Eleven Twelve Ready or Not

I was surprised when the phone rang at noon today, but I picked it up immediately when I saw it was from the financial adviser. "For some reason, I have this call on my calendar for tomorrow," I confessed, but assured the team that this time worked for me, too. 

The surprise timing may have been even better, because it spared me the angst I often feel when something I'm not entirely comfortable with is coming. I hadn't even started to worry about it yet. And? I was prepared for the call, so everything went fine. 

Even so, it was niggling at my brain enough that I checked back over the email chain, and sure enough, I had asked for 11/12. The office is located in Minneapolis, though, and they had offered an 11 o'clock time slot, so I clarified: 11/12 @ 11, but that will be 12 my time. 

Admittedly, it was a lot of 11s and 12s, but aren't they supposed to be number people? 

C U

It's that time of year when people's social calendars are filling up. I could really tell today because usually? At the end of bowling, everyone says, "See you next week!" But today, because everyone's schedules are both intersecting outside of the league and conflicting with our regular competition, I overheard all sorts of goodbyes:

See you tomorrow!

See you Sunday!

See you Monday!

See you next week!

If I don't see you, Happy Thanksgiving!

See you in December!

It's a lot to keep track of, so I just used my standard, if aspirational, goodbye: See you soon! 

Life Imitates Life

As usual, the end-of-season meeting at our community garden was a bit contentious. This year, there was debate over the required workdays for next season: larger-plot gardeners would be required to do two, while newer, smaller-plot gardeners would be scheduled for one. The main issue is that the county is splitting our original plots in half so more people can have one, but the policy is being rolled out gradually; those gardeners who were there before the new rule can keep their larger plots. 

Naturally, the divisions have fallen along generational lines; most of the senior gardeners are older than the newer small-plot folks. As the discussion heated up, I noticed that the combatants were mostly Boomers and Millennials; like national politics, the Gen Xers were largely unrepresented. Oh, there was me, and the two chief gardeners are probably Xers, but we were a minority. Or maybe we were all just quietly sucking it up.

Also mirroring larger issues, the Millennials based their support for the two-vs-one work day on the argument that the larger gardens were "using more resources" than the smaller plots and therefore should contribute more. In addition to their generational confidence, they had a bit of an OK Boomer tone.

But the Boomers were having none of it; they were clinging to their wealth, experience, and influence. "Can we have two votes, too?" asked one.

In the end, we weren't equipped to count votes accurately; our show-of-hands, all-in-favor-say-aye style, couldn't yield a clear result on such a contentious issue, so we pushed the issue to email in the off-season, one vote per garden.

Having been part of the community for 16 years, I have a larger plot. I find the workdays onerous, mostly because of the unpleasant leadership style, and I would love to only have to do one. Even so, I agreed with another long-time gardener when he spoke up. "We've always had to do two workdays," he said, "so I'm not being asked to do more. Some of my fellow gardeners are being allowed to do less. There is a difference."

The Hang of It

In my third year of retirement, I haven't subbed, and my coaching-consulting gig has been in limbo. And, to my surprise? I haven't minded. Instead, I have been walking a neighbor's dog and babysitting for a friend whose first child was born in late August. 

Dogs and babies? Who can complain? And in addition to my field trips with Mary, writing group, and lunch and coffee with friends, I always have bowling.

Mutually Beneficial

“We were so glad to have you back as testing coordinator last spring!” A former colleague gushed at the happy hour yesterday. 

“Thank you!” I replied. “It was really great to be back.”

“I know it must have been good for you, too,” he agreed. “I mean, after 65? If you don’t use your brain, you’re going to lose it. Cognitive decline is real.”

Obviously a Middle School Teacher

My baseball name is Scuffy McSlugger, read the sticker on one of the teachers' shirts at happy hour. 

"What does that mean?" someone asked him. "Where do you even get a baseball name?"

"I have no idea," he laughed. "I just found this sticker on the ground as I was leaving school, and I thought it was funny!"

Blame it on the Sorting Hat

"Gryffindor!" I pointed to the Hogwarts regalia one of the neighborhood kids wore at the Halloween bonfire. "Me too! I'm just not wearing my robes."

"I'm sorry to tell you that I am Slytherin all the way," Heidi informed her as she leaned over to pet Lucy. The kid looked at Heidi disdainfully.

"Not Lucy, though," I assured her. 

"What is she? Ravenclaw? Hufflepuff?" she asked. 

"Close!" I laughed. "She's actually a Hufflepup!"

The kid groaned, shook her head, and walked away.

Worshipful Master, Finally

When the tour was over, we were released on our own recognizance to explore the galleries and gift shop on the basement level. There, we found a small room tucked into the corner with an exhibit called The Form and Function of American Freemasonry. 

The information included there was a little more concrete and focused on four American leaders who were also Freemasons: George Washington, Ben Franklin, Andrew Jackson, and Harry Truman. Even so, the content was still rather opaque, and we understood that we really weren't supposed to understand what the heck was going on, at least not in any specific way. 

One display did draw both our attention, though. In the center of the room was a glass case with two cube-shaped stones, one very rough and the other polished and smooth. They were ashlars, the term for stones cut to be laid in courses. The ashlar is the central allegory of Freemasonry: the rough stone represents an individual before entering the brotherhood. 

Once a man is accepted, the masons work to refine and polish him so he may take his place in the living wall of brotherhood. The highest-ranking member of each lodge is the Worshipful Master, and he is charged with supervising the Craft using the tools of the trade: the gavel, chisel, square, and compass.

Now that metaphor was something a couple of retired English teachers could wrap their brains around.

Worshipful Master, Part 5

The final stop on our tour was the observation deck at the top of the tower. "Before you enjoy the view, I do have to warn you that you may encounter two types of insects out there," our guide said. "The first are spotted lantern flies, and I encourage you to smush them on sight." He shook his head gravely with an ironic smile. "The second are wasps. They are drawn by the lantern flies." As he spoke, I could see a dozen wasps buzzing around the small window facing south. "There may be a nest up here, but fortunately? They are relatively docile." With that, he opened the eastern door and gestured to the walkway. 

The day was clear, and the view was excellent. As I prowled the perimeter, I realized I could see every spot where the tower was visible, and I stayed out there even after everyone else had retreated inside. 

Worshipful Master, Part 4

Earlier this month, before we even planned our visit to the GWMT, I listened to an episode of the History Channel podcast History This Week titled "The Freemasons Get Away with Murder (Probably)." My primary interest in that particular episode was that the events described took place in Western New York, near where Heidi grew up. 

The show told the story of Captain William Morgan's disappearance in 1826. He was a former Mason who threatened to publish a book exposing Freemasonry's secret rituals, handshakes, and oaths. Soon after, he was arrested on minor charges, bailed out by a group of Freemasons, and vanished. Some claimed that a body that washed up on the shores of Lake Ontario a year later was him, but it could not be definitively proven, so there were never any charges of murder, although the Freemasons were convicted of misdemeanor kidnapping.

Throughout the investigation and litigation, the Freemason brotherhood was accused of systematic obstruction of justice, jury-rigging, and non-cooperation with the law. The matter sparked an intense anti-Freemason backlash, and opposition to the society spread throughout the country. Freemasons lost almost half their membership in the next five years and barely survived by rebranding.

Before the Morgan affair, Freemasonry was an elite institution with immense backroom political influence. To survive, the group publicly pivoted to focus on public charity, community fundraising, and open social events. They even renamed their meeting spaces from the grand and mysterious "temple" to the more prosaic "hall."

And all to protect their secrets.

Worshipful Master, Part 3

The tour took us up the elevator, which was actually an inclinator, ascending to the top level at a seven-and-a-half-degree angle. Although I didn't notice until the guide mentioned it, at each stop, the two elevator cars on either side of the building moved closer together, from 61 feet at the bottom to just 4.5 feet at the observation deck level. 

Our first stop was a gallery with a lot of words about the Freemasons and several of their costumes and other regalia, too. The guide gave us a quick overview of who can be a Freemason (male, religious, upstanding) as well as the three levels of membership (apprentice, fellow craft, and master mason). Conspicuously missing were any specific details, and I noticed that the more I read, the less I understood. Even so, it was hard to formulate questions that fit within the scope of this casual tour, especially since my fundamental knowledge was so slight. Short of saying, "I don't get it," I quietly examined the artifacts and read their accompanying signs, but I didn't get it. 

In addition to the three degrees of Freemasonry, master masons could also pursue optional degrees. These include the Shriners, the Knights Templar, the Scottish Rite, the Tall Cedars of Lebanon, and the Order of the Eastern Star (which women can join), and a few others, too. I have no idea what they do or how you join, but I did see some fancy dresses and little cars the Shriners drive in parades.

The next stop was all about George Washington, and I was on more familiar ground there. At the library on the next floor, our guide told us we could come back as registered researchers should we choose. "What type of materials are here?" I asked.

