into the shower before leaving for the airport when I received a notification that my blueberries had been delivered. No! I panicked. Those are supposed to come next Wednesday! 

It didn't matter whose miscommunication it was, mine or the dairy folks' or both, because when I checked the milkbox, there they were, three pounds of New Jersey's best blueberries in what seemed to be an enormous box, and at that point? They were mine. 

Fortunately, I had cleaned out the refrigerator in anticipation of having a housesitter staying for the next five days, and there was some room in the freezer, too. Plus, we hadn't eaten breakfast yet, which became a blueberry smoothie for me and yogurt and blueberries for Heidi. I put three quarts in the freezer, and a 9x13 cake pan with a lid full of berries in the fridge, then, as an extra measure, put the box out for recycling and hopped in the shower. 

Oh, I know I'll be happy to have all those berries next week when we get back, blueberry jam, blueberry muffins, blueberry galette, and all that, but my original plan was so much more elegant.

Out of My League

I reported to the bowling center as directed, 15 minutes before the league start time, to register as a substitute bowler. As I waited for the manager to sign me in, I scanned the crowd. At least ten of the bowlers from my regular league were there, and they waved and welcomed me to the Summer Owl League. "There are only 2 people per team," someone told me, "so it goes pretty fast."

I found my partner and lane, and sat down to change my shoes before warm-up. Both of our opponents for the week were on my regular league, so I felt comfortable right away. The teams on the lanes to our left and right started to warm up, and I realized how out of balance the competition could have been. "Do you bowl against everybody?" I asked incredulously as a guy next to me threw his fourth practice strike.

"Just the luck of the draw," one of the women told me fatalistically, eyeing the teams around us. 

"I guess that's why we have handicaps," I shrugged.

She nodded. "It levels the lanes, doesn't it?" she replied over the thunder of the pins around us.

High Tech, Low Arches

After we got our toenails done for the wedding next Saturday, Heidi wanted to go shoe shopping, so we headed over to the big-box shoe store and trolled the aisles for a nice pair of heeled sandals to go with the dress she's wearing. After a while, I wandered over to clearance and found some glittery platform slides on sale, and the two of us were headed to the checkout when I spotted the foot scanner. 

Even though I was anxious to pay and be on our way, I couldn't resist! I slipped off my flip flops, stepped on the pad in the middle of the sensors, and followed the on-screen directions. In 20 seconds, I had the report detailing the length, width, girth, arch, and instep height of each foot, plus the percentiles those measurements fell into. There was also an option to dig deeper with even more granular data, which you could also have sent to your email. 

And of course! There were shoe and orthotic recommendations, many of which you could buy on the spot. We left without adding to our purchases, but as we walked to the car, Heidi thanked me for going with her. "I know you don't love shopping," she said, "but I feel much better about my outfit now that I have these."

"You're welcome," I said. "But to be honest, I did find a bargain pair of shoes myself, and plus? The scan made the trip worth it!"

Conquistadors

I wasn't going to watch it. 

But stuff happens, and my plans to go to the gym were railroaded by a late start and Heidi's previous commitment, and blah blah, blah, I tuned into the World Cup final about 30 minutes into the match, just to kill a little time and perhaps engage with 4 billion of my fellow humans in this global phenomenon. 

It was mesmerizing.

The crisp Spanish offense pitted against the disciplined Argentine team captivated me in a way I did not expect.  And the players? So resolute and strong and kind of cute in a he-could-totally-be-my-former-student way. I couldn't turn it off! 

Then, who could resist the halftime show, with the muppets, Ted Lasso, Madonna, Shakira, and Bieber, and its message of universal love? 

I didn't even realize that I was rooting for Argentina, but when Emiliano Martinez broke the record for the number of saves, keeping the match tied at nil until the 106th minute, in the second half of extra time, despite playing the entire tournament with a broken finger? Wow! Just wow. And even after Spain scored, Argentina was totally in it until the final whistle.  

I do confess that I turned it off before the cup was presented by he-who-ruins-everything. It was such an unexpected pleasure, and I just wanted to keep it that way.

