Foul Weather Fans

Before I booked parking for the baseball game last night, I checked and double-checked the weather forecast. There was no chance of rain, not even a pop-up thunderstorm. And so, as we crawled along 395 on our way to cross the 14th St bridge, the foreboding skies meant nothing to me. 

"Check the app," I said to Heidi when she expressed her concern, and sure enough? At Nats Park, there was no rain forecast. 

Even so, the trip, short in distance but long in time because of Friday evening traffic, was only beginning. And when fat raindrops began to sploosh against our windshield as we took the Capitol Hill exit to wind our way to our parking spot, I was still not alarmed. And then I got the text: weather delay. But it wasn't actually raining at the ballpark, so optimistically, I parked the car, and we walked the three blocks to the stadium, confident that the game would begin shortly. 

But the minute we walked through the gate, the skies opened. Still undeterred, we dashed to the merch store and spent half an hour perusing the gear. Lots of other fans had staked out floor space, though, as if settling in for the long haul. We hadn't eaten, and decided that a circuit of the concessions on the main level would be a good way to kill some time. 

As soon as we made it to cover, though, we recognized our error. The wide hall was packed shoulder to shoulder, and it seemed like most of the other patrons were college-aged kids in red, white, or blue t-shirts emblazoned with the slogan His Legacy, Your Voice. They were all from the Turning Point USA leadership conference. 

It took 40 minutes to weave our way around the perimeter from section 143 to 108, and there was literally no place to stop and stand, let alone eat. It was 8:15 by the time we made it back to the main gate plaza, and we stood in a light drizzle surveying the sky and the grounds crew trying to squeegee off the infield tarp. The game was still delayed. 

The setting sun was trying to break out from the storm clouds to our west, and I scanned the sky for a rainbow. There was none. The stands were still closed, every seat empty and wet, and the majority of the 38,000 people in attendance were still crammed into the sheltered concourse. 

"Let's go home," I sighed.

What a Stitch

The phone was ringing as I stepped into the tailor's shop. "Hello?" she answered, nodding to me that she would be a moment.

As I waited, I could hear the voice on the other end of the line. "I have a dress," she said, "and I need it fitted and altered, but I have a tight turn around." 

She paused, and the three of us in the shop waited expectantly.

"I need it in 24 hours," she continued with a frantic sigh. "Is that something you can do?"

The tailor was measured as she answered. "I'd have to see it first. Can you come in now?"

"I can come in about an hour," the woman replied with a thread of relief in her voice.

"See you then," said the tailor as she hung up and turned to me.

"I need this altered, too," I told her, gesturing to the hanger in my hand. "But I don't need it in 24 hours!"

"Good!" she laughed, gesturing toward the changing room. "Let's see it!"

Pebbly-Poo and Bubble Trouble

Our friends, who are expecting their first child in early September, are having their shower this weekend, and mutual friends who have moved away are traveling here to attend. These other friends have three little girls, and the kids are very excited about both the trip and the shower. The oldest even has some ideas for what to name the baby. She favors either Julia (her own baby sister's name) or Bubbles. 

Personally, I can get behind Bubbles, but not for this baby. This one is already Pebbles to me. We have been calling her that since last Halloween, when we saw a family dressed as the Flintstones. "That could be us next year," our friend said to her husband, since they were planning on starting a family soon.

"Oh my gosh! Promise me you'll call the baby Pebbles!" I laughed. "That would be so awesome!" 

And so she has been Pebbles to all of us, and will be until christened otherwise, and maybe even after that. But I know they are planning a second child in the near future, and she can totally be Bubbles!

You Are on the Quickest Route

Our route to and from Buffalo has definitely changed over the 25 years I've been driving there. On our earliest trips, we relied on maps or maybe printed MapQuest directions to find our way, usually up I-270 to I-70, picking up the PA Turnpike in Breezewood and taking it all the way west to Pittsburgh, where we would turn north onto the I-90. It was highway driving the whole way.

Later, the portable GPS system that Heidi's mom gave us consistently guided us through Gettysburg and along the Susquehanna, passing landmarks such as Bucknell University and the Little League Hall of Fame on our way up through the Southern Tier. Those turn-by-turn directions could be a bit glitchy, but they shaved about 15 minutes off the 8-hour trip, which was well worth it. Plus, I loved the scenery driving by the river and then over the mountains past the Tioga Reservoir.