"Blah, blah, blah, I'm not a Mason," he answered.

After a stop in the chapel of the Knights Templar, where a couple of mannikins were decked out in chain mail and the familiar chivalric regalia often seen in movies. "Do they actually wear that when they're here?" I asked.

"Probably not the chain mail," he answered noncommittally.

Worshipful Master, Part 2

As we pushed through the heavy bronze doors, our footsteps echoed through the cavernous hall. Huge, brightly colored murals of men in ornate aprons decorated the side walls, and an enormous statue of George Washington, all decked out in his Freemason kit, was the focal point of the space. 

"I do know they wear aprons," Mary said as we wandered the level, waiting for our tour to begin. 

In a side hall there was a gallery of photos, mostly from the 20th century, of middle-aged white guys and a few busts of the same type of subject. We peeked into the grand theater, which we later learned was used in the early scenes of National Treasure 2, and then crossed to the gallery on the other side, where artifacts of war were displayed in glass cases. It was interesting, but not very edifying. 

Fortunately, our tour guide joined us then and led our tiny group consisting of me, Mary, and a couple from Long Island back into the Grand Masonic Hall. Finally! We were going to learn something about the Freemasons.

Worshipful Master, Part 1

"I don't know anything about the Freemasons," Mary said this afternoon as we drove to our latest field trip, a tour of the George Washington Masonic Temple. "I guess I'll find out today!"

The temple is a local landmark; built in the 1920s on a hill just west of Old Town Alexandria, its 333-foot-tall tower is visible from all over our neighborhoods. Anyone who lives in the area has passed it dozens, if not hundreds, of times on their way to Old Town, or the train station, or the parkway, or the Wilson Bridge, but I don't know anyone who has ever been inside. "We should go there!" Mary had pointed as we whizzed by it on our way home from Topgolf and Oxon Hill Farm, and so a plan was hatched.

We arrived early for our scheduled tour, and paused on the steps to admire the view of the west end of Old Town and the sun shining on the river beyond. As we stood, a train hissed into the station, and a plane flew low in its landing pattern, destined for National Airport. Across the river, we could see the MGM casino, the nets of Topgolf, and the hill of Oxon Hill Farm. 

"The patent office is right over there," Mary waved to the right, referring to our first field trip.

"And Planet Word is over there," I pointed to the left. "All of our former field trips have led us here. This is worth it already," I laughed as we headed inside. 

Maturity

Now that cooler weather is here, I'm in the midst of organizing the attic and getting rid of stuff we don't need. 

Today, it was a lot of sporting equipment. I gave away 2 kites, one I've had since college; 2 fishing poles we bought for Josh's 8th birthday, which we spent at a Lake House (he's 31 now); some racquetball and tennis rackets (we prefer pickleball); and a couple of wiffle bats. The hardest choice I made today, though, was to let go of my roller blades. 

I've had them since 1990, and I love them. They are as cool today as they were then, with their steel gray exterior and multicolor ratchet buckles. I can't say when I last skated; after I took that spill on the basketball court while playing roller hockey and gave myself a fat lip, it wasn't quite as fun anymore. 

Even so, I could still picture myself ratcheting those buckles, putting on my palm guards ('cause that's all I wore), and I briefly considered holding on to them for at least one more skate. But then I realized that it might be time to be done with a few things, particularly the ones that could result in broken bones that might not knit as quickly as they did 35 years ago. So I put them in the car with a sigh and dropped them off with the other donations. 

It was the right decision, but I like to think of it as growing up rather than growing old. Or maybe we can just leave it as growing wise.

Mr. T.

In all the media coverage leading up to next Tuesday's midterm elections, I somehow missed that James Talarico, the Texas Democrat running for the Senate, was once a sixth-grade English teacher. Given my history, you can imagine how keenly interested I was as I read about his experience this morning. First, I was hooked by the headline, How James Talarico’s Years Teaching Middle School Prepared Him for Politics, and only slightly disdainful when it was revealed early on that those "years" numbered two. 

The article also linked to the Facebook page he created in 2011 to document his class, and as I scrolled through, I saw solid examples of engaging assignments, a welcoming environment with aspirational language, and pictures of students who looked happily immersed in the activities. For a young, inexperienced teacher, he seemed to be hitting all the right notes.

As I read on, though, I was profoundly disappointed by what some of his former students said.

“He was too good for the school,” one was quoted as saying. “ You could tell that he wasn’t going to be a teacher in a sense that he would be more. I knew he would have no ceiling.”

Another added, “I always felt like he was going to be more than a teacher.”

To me, these sentiments reveal some of public education's biggest problems today. First, they implicitly state that being a teacher is less than; that it's a career someone would settle for, or that some are too good for. The article leaves these ideas unquestioned and certainly unrebutted. Another thing that bothers me is that those former students feel like they and other kids don't deserve a teacher of such caliber, which is sad.

So in closing, I've got a little shade of my own to throw: given the sorry state of the U.S. Senate today, even if he's elected? Talarico probably would have had a much greater impact if he had stayed in the classroom.

Rain Check!

I've been expecting it.

Since the catastrophic flash flood swept through the Grand Canyon in late August, many trails, both main bridges across the Colorado River, and all park accommodations have been closed until further notice. Even so, my coveted reservation for two nights in a cabin at Phantom Ranch, the only place to stay at the bottom of the canyon, which I won by lottery last November for a stay in January, was still on the books.

Until today. And although I was prepared for the notification, I was surprised by the number of exclamation points the message used.

What can I do but match their attempt to focus on the upside? 

At least I have more time to train!

Ya Mama

There was a bit of a Sunday afternoon rush when we stopped at the grocery on our way home from the movie yesterday. Even so, the checkout line moved quickly, and soon I was face-to-face with the cashier as she silently scanned our groceries. 

We had so much in our cart that the silence got a little awkward, so I tried to break the ice with my go-to cashier conversation starter. "Oof," I started. "Is it always so busy on Sundays?"

She nodded curtly.

"Well," I continued brightly, "this line is moving quickly, thanks to you."

She nodded again, scanned my beer, and asked for ID. As she glanced at my license, her eyes grew wide. "That's my mom's birthday, too!"

I laughed. "What year was she born?" 

"1963," she answered, "so a year after you."

I could feel the ice melting as she continued to bag our groceries, and I didn't want us to slip back into awkwardness. "Where was your mom born?" I asked.

"D.C.," she told me.

"Me, too!" I said. "What hospital?"

"George Washington, I think," she replied.

"Me, too!" I laughed, just as she placed the last bag in the cart. "Small world!"

"You all have a wonderful rest of your day," she smiled.

"Thank you!" I said. "And tell your mom I said hi!"

ISO Verbal Processing

We saw "You Can See Everything" this afternoon.

Please see it so we can discuss! 

P.S. You won't be sorry.

Some Years You Do

It's been a while since we pulled it together to decorate our outdoor space for Halloween. I'm sure you can imagine all the why-nots; even after I retired, a litany of obstacles, both real and imagined, kept me from committing to the couple of hours it takes.

Not so in 2026!

Behold the spookiness:

Tear It Down

I've been neglecting my garden the last few weeks. It's only been a so-so year, except for those blasted Sungold cherry tomatoes, and once I picked my pumpkin, I didn't feel that motivated to battle the weeds, milkweed aphids, and grumpy gardeners. But the season is ending, and we got a "needs attention" on our last inspection, so I put on my garden togs, leashed up the dog, and headed out into the glorious October afternoon.

Years ago, I was involved in a big DIY home renovation that involved taking the kitchen and dining room down to the studs. That summer I learned to swing a sledgehammer, which was very satisfying, and I also literally shoveled a couple of tons of plaster and lath, tipping it out the window and into a dumpster one wheelbarrow load at a time. The final product that we built on those bare bones was amazing, but I've always fondly remembered the demolition phase. 

I brought that same attitude to my garden this afternoon. Gloves on and contractor bags at the ready, I pulled out or cut back almost everything. I neatly stacked the tomato cages and dragged eight bags of last summer's growth to the gate. It's too early to think about next season, but I can see the bare bones.

BFC

"Do you always have so much energy?" one of the ladies asked me at bowling the other day. 

I hopped over from my lane to hers, considering her question.

When I didn't answer right away, she continued, "I volunteer in a first-grade class, and I swear you are just as on the go as they are!"

"Thank you," I replied. "I definitely have my downtime, though," I told her, thinking of all the mornings I lounge in my chair. "But I usually feel a little guilty when I sit around too much!" I laughed. "I always prefer to have something to do, and of course? Bowling energizes me!"

"Just like a first grader," she shook her head. "I knew it!"

"My turn to bowl!" I said and jogged away.

After Word

Since Heidi's friend and mentor passed away unexpectedly in early August, we have had two babies born to close friends and family. New life is always something to celebrate, but these two little ones also brought bittersweet reminders to appreciate the present, even as we joyfully consider their limitless futures. 

