Errand Day

Stop 1: The Post Office

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

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

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

Stop 2: The Pet Store

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop 3: The Off-Price Department Store

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

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

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

Stop 4: The Grocery Store

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

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

All that and groceries, too!

Last stop: Home

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

Live Demonstration

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

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

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

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

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

Both plumbers looked at me wide-eyed.

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

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

Open and Closed

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick Turn Around

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

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

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

Where has the summer gone?

Fourth Time's the Charm

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

"Four? Why?" he scoffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broken Delivery Chain

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

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

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

"We can't wait," he told me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Milkweed Munchers

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

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

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

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

Stacked Against Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seasonal and Cassoulet Adjacent

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

And that Mustache

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

"That is Bill!" I laughed.

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

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

Did you hear that, Bill?

Well Prompted

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

So Long, Mr. French

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

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

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

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

The next lyrics have always comforted me, though. 

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

Safe travels, French. 

Epic Epic

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

The Sum of its Parts

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

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

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

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

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

Sucker

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

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

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

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

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

The Right Questions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Your Memory Lines Up Perfectly:

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

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

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

Buy Jiminy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Straight Up Crooked

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

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

Sigh. I might have to "fix" that.

Well Groomed

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

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

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

Not Cool, Cats

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

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

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

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