In the last decade or so, though, the advanced algorithms and real-time data on our phones have directed us on a more central route: through Breezewood, then just a short jog west on the Turnpike to I-99. But after passing Altoona, we drive secondary roads up through the Alleghenies, past state forests, coal mines, and a lot of Trump signs. This route has whittled the trip down to a little over 7 hours, though, and I have become familiar with, and even fond of, some of the small towns, roadside stops, and landmarks along the way.

That's why it was so jarring this afternoon when my map app directed me to make a right turn I've never taken before just outside of Ridgway, PA. I was intrigued, though, and drove along the rolling route with interest, past several picturesque farms. We were back on a familiar track once we reached downtown, but 45 minutes later, I received another novel set of directions. This time, we were off our usual route for more than an hour, driving on faith through rural Pennsylvania. 

We did see the western branch of the Susquehanna, though, and a pretty little reservoir with an old stone dam. And we also had to stop in some nameless town at one of the many railroad crossings along the way. There, we observed people carrying lawn chairs and coolers toward what seemed an undetermined destination. When the bar lifted, and we followed the cars ahead of us over the crossing, we saw folks gathering along the train tracks. 

"Something is happening here!" I stated the obvious to Heidi. Ahead, I spotted the back of a canvas sign lashed up in front of the firehouse. "Read that as we go by!" I told her.

"Welcome the Big Boy Locomotive," she reported. "July 9."

"Google that!" I said, and after a bit of a dirty look at my bossiness, she did.

It turns out that the Big Boy was a giant steam engine manufactured in the 1940s to haul freight between Utah and Wyoming. Union Pacific ran 25 of them until 1962, when they were retired from service. Only eight of them still exist, and only one of them is still functional. Union Pacific sent that one on a coast-to-coast tour to celebrate the US's 250th birthday, and that locomotive was passing right there today.

I wish I could say we stopped at that railroad crossing at the perfect time to see that Big Boy steam through whatever town that was, but its arrival was an hour away, so we kept driving, eager to get home.

How Does That One Go?

The family chat was filled with disco requests yesterday morning when my nephew reported that he would be hosting the disco show on a local radio station on Thursday night. It was fun considering which songs might be considered classic musts, and which ones we still loved from back then. 

A little while later, Heidi and I went out to lunch with her mom and brother. We ate at a fun little bar and restaurant called The Howling Rooster, which served breakfast all day, along with sandwiches and salads such as the Roo-ben, the Hot Hen, and the Hen House. They leaned into their name with their decor, too, and as we sat and chatted, I spotted a piece in the window that took me back to the kitchen of our childhood home. 

I went over, snapped a photo, and posted it to the family chat with the caption "Ceramic Rooster."

Of course, the conversation was still focused on the disco show. "I don't know that one," my sister-in-law responded.

I laughed and provided some much-needed context. I guess Ceramic Rooster could have been a follow-up to Disco Duck, though. The 70s were famous for those novelty songs.

It Never Hurts to Ask

Unless it does. 

Witness the controversy swirling around tonight's soccer match between teams USA and Belgium. Folarin Balogun, USA's top scorer, was suspended after receiving a questionable red card in the preceding game. League procedures were followed at the time: the call was challenged, reviewed on video, and allowed to stand. Many fans disagreed, but that's the game. Or it was, until President Trump called the FIFA president, who overturned the ruling, allowing Balogun to play. 

One consequence will surely be a shadow cast on the US team, especially if they win. The incident also sends a message that the rules do not apply consistently to everyone, which is kind of the biggest thing that organized sport has going for it. What's the point of a game that's not fair?

Negative Pressure

The finished basement room where we stay at Heidi's mom's house is usually pretty comfortable. A space heater makes it cozy enough in the winter, and one of those portable air conditioners is usually all it takes to keep the place cool in the summer. Unfortunately, the days of unprecedented heat this summer have strained that setup to the verge of discomfort.

At first, I thought that simply giving the a/c a chance to run would cool the room down, but nope. Then we wondered if the unit was running properly, but it was. A quick calculation showed it was appropriately rated for the size of the space, so that wasn't the problem, and there was a separate dehumidifier as well, so the moisture wasn't overwhelming its function, either. 

Here in Buffalo, central air has only recently been added to most residential construction, and houses like this one, built in the 1960s, have piecemeal solutions to the rising temperatures we have experienced over the last few decades. Heidi's mom has a mini-split unit in the family room (that theoretically reaches the kitchen) and a bigger one for the second-floor bedrooms. That leaves the living room, dining room, and office without cooling, but those spaces just aren't used if it's too warm.