Coincidentally, the first was born on French's birthday, and the second? Shares his first name.

Itsy Bitsy and Me

I admit I was a little alarmed when what I thought was a bit of hair on the shower wall started crawling my way, but I was already turning on the water, and within seconds the stall was in a downpour. And while I didn't mean the spider any harm, I doubted its survival skills in the face of such a deluge. 

But I was wrong. That arachnid found the tiniest overhang between two subway tiles and contracted its tiny body into an even tinier speck. Oh, I could have washed the spider out, but frankly I was impressed by its staying power, and we shared the space without incident as I conducted my shower routine. 

Once the water was turned off, the plucky little attercop popped out and resumed its full size. I used a paper cup and an index card to capture it before it climbed back up the water spout and disappeared into the bathroom, and it stayed there while I toweled off, moisturized, dried my hair, and got dressed. 

Soon enough, though, I released it on the upstairs deck railing, where it immediately spun a drop line and skittered off into the October morning. 

Power of Yet

I was disappointed to read that the team I wrote about the other day didn't find conclusive evidence to finally solve the mystery of Amelia Earhart's final days, but I appreciated the growth mindset in the subject line of the email update. "The search for Amelia continues," it read, and the message ended with an upbeat summary, capped by a quote from Earhart: "Adventure is worthwhile in itself."

The Pear Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

Lately, Heidi has been crazy about pears. After I bought a bag with a half dozen pretty pears, she's been enjoying one every night after dinner, and we're on our 4th bag. Coincidentally, she received what seemed like a spam email message from her late dad, with the subject line "Pear Season." 

It turned out to be an annual reminder that Gary set for himself to start eating pears in September. Her brother still manages their dad's email account, and he forwarded the message with affection. 

"Pears are definitely like that," Heidi laughed. "You never think you want them until you have a good one. I guess my dad didn't want to forget that!"

Local Color

We wanted to walk somewhere new, but we didn't want to drive too far, which is a pretty big challenge when you've lived in the same area since 1989. 

I hemmed and hawed about it all day, until finally, around 4:30, it occurred to me that despite seeing them scores of times while whizzing by in cars, I'd never actually walked around the Marine Corps Monument and the Netherlands Carillon, so off we went. 

I didn't think parking would be a challenge at that time of day, and I was right, but our plan to add a loop through Arlington Cemetery was a no-go since they closed at 5. Even so, we put together a couple of miles, spent some time admiring both landmarks and the view, and enjoying the crisp fall weather. 

And we even got a carillon concert!

The Scoop

I assumed it was clickbait when I saw the social media caption this morning: "Is the Mystery of Amelia Earhart Solved?" Rather than feed that wolf, I opened my browser and searched for myself to see if there was any recent news about the pilot who disappeared nearly 90 years ago. 

To my surprise? There was! 

A joint expedition from Purdue University, Purdue Research Foundation, and the Archaeological Legacy Institute was, at that very moment, aboard a ship anchored off Nikumaroro Atoll in Kiribati to investigate the "Taraia Object." Someone spotted the object in Apple Maps in 2020, and subsequent research has shown images of it in the lagoon of this uninhabited island, on and off, since 1938. According to Purdue News, the team will be ready to announce tomorrow whether it is an airplane. 

My interest was piqued, and further investigation revealed that this atoll has long been considered a likely place where Earhart's round-the-world attempt ended. Over the last nine decades, people have found many artifacts there that can be circumstantially linked to Amelia and her navigator, Fred Noonan, including freckle cream, shoes, a U.S. medicine vial, a 1930s jackknife, glassware, aviation parts, and human bones, but nothing conclusive. 

So, heads up, reader! Tomorrow could be a day like September 1, 1985, when Robert Ballard found the Titanic, and one of the most enduring mysteries of our lifetimes could be solved.

Whatever it Takes

Heidi was home a little early today so that we could take Lucy to the vet. Once our dog got a [relatively] clean bill of health, I suggested going to the gym.

"But what about my baby?" Heidi asked in alarm.

"Lucy will be fine," I shrugged. "We won't be gone that long."

"No!" Heidi said. "What about my other baby?"

I thought for a minute. "Pebbles?" I asked, and she nodded. "I guess we can stop to see her on our way home."

"Fine!" Heidi replied. "But I'm only going because I get to hold the baby after."

A Hot Day in October

90 degrees on October 14 is a record-breaking phenomenon, surpassing the 1919 record of 86 degrees for the hottest day this late in the year. And yet, 90 degrees in October is nothing like 90 degrees in summer: the air was warm, but the sun was much weaker. The punishing rays of the blinding white summer sun gave way to a gentler, golden light, and even at high noon, there was plenty of shade. This 90 degrees was, dare I say? Almost as pleasant as it was unexpected.

Friendly Adversaries

It's never fun to win at bowling when someone else is having a bad day, but that's what happened today. We were competing against one of the teams tied for first place, and their first bit of bad luck came when their best bowler called to say she couldn't make it. That means her score was "blind" or preset at her average minus 10 percent.

The team member with the second-highest average bowled 30 pins below her average in the first game and was very upset when she didn't even break 100. She felt terrible, but her teammate consoled her. "We're just here for the fellowship!" 

Even so, when we got to the tenth frame in the next game, that player had a tough but not impossible split. "You can do it!" I cheered, and then, looking at the scoreboard, added, "If you do, you can break 100!"

She smiled ruefully, then took a deep breath and knocked those pins to Murgatroyd. "Thank you!" she said.

"You have to get at least 6 on your extra ball, though," I informed her.

She threw her ball down the lane and took out exactly 6, and the rest of us celebrated like it was a turkey.

"You knew just what I needed to hear!" she told me.

I winked. "Next game you'll probably bowl average. You're just building up to it."

"Wouldn't that be nice?" she sighed.

Our team ended up winning 3 of the 4 points and knocking them out of first place. She did bowl her best game in the third, though, and saved them from a sweep.

No Remorse

Occasionally, when I read about this or that local crime, my snoopy curiosity gets the best of me, and I look up the mugshots of those involved. More than a few times, I've recognized the people involved, usually former students, and that's always sad, if not entirely surprising. Sometimes, I just want to lay eyes on the people who refused to leave the restaurant, resisted arrest, spit on the police, or behaved in some other way that seems outrageous to me. 

That's what I was doing this afternoon when I came across this booking photo:

"She doesn't look upset at all!" I said to Heidi as I turned the computer around so she could see it. 

"She does look pretty pleased with herself," Heidi agreed. "It must have seemed like a very good idea at the time."

Sunday Bowlers

There was a congenial vibe when we arrived at the bowling center at 11 AM this morning. The place runs an 11-3 all-you-can-bowl special for $ 15.99, including shoes, so we arranged to meet our friend Ellen there right as they opened to make sure we got a lane. 

Even though it was bucketing rain, our timing worked, and they set us up on the league side for our free practice games. We found ourselves between two older gentlemen I recognized from the Owls, the senior league that bowls at the same time as our ladies' league. One was practicing like us, and the other was pre-bowling for his Tuesday games. They were both very friendly, too, and we all cheered each other on.

Down the way, Penny, one of the center's managers, was bowling, and she was good! Which was funny to see since she's usually behind the desk when we're there, calling out the games over 200. At one point, Chuck, the bowler on our right, was four frames into a perfect game. "Oh no!" I said, pointing to Penny. "Who's going to say, Over there on lane 27, we have Chuck with a nice 300! That's good bowling! ?"

"Don't worry," he assured me. "It won't last."

He was right. But he did bowl an enviable 191.

Not a Trick Question

Guess what Pebbles is going as for Halloween?

Pebbles Flintstone!

Guess what I replied when I saw the text with her costume?

Yabba dabba doo!

As Babysitters Do

Always on the lookout for good TV shows to stream in their entirety, I appreciated the interactive "Want to Watch" button on the NY Times list of the 100 Best TV Shows of the 21st Century. Of course, I also enjoyed the "Have Seen" button and the resulting list of 25 shows I already watched; although it's not a very braggable percentage, I love a tally sheet. Even more granular? Once I marked a show as "seen," I could also record whether I liked it. Call me easy; I only disliked two.

Even though I followed the list when it was released, 20 at a time, read it again a few times, and discussed it show by show with Treat, Riley, and Julie, it was not at all on my mind when I went to babysit yesterday. "Here's the TV remote," my friend said before she left, "watch whatever you want."

I laughed because I rarely watch television in the middle of the day, but I thanked her anyway. After she left, the baby was asleep, and her husband was working remotely in the study, and after a few minutes on my phone, I looked at the big screen above the fireplace. For some reason, Friday Night Lights, number 14 on the list, and a show I had heard a lot about but had never even seen an episode of, popped into my head. 