In Gear

Word today that, according to the Washington Post, "the death of the stick shift is almost here." I have mixed feelings about the news. Part of me is sad, in a nostalgic way. I learned to drive on a manual transmission and, back then, vowed never to drive anything else. There was something satisfying about how active driving was, being mindful of the sound of the motor to avoid grinding gears, and something soothing about the gentle vibration of the idling engine as you rested your hand on the knob of the gear shift. 

There was also the fun and practical fix of popping the clutch if the car wouldn't start. Whoever was around would be enlisted to roll the car to a flat straightaway, and then push it as fast as they could while the driver kept it in neutral with a foot on the clutch until it picked up enough speed to hit the gas and let up on the clutch at the same time, usually encouraging the engine to roar to life; why, I don't know. 

The article blames sophisticated engineering, computerized transmissions with as many as 7 gears to optimize acceleration and fuel efficiency. Maybe, but I broke my vow to never drive automatic after a particularly grueling ride to BWI. The 30-mile trip took nearly two hours that day, and my leg and foot were cramped from all the stop-and-go. After that, I made sure my next car was an automatic, so I put the onus on the increased traffic congestion over the last few decades. It seems impossible to take a drive of any length without experiencing at least a few slowdowns, and an automatic transmission makes such aggravations a little less onerous. 

Even so, I'll be sorry when the stick shift goes the way of the penny. They are both such classics, and I never thought they could be anything but timeless.

Period Pieces

Even though I retired two years ago, my personal email is still set up to receive notifications from the school system's Learning Management System. I can't even change it, because I no longer have the proper permissions.

Most courses are automatically archived on July 1 and stop sending notifications, but a couple are manually created and will never go away unless someone actively requests it. That's why today I got a message that a student had submitted a late assignment. Curious and amused, I switched profiles on my browser and clicked through several login and authentication screens to see exactly who had submitted what, a month after school was dismissed for the summer.

It was a Unit 2 writing assignment for 8th grade, due December 20, 2025. The prompt was either to reflect on what they had learned in the unit or to write a short piece of fiction about two students from 50 years ago. Seven months late, this student had posted the following:

In the sweltering July of 1976, middle schoolers Leo and Naya sit on a curbside in Arlington, Virginia. Armed with classic 1976s gear, they debate the mysteries of the brand-new Bionic Woman, while plotting to trade a pet rock for the latest 1976 summer blockbuster ticket.

It sounded pretty accurate to me, at least from my recollection of that summer when I was that exact age myself. The pet rock detail was a little inaccurate, but humorous, so.

I wondered if a student in 2076 might write something like this:

In the sweltering July of 2026, the hum of the air conditioner was the only sound as middle schoolers Leo and Naya sprawled on the couch, staring at their phones. There was nothing on TikTok, and the World Cup final between Spain and Argentina wasn't until the next day. Bored as usual, Naya sighed and opened up Canvas to check the notifications. That annoying message from December was still there, so they decided to go ahead and write something.

Bye Bye Buggy

Lucy's oldest dog friend, Lady, passed away today. She was around 16 years old and was so helpful when Lucy was a puppy that we called her Nanny. She never hesitated to let Lucy know when she was out of line, and she even nose-boosted her up some stairs when Lucy was too little to make it herself. Their bond continued until yesterday, when we took Lucy over to see her friend one last time.

Lady only had one eye because her other one had been shot out; she carried some of the pellets from that shotgun blast under her skin for her whole life. They reckoned she was a little older than a year when she was rescued as a stray living on her own in the woods in West Virginia. She was malnourished and had a serious case of heartworm, the treatment for which required her movement to be restricted for several months when she first moved into the neighborhood with her owner, Lauren. 

Not surprisingly, she was a bit of a timid creature back then, despite her fierce visage and coal-black fireplug body. Our first dog, Isabel, helped her out of her shell enough to venture first up the stairs and out of the complex, and finally even into the dog park. Within a year or so, she was willing to go anywhere, without hesitation, although she was always happy to get home.

