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.