"Have you ever seen this?" I asked her husband when he came in to check on the still-sleeping baby and me. He shook his head no. I was about halfway into episode one, and it didn't take long to bring him up to speed. From then on, he joined me and the baby, who woke up, ate, burped, and went back to sleep, whenever there was a break in his work. We became absorbed in the drama of the small-town Texas high school football team. Somehow it seemed a good fit for the vibe of the job.

"Wow!" he said to me at the end of episode three, "you are really putting a dent in this show!"

"Without commercials?" I shrugged. "They're only about 40 minutes. Plus, isn't that what babysitters do? Watch the kids, then watch TV? It's definitely how we did it in high school!"

"That seems appropriate," he agreed, nodding at the kids on the TV .

If the Diaper Fits

"We ordered new diapers," my friend told me this afternoon when I went over to babysit. "Even though we sized up, she's still been having blowouts."

I nodded sympathetically. I had witnessed one myself just the other day.

"Anyway," my friend sighed, "I Googled diapers for short, chubby babies and got a recommendation. They'll be here tomorrow."

"That makes sense!" I laughed. "But never tell her that!"

Oxon Hill Farm

"Rhode Island Red," I pointed at the chicken and turned to my friend Mary. "Exceptional breed of chicken!"

"I loved that story," Mary sighed, immediately recognizing the quote from Marshfield Dreams by Ralph Fletcher, excerpts of which we had taught for many years.

We were at Oxon Hill Farm, a National Park Service site on the eastern bank of the Potomac just south of DC, and quite a few chickens were milling about. It was not our planned destination; in fact we had already spent a fun hour smacking golf balls at Topgolf. If I hadn't missed the ramp on the way home, we would have been zipping over the river by then instead of strolling the grounds of this little working farm.

The bookstore and visitor center were right ahead, and a friendly ranger greeted us as we pushed through the door. "What can you tell us about this place?" Mary asked, and he was off and running, giving us at least ten minutes of history and an overview of the present-day operation.

There was the usual stripping of land rights from the indigenous Piscataway, followed by a Protestant revolution that turned Maryland into a royal colony during the reign of William and Mary, some War of 1812 action, and, of course, slavery. After the Civil War, the farm was divided and subdivided until it was sold to the federal government in 1891. For the next 60 years, it was used as a place where patients from St. Elizabeths Hospital for the Insane worked therapeutically, conveniently also producing food for the hospital.

And now? It's a place where lots of city school kids come to learn about and experience a farm, 289 acres with chickens, cows, horses, and pigs, less than 10 miles from our nation's capital.

The Days Are Just Packed

The contract for my consulting/coaching gig is in limbo, and it looks like the school system finally got their sub program to the point where one no longer has her pick of dozens of jobs, so my days have opened up.

Or have they? 

I'm still bowling, walking my neighbor's dog, and going on adventures with my friend Mary. Plus, I've volunteered to give our friends with the new baby a couple of hours two days a week; I'll hold, feed, or change Pebbles while they fold laundry, do dishes, take showers, or whatever. A little dopamine and oxytocin can only do me good!

Thank you, Gemini!

I accidentally mistyped my blog's address the other night and ended up on the wrong website. When I typed the name again, my browser triggered an AI search, which turned out to be very entertaining. 

It looks like you are searching for tswalkingthedog, which primarily references a personal blog hosted on Blogger (Blogspot).

The blog is run by an educator and writer named Tracey. On her blog, Tracey shares that she is a dedicated literacy coach, educator, and writer who uses her platform to document the quiet, meaningful moments of everyday life.

• Writing Style: Her posts focus heavily on finding extraordinary meaning in the ordinary—whether that is a funny interaction with a student, a quiet morning walk, a classroom breakthrough, or reflections on the craft of teaching itself.

• The Blog Persona: The title of her blog, "Walking the Dog," serves as a metaphor for the steady, intentional pace of her writing process—taking time to step back, observe the world, and process it through storytelling.

A quintessential post from Tracey’s blog, "Walking the Dog", perfectly illustrates her signature style: finding deep meaning, humor, or quiet beauty in everyday routine. Her most defining posts focus on mundane moments transformed by an educator's eye. A few excellent examples of her typical writing themes include:

• "My Agenda": Often written at the start of a writing challenge, this type of post centers on the anticipation of a new month, setting a mindful intention to observe the world closely.

• "Gray's Anatomy": A perfect example of her narrative focus, where she uses an ordinary observation on a dreary March day to reflect on aging, teaching, or human connection.

• "Nerding Out": A classic "micro-slice" celebrating simple comforts—like the precise ritual of brewing a genuinely good morning cup of coffee.

• "Red Light, Green Light": A playful yet insightful reflection on the natural pauses, stops, and starts in both a school day and a writer's life.

The Core Formula of Her Posts: If you look at the architecture of any classic post on Walking the Dog, it usually follows a specific pattern:

1. The Hook: An ordinary event (a rainy commute, a funny phrase muttered by a student, or a quiet walk).

2. The Shift: Tracey pauses to look closer at the detail most people would brush past.

3. The Takeaway: She ties it back to a universal truth about patience, the joy of learning, or the importance of slowing down.

I couldn't resist. "She sounds pretty great!" I typed in the chatbox.

She really does. It takes a lot of dedication to consistently show up, slow down, and find the beauty in the ordinary pieces of a school day or a quiet morning walk. Educators like Tracey, who actively practice the writing craft they teach, bring a unique kind of empathy and passion to their students.

Aw, shucks!

A New Record

10-4 Good Buddies!

I saw a Christmas commercial today. 

And why not? There are only 81 shopping days left until the big day. So put away your pumpkin spice, folks. Evidently, it's already eggnog season.

Another Dimension

"Did you have a good run?" our friend asked her husband.

"I did!" he answered.

"Was it nice to be away from your baby?" she cracked.

"Sooo nice," he sighed. Then he looked at us. "To be clear, I love my child, but..." His eyes widened, and he shook his head.

"She's all-consuming right now?" I suggested.

"So true," his wife nodded.

"We have entered the baby zone," agreed her husband.

"As vast as space and as timeless as infinity?" I asked.

"Definitely," he laughed.

Don't Lose Any Sleep Over It

I shifted my weight from foot to foot and scanned the retail shelf idly as I waited. We were at a local pharmacy for Heidi to get her COVID booster. "Those kids are disgusting!" she had said when I picked her up from school this afternoon. "If they can? They will make me sick for sure!"

Now, as she waited behind the partition to receive her shot, the particular section I was standing by was dedicated to sleeping. It was an exhaustive inventory, to say the least, spanning the shelves from bottom to top for at least half of an aisle. It included melatonin, chemical sleep aids, face masks, earplugs, electronic monitors, sound machines, and even some sort of smart alarm clock.

When did sleep, or lack of it, become such a big business? I wondered. Has it always been such an issue and we are just now addressing it head-on, or has insomnia escalated? Does it vary by region or nation? What is keeping so many people awake?

"All done!" Heidi interrupted my thoughts. "That's one less thing to worry about."

Oof Oof Oof All the Way Home

This little one has hairballs.
This little one has diarrhea.
This little one has poop stuck in her fur.
This little one has a cough.

And this one cleaned and saged the house today.

Hopefully? They will all be on the mend soon.

Twenty-Seven Percent

"We're having a quick stand-up staff meeting," my former principal joked when I walked into bowling yesterday.

I laughed. "Is Ellen here?" I asked, and in response, she lifted her chin down the lanes.

I went down and wished my friend and former colleague good luck on her first official day as a member of the Ladies Executive Bowling League, and as we chatted, we were joined by other retired colleagues-- a Spanish teacher, attendance secretary, science teacher turned principal and assistant superintendent, and of course our principal and assistant principal. The only one missing was our director of counseling, because she was still on summer vacation in Maine.

"Wow!" I said to the principal, "It really is a staff meeting!"

Look What Came Early!

I like to eat mints when I'm bowling; they keep me sharp and, coincidentally, curb my appetite, so all I do is bowl, bowl, bowl, bowl, bowl.

My favorite brand is Ice Breakers. I stumbled upon their pleasing hockey puck-sized packaging last December when a teacher I was supposed to observe canceled when I arrived at the school. I had an hour or so to kill before my next appointment, and a big-box home improvement store sat next to a big-box general merchandise store right down the road, so I stopped at both. I bought some fun new holiday lights at the first, and then, while I was browsing the aisles at the second, my eye fell on Candy Cane-flavored Ice Breakers. Considering my next observation was in 45 minutes, breath mints seemed like a good idea. 

Wow! Were they good! I tucked them in my satchel and slipped a couple in my mouth before every observation from then on. Candy Cane was no longer available when I needed to restock, so I settled for spearmint, which wasn't as good, but better than peppermint and much better than wintergreen.

The habit first transferred to keeping a tin in the car, then to keeping another in my bowling bag. They are good in many situations: substitute teaching, testing, before working out, etc. Lately, though, spearmint has been in short supply, and I'm running low. Recently, it occurred to me to order them online, maybe even in bulk, and when I sat down to do so yesterday, there was just enough crispness in the morning air to make me wonder if it might be time to switch back to... Candy Cane!