Lady was ever the most practical of dogs, though, eating whatever was put in front of her whenever she could and avoiding any uncomfortable situation; whether it was hot weather, rain, crazy dogs, or crazy people, she was sensible enough to give such things a wide berth. She was a faithful companion to her person, Lauren, seeing her through a master's program, a Ph.D., a first job, dating, engagement, a wedding (which Lady was in), a new home, and pregnancy. She even converted Lauren's husband, AJ, to a dog person; before Lady, he was 100% Team Cat.

We called her Lady Bug, which was eventually shortened to Bug or Buggy, which seemed to suit her just fine. Fourteen years is a long time to know a dog, and she was a great one. She will be missed.

Taking a Swipe at It

 "We've been talking about names," our friend who's expecting told us this afternoon.

"You mean Pebbles might not stick?" I joked. "What could possibly be better?"

"Actually," her husband said, "we downloaded an app."

"That's smart," Heidi said.

"It gives you a list of names," our friend said, "and you swipe right if you like one."

"We do it separately," her husband continued, "and then it tells you which ones you matched."

"Yeah, but we went through, like, 500 names," his wife said, "and we only agreed on maybe five."

"What were they?" I asked.

They shrugged. "I think one was Zoe," he told us.

"I honestly can't remember any others," she agreed. "And we need a middle name, too."

"You still have plenty of time," Heidi assured them.

"Or? Pebbles it is!" I added. "We all agree on that one!"

Second Language

It was around dinner time when I ran out to Staples do one last birthday errand. Customarily, places are not very busy between 5:30 and 6:30, and I was expecting a quick turn around. My plan seemed to be working when I whooshed theough the sliding glass doors and saw 3 employees, all finishing up with customers, and no one waiting. 

But. 

It turned out that only the manager could help me with my purchase, and he was embroiled in a conversation with a couple about 15 years older than I am. They had a file folder with them, which is never a good sign if you're hoping for a speedy check out. I gleaned from their discussion that they had just purchased a new lap top, and were making arrangements for somebody to set it up for them and transfer all their applications and files to the new machine. 

As I waited, I had plenty of time to analyze the situation. First, I was reminded of my mother-in-law, and how mystifying she often found new technology. Next, I wondered if I could be in a similar position a decade or so in the future. Finally, I considered the generation gap that seemed to be at play. 

I decided that although I might not be as fluent with the latest devices as some younger people who were born into this digital world, it's probably unlikely I'll need that level of support. I'm not a native speaker, but I'm still pretty proficient. 

Plus? I'll never bring a file folder shopping.

Way Ahead of the Game

I met up with a friend and former colleague today because he asked me to look over the paperwork for his license renewal before submitting it. "I need 270 points," he said. "Right?"

"I think it's still 180," I answered.

"For 10 years?" he asked.

"You get grandfathered in the first time you renew for ten," I told him.

"I already renewed for ten," he said.

"When does your license expire?" I asked.

"2030," he reported. "I want to get a head start because I have all my points." He paused, and his eyes widened. "Unless they would take away the four years I have left?"

"I don't think there's any upside to turning this in now," I replied. "Do you have a file folder? Just put all this away until 2030."

"2029," he corrected me. "I want to get this in early!"

It's a Handful

We spent our afternoon at a baby shower for a good friend. It turned out to be a fun reunion of the original neighborhood "Pack," complete with 2 Laurens, 2 Heidis, and 2 Traceys (or Tracis), folks who all bonded over their dogs Lady, Cooper, Ben, Lucy, and Theo. Over the last nine years, partners and kids have been added, people have moved, and sadly, a couple of dogs have been lost, but having the whole group together again was a joy. 

Of course, there were other guests as well, some expectant parents and others, new parents themselves. Everyone was full of wisdom and advice, but my favorite tip for the new mom and dad was this: "Enjoy leaving your house with just your phone and your car keys! That won't happen for a long while," a young mother laughed, hefting her giant baby bag to her shoulder. "You're going to have to carry a lot of crap."

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.