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.