And sure enough? It was! Eight little pucks full of mints arrived at my door this afternoon, and I don't think its a minute too early to start celebrating.

Spoiled

It wasn't that long ago that I was complaining about how deserted the neighborhood seemed after the federal government radically revised its teleworking policies. Then, I missed seeing my neighbors as I walked Lucy each early afternoon.

Well, that attitude has shifted. The three of us saw well over a dozen other dogs and their walkers on our 45-minute jaunt this afternoon, and maybe it's that my little neighbor dog, Berto, is a little more reactive than Lucy? At any rate, my shoulder wants to know where the hell they all came from and why they weren't at work.

For What Ails You

Lucy has been suffering from a particularly nasty bout of bad belly; she even had a rare inside-the-house accident that prompted me to replace the living room rug. Heidi carefully curates her diet and supplements, but none of the usual interventions have been effective.

"I think it might be time for a visit to the vet," I sighed this morning, but after some discussion, we were still on the fence about spending hundreds of dollars on the usual inconclusive diagnosis and treatment plan.

"There is a last resort," I said. "I can cook her favorite meal: hamburger and rice, and maybe we can get a can of pumpkin, too."

"Do we have any butternut squash?" Heidi asked. "She LOVES it when you steam that for her."

We did indeed have several squashes fresh from the garden, so I went ahead and peeled, diced, and steamed one of those, then I sautéed some organic 93-7 ground beef, and cooked a batch of Jasmine rice.

"She licked the bowl clean!" Heidi announced after dinner. "Fingers crossed it will take care of the problem."

Yet another testimony to the power of a home-cooked meal!

The Right Clothes

"Is the picnic still on?" a neighbor texted about the event at our community garden.

I looked outside; it was pouring. The steady rain from the Nor'easter moving up the coast was expected to last all day, but before I could reply with the certainty that our gathering was canceled, an email hit my inbox.

Yes, we WILL have the picnic today! We encourage you to bring your beach umbrellas and other items for this purpose. Please come and celebrate - and if you can't face the rain we will have a hamburger, hot dog, or veggie burger for you to pick up around 4 pm in your to-go box! 

 Why? There's no good rain date for the party planners. NOAA says it's to be 1/10 of an inch of rain. AI (ala Duck Duck Go) says that means slightly wet surfaces without leaving puddles. Typically that means a light shower lasting 30 to 45 minutes. 

My shopper today dares it to rain on our plans! We know you have rain clothes - time to make it worth your purchase! Still time to grab a rain poncho you can recycle when done.

The picnic did go on, but without me. Fellow gardeners shared pictures of folks in foul weather gear gamely munching on burgers at picnic tables sheltered by collapsible canopies. I guess I just don't share that brand of crazy.  

From the French, "Retirer"

After the success of our visit to the National Inventors Hall of Fame, my friend Mary and I took another little retirement field trip yesterday. This time, we went to Planet Word in downtown DC. 

Since its opening in October 2020, I have received many, many promotional emails from the place, which is understandable, considering that I am an English teacher and it is dedicated to literacy and learning. Even so, when I was actually teaching? I never felt like I had time to visit, despite several fun-sounding activities and events, but now that Mary and I are both out of the classroom, we have the time and opportunity to check the place out.

It did not disappoint! The museum has three floors of fun, engaging, interactive exhibits that explore the history and use of words and language. We played games, took quizzes, sang karaoke, designed advertisements, interacted with presentations, and watched videos as we worked our way from top to bottom. Our fellow visitors were a mix of families, couples, and small school groups, ranging in age from about 3 to 70-something, and everyone seemed to be having a pretty good time. The staff was great-- young (so young!) friendly, and informed.

As we were on our way out, the woman at the front desk had obviously overheard our conversation. "Are you teachers by any chance?" she asked.

We laughed. "Retired!" Mary told her. "But that didn't stop us from thinking about how we could have used this place to support our lessons."

She nodded. "I hope you're enjoying your retirement!"

"To be honest?" I said. "Being here without having to worry about 100 middle schoolers was definitely a lot more fun!"

That's Right Honey

I was grumbling last night about tariffs and how they've affected clothing costs. A woman of simple tastes, I've worn my fleece-lined flannel shirts to tatters over the last ten years. Both of my favorites have holes in the sleeves, nubby fleece prominently peeking through frayed flannel, and all I want is a replacement. Unfortunately, the famous outdoor outfitter I bought them from has redesigned them, adding pockets and swapping the buttons out for snaps. 

In a pinch, I might be convinced to go with the newer model, but not for a hundred bucks a shirt. Yes! One HUNDRED dollars for a flannel shirt. Heck, I thought they were overpriced back when they were $39.99. 

"Why don't you look on one of those thrifting, consignment sites?" Heidi suggested. "Or eBay?" She shrugged.

Ding! An angel got its wings! 

After a cursory search, I found exact replacements for the shirts I have loved to shreds on eBay for twenty bucks each, and they will be here next week. I almost choked up as I clicked the Buy Now button. Imagine! Replacing the clothes I love with exact copies for a fraction of the price. Now that's good technology.

BSN Redux

There are a few things I REALLY don't miss about being a teacher. Besides the long hours, which were really why I decided to call it quits, the one thing I never liked was Back-to-School Night. It was always so awkward and weird and rushed and tiring and and and. BSN is tomorrow, and I'll miss Heidi when she's there, but I won't be sad that I'm home.

On another topic, one of the things I love about this blog is that it offers me an anecdotal record of the last 17 and a half years of my life, including all my recorded thoughts on Back-to-School Night. It was kind of fun and illuminating to review them, and if you have any mind to do so yourself, just click the tag at the bottom of this post.

And as for the occasion itself, at least I got some writing out of it!

Hunger Strikes

This season, they changed my bowling league start time from 10 am to 11. It might not seem like it, but that one hour makes a big difference. We used to finish around 12:30, and I would be home by 1 at the latest, but now, of course, I don't get home until around 2. 

That leaves a big hole in the middle of the day; by the time I walk the dogs, it's late afternoon, and I haven't accomplished much. The extra hour on the other side does come in a little handy, though. This morning I was able to bake off the bread I made yesterday and deliver a loaf, still warm from the oven, to one of my bowling buddies. I also have plenty of time for yoga and meditation. 

On the other hand, I'm usually starving by the time I roll my last frame, and when I look around at my fellow bowlers, I see that they are, too. There is a lot more food on the tables this year! In fact, I almost think that's why the bowling center made the change. Not many folks ordered much more than coffee when we were bowling in the morning; I guess at that hour, the snack bar staples of burgers, wings, and fries didn't seem that appealing. 

But plenty of stomachs must be grumbling from noon to one, because isn't that right about lunchtime anyway? The menu is a much better fit for that time of day, and it's showing in the food sales. I just hope they don't get in their heads that they want to sell more beer! Otherwise, we might become a night league.

A Worthy Contraption

What a contraption!

I thought to myself as I assembled my apple peeler to process the half peck we brought back from the foothills yesterday. 

Even so, I appreciated the heft of its cast iron body and the strength of the suction cup that anchored it to the counter. I understood the three-pronged skewer that held the apple and the wooden crank I used to turn the rod and push the apple forward, but certain springs and wingnuts were a bit mystifying. In general, though, the elegance of the machine, the ingenious way it simultaneously peeled, cored, and sliced the apple, was very pleasing, and I made quick work of those apples, some drying in the dehydrator and the rest in apple sauce.

Later, I wondered who had invented the thing; it seemed so old-fashioned, yet irreplaceable. A quick search revealed that it was David Goodell in the mid-19th century. Given my recent trip to the Inventors' Hall of Fame, I wondered if I had seen his name on the wall, so I searched for that next. It turns out that no, he has not been inducted into the NIHF. I did recall that the docent had mentioned that public nominations are accepted, though, and it didn't take long to find the online form. 

A little more research was in order to complete it, but I was up for that. I found out that Goodell founded a manufacturing company based on the peeler, that the company operated until Chicago Cutlery bought it in the 90s, that Goodell was Governor of New Hampshire from 1889-1893, and that he had a co-inventor, E. L. Pratt. 

I also discovered that the invention let one person do work that previously took entire families several days: processing large quantities of apples for winter storage and food. The Goodell Company also designed and built all sorts of other food-processing tools: corn shuckers, cherry pitters, peach and potato parers, bean cutters, and good knives. Their mill building is a historic site in New Hampshire.

I checked that nothing controversial, scandalous, or offensive appeared in Goodell's background or writing (AI assured me there wasn't), so I completed the nomination form and hit submit.

Here There Be Bears

Lucy is slightly ahead of us on the trail when a rustling from the undergrowth to our left makes her jump and duck behind Heidi. 

"It must have been something serious," Heidi laughs. "Because she doesn't usually get spooked so easily."

We continue along the grassy trail and around a bend,  coming upon an enormous pile of poop. "That has to be from a bear," I say, and we scan the woods and meadows around us.

We are on a short day trip to Sky Meadows State Park and some nearby apple orchards. A half-peck of Cameos are in the car, and now we are exploring the Corporal Morgan Trail. As we take stock of our surroundings, I recount something I had read earlier. "One of the orchard websites' FAQs had a question about bears," I tell Heidi.

"What did it say?" she asks.

"Yes! There are bears. They love the peaches and apples. If you see a bear, leave the orchard immediately."

"That last part seems a little obvious," she notes.

We continue on our way and are relieved to make it back to the car about an hour later with no bear sightings.

Gently but Firmly

"You know what shouldn't be engaged?" the fitness instructor asked. 

I was at the gym doing my latest go-to workout, the rowing machine, when the question came in the 11th minute of the 30-minute session. I appreciate the coaching provided in these recorded routines; I didn't know anything about rowing form when I started a few months ago, and I'm often surprised at how much refinement I still notice.

"Your jaw!" she said. 

I laughed and opened my mouth to break the grimace and give my face some slack. I relaxed my shoulders and sat up straighter while I was at it, looking for a little flow in the next 19 minutes, then I drove my legs back and rowed.

Do You Remember?

September 11, twenty-five years ago, marked the start of three consecutive school years that began with considerable and historic disruption. Of course, that year saw the attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon, which impacted our school district directly, shutting us down on September 12 and leaving us to cope with the aftermath for months, if not years.

The following October, our area was terrorized by the three-week rampage of the DC snipers. Ten people were killed, and three were wounded pumping gas, in retail parking lots, and at a school. One of the women killed lived a block from us, and she was shot in the parking lot of the Home Depot where we often shopped. Of course our students were frightened and destabilized, and it was hard to give them any sense of safety, especially because we were scared ourselves, although we tried.

The next year, on September 18, 2003, our region was hit by Hurricane Isabel. The storm brought sustained winds of up to 60 mph, toppling trees and power lines. The Federal government was closed for days, and so were our schools. Many households were without power and water for over a week, but ours stayed on, so Heidi and I had some extra time off while the cleanup began. We found an ad in the classifieds for some puppies for sale up in Pennsylvania, and the time seemed right to get Heidi the dog she'd been wishing for.

We brought our own little hurricane, Isabel, home a couple of days later. She was a great dog, always a silver lining and maybe a lucky charm, too. Because whether it was the rule of three, something else, or nothing at all, that hurricane was the last fall catastrophe to strike.

The Weight of the World

"Hi, Ms. S," someone greeted me, a little shyly. 

I looked up from the pork chops and smiled when I read the store manager's name tag. "Oh my gosh! Marvin! It's good to see you." He had been in my sixth-grade class back in 2001, which put him in his mid-thirties. "How are you? How's your sister, Erika?"

Knowing I remembered him made him smile. "We're good," he nodded.

"And didn't your nephews go through our school, too?" I asked.

"Yeah, but they're both in high school now," he told me.

"Wow!" I shook my head. "Time flies, right?"

He shook his head, too. "Nah," he replied, "I think I've felt all of it. It seems like it's been a long time."

I smiled again and shrugged. "Fair enough. I hope they've been pretty good times."

"Mostly," he said. "I have my hands full, but I can't complain."

I gave him an impulsive hug as we said goodbye.

"Wow," I said to Heidi as he walked away. "He was not that philosophical in middle school."

Road Sage

We were about halfway to Heidi's school this morning when her phone chimed with a text message. "It's G!" she said, surprised.

The Jeep was in the shop, so we were temporarily a one-car household, and after hearing the horror stories about her commute, this was the first time I'd actually experienced it myself. The traffic and congestion on the four-mile route were indeed aggravating.

I was right next to ya'll on the hill, the text read. It sure was a nice way to start the day.

"I didn't even see him," I said, shaking my head.

"He saw you," Heidi laughed. "He says you were very focused with your hands right at ten and two."

I shrugged. "I was annoyed by the traffic," I replied, "so I'm kind of glad I didn't do anything asshole-ish. I guess it's a good reminder that everyone in the other cars is just somebody's friend, and they're all trying to get where they're going just like you."

Flow Faster, Please

Lucy was having some digestive issues that chewed up (almost literally) a big chunk of my morning before bowling at 11. I've found my performance on the lanes is better if I do my yoga and meditation first, but after walking Lucy all over the neighborhood and cleaning a huge, grass-filled vomit puddle off the sidewalk, there was no way I could do the whole 45 minutes and still make it on time. 

So I turned to a trick I haven't used in a while: speeding up the playback on the recording for the yoga part. Once I get past the helium balloon quality of the yogi's voice as she guides us through our kriya, I always enjoy the compressed version. It's purely psychological, of course; knowing that when she says three minutes, I only have to do two makes the whole flow so much more doable. 

Sure, it's a head game, but it worked for me at the bowling center today. I started the morning with a strike, bowled considerably over my average for the day, and our team took three of the four available points. And it was also nice to return to a barf-free house.

We Can't Go on Together

The phone rang when I was in the ladies' room. I had handed over my keys to the service advisor only moments earlier and then made a quick pit stop before settling into the waiting room for the 90 minutes they said my routine maintenance would take. "Um, hello?" My voice echoed off the tiles of the cavernous bathroom.

"This is blah blah from blah blah Subaru," said a chipper voice. "Do you have a minute to talk about trading up for a new Outback?"

"Hmm!" I replied. "I happen to be at your dealership right now."

"I know," she responded. "Where are you sitting?"

"I'm actually in the ladies' room," I told her.

"Oh." She paused momentarily. "Well, I'll come find you in a few minutes."

"I'm not going to trade in my car today," I said, "but thanks."

She found me a little while later anyway and offered me my personalized options for a new car. Once again, I politely declined, confident that no matter what the bill was today, it would be less than the car payment she was offering. 

She went on her way, leaving me to stew a bit. I always have my maintenance and repairs done by the dealership. I know it costs a bit more, but until today it gave me peace of mind, because I assumed they would stand by their product. 

But now I see that they may have competing interests. Rather than win-winning by getting my money, either for service or my next Subaru, it seems like they now prefer that I buy a new car, and that erodes my trust in them. Which is just one more thing to worry about. 

Cheat SHeet Cheat

As Heidi grumbled about the "cheat sheet" (a simplified version of her students' IEPs that, in theory, would help their gen ed teachers better understand and accommodate them) that she was required to make, it occurred to me that I could help with it. 

It was supposed to be a document with tabs and tables, and creating it required copying and pasting information from the right places in other documents, all skills that I certainly have, rusty though they may be getting from disuse since I retired. "I'll do it for you!" I offered, and she raised a suspicious eyebrow at my enthusiasm, and I knew she thought I was trying to show her that she was complaining about nothing.

But she was overlooking the pleasure of constructing something both well-made and useful. Which my cheat sheet? Totally was!

Down for the Count

It struck suddenly.

We were just back from a nice walk along the river, and I was sitting on the couch while Heidi fed the animals. The ingredients for risotto with sausage and broccoli were prepped neatly on the counter, ready for me to tap in as soon as the kitchen was clear. I took a sip of my beer, and all of a sudden my stomach rumbled, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Stunned, I breathed deeply through my nose and tried to settle myself, but an intense headache cracked through my skull. The thought of cooking, never mind eating, made bile rise in my throat.

I staggered to the kitchen. "I need to go lie down," I told Heidi. 

And that was it for me. I put my pajamas on and slept for 12 hours. (I think it was the chicken.)

Ish

Unexpectedly caught without a car today, I was forced to entertain myself either at home or on foot. So, after my dog buddies and I returned from a spin around the neighborhood, I decided that today might be a good day to try one of the dishes on the 40 essential list. I could have ordered something to be delivered, but I'm not used to eating much restaurant food in the middle of the day, so I figured I should walk if I could. 

That narrowed my options to orangish chicken at Chiko, so I placed an order for pickup and headed there. All the way, I imagined this becoming routine—I could spend my dog-walking money on lunch once a week and get in some extra steps, too. And the thought was still on my mind when I poured the orange juice reduction over a generous portion of crispy fried chicken thighs garnished with candied jalapeño, tangerine peel, and crunchy garlic and dug in. 

It was good, and I definitely ate my fill, but it wasn't sublime or transformative. I'm not sure why I thought it might be. Maybe I was just hungry, or caught up in the novelty of the adventure. Either way? That's one more dish checked off the list.

Giving a Fig

After seeing my olive, lemon, and cinnamon trees, the next time she visited my friend Amy brought me five fig twigs to cultivate from her tree in Arizona. "I think you can just stick them in the ground," she told me, but I was skeptical, so I did a little research.

"I know figs are controversial," read the thumbnail from the first site I consulted, "but hear me out."

Huh? Who said figs are controversial?

Scanning the page I saw that it was a Christian-leaning chat, and I was intrigued enough to delve a little deeper into the situation, which led me to a story about Jesus that I never recall hearing, even after a childhood full of Sunday mass and chatechism. 

According to the gospels of Matthew and Mark, on the day after his triumphal entrance to Jerusalem (Palm Sunday), Jesus noticed a fig tree in leaf. Even though it was too early for any fruit, he was hungry and approached it hopefully. Upon findind no figs, Jesus cursed the tree. The next day, his apostles passed the spot again and found the fig had withered and died.

What? My recollection is of a Jesus who was pretty chill, with the exception of the money lenders in the temple episode. Why would he curse a tree for not having fruit when it was out of season?

It turns out that my question is one of *the* questions of New Testament scholars. What does this out of character reaction mean, and what does that fig symbolize? Are his actions and words meant to be taken literally or metphorically? There is no clear consensus.

In terms of timing, this episode comes right after Jesus cleans house in the temple, and just days before he is arrested and crucified. It is just one of many dramatic events that occur during Holy Week, but even so, there is no completely agreed upon interpretation of his curse on the fig tree, which contributes to its controversy.

My own fig cuttings stayed in water for a few weeks on a bright windowsill away from direct sun. When they began to develop tiny, wispy roots, I dipped them in rooting hormone and then, as Amy suggested, stuck them in potting soil. 

And what do you know? Right now, I have five little fig trees with some healthy looking leaves. I'm managing my expectations, though, so no cursing necessary, yet.

Charmed, I'm Sure

My little dog-walking client, Berto, wasn't so sure he should go with me this afternoon. Fortunately, I had one of his besties, Lucy, with me, so he hesitantly left his house. He did not want to go far from home, though, and I can respect that. His side-eye said, for all the world, that he was sure I was dog-napping him, and even the treats I brought offered little comfort. 

He's a sweet dog, though. Rescued as a puppy from Puerto Rico after Hurricane Ernesto in 2022, he has every right to be suspicious. But I? 

Am going to win him over!

Back to Back Ws

I was full of bowling news as I settled into the dentist's chair. My cleaning and checkup had been scheduled months ago, before the bowling league changed our start time from 10 to 11, and I'd had to rush to make the appointment on time. 

I had also told my team and our opponents I was on a deadline, so everyone picked up the usual leisurely pace. Whether because of or in spite of my focused game, I ended up bowling pretty well —winning two of the three games myself with scores of 145 and 139. 

My hygienist has been cleaning my teeth for about five years now, and he is wonderful: fast, gentle, unscolding, and a good conversationalist, too. When I was working, he always asked about school, my classes, and students, and now that I'm retired, we talk about my other activities. He was really into the bowling conversation, too, or at least he convincingly pretended to be fascinated by the minutiae of the game, the weighted balls, oil patterns, and arcane league rules. He was also interested in the fact that even though they are senior leagues, some of the bowlers still crush it.

"Oh yeah," I told him during a spit break, "they regularly call out the people who have bowled over 200, and there are at least five every week."

"That's going to be you someday soon!" he said as he finished polishing and flossing. "We are just about all done here," he added. "And you definitely get the prize for the easiest mouth to clean today!"

"Thanks!" I replied. "I'll report back in 6 months."

Traces of Change

There was just the slightest hint of a cool breeze when I took Lucy out around 6 this evening. And the shadows were on the verge of getting long in the faintly golden hue of sunlight. All the pools were closed, and there were no signs of any cook outs or picnics. 

Then, as we rounded a corner we met a neighbor and former colleague who is now a high school principal. She, too, had her dog on leash, but they were not on a walk, far from it. She was wearing her pajamas, and seemed about ready to turn in for the night.

So long, summer.

Mad Money

"Would you have any interest in walking Berto a couple of times a week?" a neighbor texted this morning and offered me a nominal payment.

"As long as you're flexible about time and days," I replied. 

"Very flexible!" she answered.

And since I usually walk Lucy every afternoon, unless it's really hot or raining, why not? I can help out a neighbor, and bonus! It's yet another addition to my retirement resume.

Never Too Many

Every year, I remind myself not to plant too many Sungold cherry tomatoes, but it seems like no matter how many or how few plants I start with, I end up with a hell of a lot of cherry tomatoes. This year, my response has been to dehydrate them and then grind the desiccated little fruit into powder. It's an elegant solution, for the result is jewel-toned, golden, and intensely flavored, both beautiful and delicious. 

I guess there's no such thing as too many tomatoes.

Pumpkin Power

As I carried my big pumpkin home yesterday, I remembered the last time I'd had a tiny bit of success with pumpkin growing. The year was 2019, and despite the garden being a bit neglected because we had spent the entire month of August in Minnesota with my mom as she battled cancer, by early October I had a pretty little softball-sized pumpkin, which I proudly posted a picture of on our family photo blog.

Coincidentally, some good friends of my mom's shared a picture of the huge pumpkin they had grown with her the same day. When she showed the photo to my sister, who was out there with her, Courtney said, "Don't show Tracey!" I saw it anyway, and I've always thought it was funny and sweet how they wanted to shelter me from pumpkin envy. 

Next, my thoughts turned to Anne and Lowell, the pumpkin growers themselves, and I wondered how they were, because we had fallen out of touch in the seven years since my mom died. You can imagine my amazement then when my phone buzzed a few minutes later with a text message from Anne! 

It turned out that she had inadvertently texted me instead of another Tracey she knew, so we exchanged a few messages catching up, and she ended our conversation warmly: Guess I was meant to say hello and connect with you today, too!

The Great One

Welp, it's taken me sixteen years of gardening, but I FINALLY did it.

 I grew a big pumpkin!

Sneex Peak

My friend Mary and I usually take a walk whenever we get together, but it's been a few weeks since I've seen her, and it's been so hot that I suggested doing something else today. What that might be, I had no idea, but fortunately, Mary was more resourceful than I. How about the Inventors Hall of Fame? she texted, with a link. 

Once I clicked? I was in! 

The IHF is in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office complex located just west of Old Town Alexandria. Street parking was easy to find, and once we turned onto Dulaney Street, we followed the colorful trademark seals on the sidewalk to the Madison Building. Security guards checked our IDs on the front steps and ushered us through the huge revolving door into an atrium lined with banners showing trademarked items such as Haas avocados and Honeycrisp apples, and small display cases with miniature prototypes of familiar, patented items from history, like a horse-drawn fire truck and a railroad light. 

We were a little confused as to where the actual museum was, but as Mary pushed through the door to the gift shop, we were greeted by a friendly docent. "You actually have the museum to yourselves," she told us. "Let me give you an overview and show you around a little."

She led us into the gallery space and explained how the exhibits were arranged. "On this wall you'll see information about the most recent inductees," she pointed. "Like Sara Blakely. She's the billionaire who invented Spanx!" 

"And they are actually installing the newest exhibit down there," she said, waving to the far end of the room. "It's the dress she wore to the gala when she was inducted."

We nodded appreciatively, and she left us to explore the museum. It was very fun! We started by watching a movie about Esther Takeuchi, who invented a compact lithium battery that can last for up to 10 years in implantable defibrillators. Then we sat in the vintage Mustang on display and tried to guess six trademarked products from clues on the walls. Next, we took a quiz on trademarked mascots in advertising, which we aced, followed by another on the color palette of familiar logos, which we did not ace. 

We were good at spotting the knockoffs in a display with authentic items and their counterfeit counterparts, and had just come back into the main gallery when the same docent hailed us again. "They just finished the display," she said. "You will literally be the first visitors to ever see it!"

We hurried down to where a couple of women were dusting off their hands with satisfaction. "Tell them about the dress," the docent asked one of them. "It has the designs of some of her patented items on it," she told us.

"This was her first patent," the young woman explained, pointing to where the mannequin's right hand rested near the hip. "Sara wanted it in a prominent place. And the shoes are down here near the hem. She knew what she wanted when we talked about the design."

"Wait, you're the designer?" I asked in surprise.

"Yes, ma'am," she answered, nodding humbly.

"What!" I laughed. "We get to be the first ones to see the exhibit AND meet the designer! How are we so lucky? And where is the press? This should be a VIP experience!"

300 Pins a Week

I received more than a few spontaneous hugs and countless high-fives and fist bumps this morning as my bowling league season commenced. It was fun to catch up with the ladies as we cheered for each other across all ten lanes, hooting up a 7-10 pickup here and applauding a nice turkey there. Even though I personally was more than a little rusty, I eked out my average, in an inconsistent sort of way. 

And one other thing was clear-- I'm not the rookie anymore.

Here's Looking at You, Kid

"She's the most skeptical baby in the world!" Pebbles' dad told us when we finally met her yesterday. "All she does is give you the side-eye whenever you change her, feed her, talk to her, whatever."

"She may come by that honestly," I laughed, because he is the questioning, analytical type himself.

And, sure enough, she did side-eye me with raised eyebrows as I cooed and rocked her, but you know who she looked right at? Heidi! 

No one can resist those big blue eyes, not even the most skeptical baby in the world.

My Next Retirement Project

I'm going to try to eat every dish on The Washington Post's list of the "40 most essential dishes" of the D.C. area. 

So far? I've had five, which puts me in the top 24 percent of readers who've used the interactive checklist so far. And that does beg the question of exactly how essential these dishes are to our area, but nevertheless, I will carry on.

So, this week I'm going with low-hanging fruit: Chiko's "orangish chicken," since there is a location right down at Shirlington, and the fish tacos from Taqueria Picoso, which is also very close to home.

Of course, there are also some delivery options, but eventually I will have to venture a little further from home than usual, and isn't that really the point?

S-M-L Talk

"Are you going anywhere for the holiday next weekend?" the nail technician asked me as she cleaned up my cuticles.

"No," I answered, and then employed my favorite conversational move: "How about you?"

"No," she replied.

"Were you able to take any vacations at all this summer?" I asked, building on my first question to keep the conversation going.

"No," she said, shaking her head again. 

I was just about to give in to the not unpleasant silence when she added, "My kids finally moved to this country," she told me, "and we've been very busy getting them settled."

"That would take a lot of time," I agreed. "Do they have any children who will be in school?"

"Yes," she said. "He starts on Monday."

"In Arlington?" I clarified, because everyone else has started already. "Which school? I used to be a teacher in Arlington."

"Kenmore," she answered. "Eighth grade."

"Did he learn English before they moved?" I asked.

"No," she said. "He has a lot to catch up."

"They're really good at that at Kenmore," I assured her. "They have a lot of students who are learning English. Does he like school?"

"He loves it!" she said proudly.

"Oh, I know that kind of student," I laughed. "I bet he'll do really well."

"I hope so," she smiled, and our conversation flowed effortlessly from there.

What's Flat, Round, and Obsolete?

Besides the penny?

I recently read a recipe for a tuna tostada. Topped with seared, rare tuna, avocados, and a fresh salsa of melon and cucumber, the dish appealed to me as a quick, easy, light, and summery meal. Try as I might, however, I could not find tostada shells for sale at any of my local groceries. 

At first, I was confused because I distinctly recall buying the flat, crunchy shells all the time for all sorts of southwestern-inspired dishes. But then I took a minute to consider the last time I had made or ordered a tostada of any kind, and I realized it had been well over thirty years. 

I knew I could fry my own soft tortillas, or even just break crunchy taco shells, but even so? I mourned the loss of something I didn't even know was gone.

Board of Bulletins

"I swear half the people I went to grad school with only wanted their teaching degree so they could do bulletin boards," a teacher laughed yesterday when she saw us carrying the telltale roll of fadeless paper. "Personally?" I think they're a tedious waste of time."

"They do seem low priority when you have so much other stuff to do," I agreed. "But they are so old-school, literally, that I can't imagine ever getting rid of them."

I thought back to my own years in elementary school and those standard letters and cardboard cut-outs of presidents, Cupid, snowmen, punctuation marks, math operation symbols, shamrocks, etc. And those classic wavy borders! I do admit to a bit of a thrill when I put up the first bulletin board of my own! But the novelty quickly wore off, and by the end of my career, I had resorted to year-long displays with just a few rotating pieces. (Opening the stapler and punching it with the heel of my hand never got old, though.)

Heidi tells a funny story about a student at the special ed school where she first worked who loved to tear down papers as he went by the bulletin board next to his classroom. "Put his work on there!" suggested a behavior specialist, and that did the trick. He never bothered the board again.

I have my own story of bulletin board defiance. Years ago, when we got a new assistant principal, he walked through the hallway at preservice week and ordered all the teams to "freshen up" their bulletin boards. As team leader, this edict rubbed me the wrong way, especially coming without context from someone new to the building, so rather than take any time for the bulletin board, I put in a work order to have it removed from the wall. No board? No problem.

Of course, the guy never noticed, because he had no idea where the bulletin boards were; he was just planning to inspect the walls. A few years later, though, at the beginning of yet another school year, the administration assigned instructional assistants the task of doing the bulletin boards. "We noticed you don't have one in your area," the principal told me with concern, so we're having one installed."

By then, I was no longer team leader, and I had a great idea for our board. It was called "Advice from Dolphin," since we were the Dolphin Team, and was based on the "Advice from Nature" series of posters by Ilan Shamir, combining his poetic guidance with practical suggestions from former students. One of the maxims in his poem is, "Find your life's porpoise."

Evidently? One of mine has to do with bulletin boards.

On Call

I waited three days into the new school year to put in an appearance at my old school. In my defense? I probably could have stayed away a little longer, except my friend and former colleague texted me to request an assist on his bulletin board.

"I thought you'd never ask!" I replied.

That was our story, and we stuck with it today as we strolled through the bustling halls of teachers getting ready for the first day on Monday.

"It's so nice of you to help out!" another friend said as we were catching up.

"It's practically a tradition," I answered. "This is the third year in a row we've done it."

"Wow!" she replied. "That means this is your third year of retirement!" She shook her head in amazement.

"But if you ever just want to see her," the first friend said, "text and say it's your bulletin board."

"That's right!" I laughed. "I'll come right over."

Found in Translation

I recently stumbled across access to some cooking magazines in other languages through my public library account. Not that I'm proficient in any language other than English, but when it comes to cuisine, my knowledge of cooking and basic familiarity with some of the languages I learned and lived with in school are almost enough to decipher the recipes. Some of the techniques and ingredients are uncommon here in the States, and that's really what I love about spending the time it takes to figure out how to prepare the dishes. 

Today, though, it occurred to me that there is an easier way. I was using a search engine on my laptop to translate some of the ingredients in Italy's premier cooking magazine, GialloZafferano (literally Yellow Saffron), when I thought to try the Google Lens translation feature on my phone. All I had to do was hold my phone up to the screen, and the Italian was magically decoded into English. Because recipes are so simple, syntax, which is the trickiest part of an automated translator, is barely a problem. I could even screenshot the translation if I wanted to save the recipe to try later.

It was amazing! And I spent a happy hour or so virtually leafing through a couple of magazines I've never had the pleasure of reading before!

P.S. Baci makes gelato ice cream cones! But they aren't available in our area.

A Wee Touch of the FOMO

I was a little sad when Heidi left for school this morning, and I think it was a combination of missing her and missing having a place to be.

And since I had a temporary gig at my old school last spring, I'm still on the staff email, so I'm right in the loop as teachers return today for preservice week. I confess I opened the agenda for the faculty meeting, looked through the slide deck to see how everybody introduced themselves, and checked the master schedule to see who was teaching what and with whom. 

After two years of retirement, I would have thought I was done with all that. Maybe next year? And I do have bread to knead, floors to vacuum, a garden to weed, a workout to do, and a dog to walk on this lovely day, so who am I to complain?

Baby Sun Signs

It's been day-to-day for our friend who is nearing the end of her pregnancy. She has a C-section scheduled for September 1, but it's likely that Pebbles, as we affectionately call the infant-to-be, will make her appearance before that. Of course, we are excited to welcome a new baby into our friend circle, and we have been getting daily reports on how likely it is that we will meet her sooner rather than later. 

As part of that conversation, I've been contributing astrological information. "If she comes this week," I told her mom as we were floating in the pool the other day, "Pebbles will be a Leo."

"I don't know what that means." My friend shook her head.

"Well..." I started, considering how to put it. "Leos are brave and bold, like a lion. They have big personalities."

She smiled and nodded.

"They can also be willful and stubborn," I added.

"I'm stubborn enough," my friend sighed. "She might just take after me."

"If she's born next week, though," I said, "she'll be a Virgo."

"And that means?" my friend asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Virgos like routine," I told her. "They are generally calm and practical, also observant and helpful."

"I can get behind that!" she laughed. "That would totally work in our family."

And so, when this morning passed with no word of a new baby, Heidi texted. "Congratulations! Pebbles is officially a Virgo!"

Stick Your Head in Gravy

The past couple of days have brought the inconvenience of resurfacing the parking lot in our condo community. To be honest, I felt the paving company did its best to accommodate us by splitting the job into two parts, so part of the lot was available at all times. 

But it's hard to account for weather, uninformed neighbors, and a perception of scarcity, so the whole experience kind of devolved into a shit show, complete with tow trucks, verbal altercations, and outright outrage at what was really no more than a nuisance. The entire project actually ended up being done on schedule.

So this morning, when I was moving both our cars and a neighbor's, who was out of town, back into the complex, I gasped when I saw the sandwich board that sits on the driveway and provides basic information for the community in a light tone. Someone had stripped it of its message describing the paving project as "just a bump in the road" and repurposed the letters to express their frustration with our management company:

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!