I think I've figured out the problem, though. The mini-split doesn't reach the kitchen, and they don't have screens in the windows. That means that heat has built up in the rooms that aren't air-conditioned, making them sweltering and stuffy. When it's running, the little a/c we have in the basement vents air continuously out through a duct hose. But what is happening is that negative pressure from that venting is drawing all the hot air down here from the rooms above us through the floor. 

It's counterintuitive, but the fix is to open the upstairs windows and maybe even run a fan to push air out that way. But nobody wants to "let any more heat in," so we're stuck in a sticky basement.

Virtually the Same

Visiting Heidi's mom in Buffalo during an extreme heatwave has forced us to get creative about recreation. Yesterday, for example, we dusted off the old Wii console that she has hooked up to the TV in the basement rec room. 

"I think the last time I used this was when Richard and Annabelle were here for our wedding party in 2015," I said to Heidi, but after replacing a few batteries in the controllers, we found that the system still works fine. We were also reunited with the Miis we had created over a decade ago; Heidi's has dark hair, and mine is much chubbier than I would make her now. The early avatars of other family members were there, too: a younger Kyle, Mark with hair, and Heidi's dad, called "Chief," which looked eerily like him, and made us a little sad.

I got the thing working while Heidi was out with the dogs, and I clicked on bowling to test everything out. Of course, I wondered how the virtual version might compare, now that I've been bowling regularly. At first, I thought it was easier, and I picked up spares on my first three frames, but soon I found myself hooking the ball to the left, just as I do in real life. After a few adjustments, I got back on track, and my final score was 112, which just happens to be my average.

False Alarm

For some reason, my social media feed is full of information about aging gracefully and well. 🤔 As aged as the algorithm may think I am, though, I haven't declined to the point where I can't spot AI content designed to make me spend money buying equipment or subscribing to miraculous exercise routines. 

Even so, I do need to stay sharp because those robot hucksters are wily. For example, just the other day as I was scrolling, I paused to hear a fit, middle-aged man earnestly inform me that, as we age, losing balance is one of the biggest dangers. "Most people over the age of 50 can't put their socks on while standing up," he reported, shaking his head sadly. 

Oh my gosh! I thought. Can I put my socks on without sitting down? I pulled off my socks and jumped out of the chair to see. Oh, I could do it, all right, but in the process, I realized that usually?  

Nobody puts their socks on standing up. 

That's Why We're Friends

"Anyone who knows my middle name gets 5 points," Treat read from the game card he'd just drawn. We were playing a  fun and silly game that Courtney had sent for my birthday, following a fabulous meal prepared by Bill and Emily to celebrate my latest trip around the sun.

We all looked at Amy sympathetically. The rest of us knew the answer, of course, but she was visiting from Arizona and hadn't seen Treat in decades. Even so, Treat was encouraging. "I bet you could figure it out," he said.

"Is it William?" she guessed, logically choosing his father's name.

"No," he answered, "but you can still get it. You actually have all the information you need."

Heidi jerked her head at Treat and raised her eyebrows dramatically, trying to provide a clue, but Amy was still confused. "I give up!" she sighed, "unless it's Melvin?" she joked.

"It's Treat!" We all told her in unison.

Amy didn't skip a beat. "Your name is Treat Treat?"

The Flow

A friend from high school texted the other day to see if I was free either Tuesday or Wednesday of this week. She was in town to tend to her 90-year-old aunt and had some free time, so we made plans to spend the afternoon together today. It just so happened that my family birthday dinner was tonight, too, and so Amy was included in the celebration. We had a fun time! And it may have been even sweeter because all the pieces just fell into place.

The same was true of our stay at the beach last week: I happened to find a place in a great location that was available for a few days that worked for us. The weather cooperated, and we spent a magical three days walking on the beach, exploring the trails in the state park up the street, hanging with our friends, eating seafood and cooking out, and revisiting old haunts.

And this evening, Treat told us all about the kayaking trip in Maine he had recently returned from. Again, it seemed like the details fell easily into place, and even being fogged in for a day on a deserted island was a pleasant twist in their itinerary. They had osprey and harbor seals for company, and used the wetsuits that the outfitter provided to swim in the frigid coastal waters. They even had a Thích Nhất Hạnh book that everyone took turns reading aloud from.

I love stories of ease and flow almost as much as I appreciate that feeling of well-being when it happens. It often feels like there is so much to struggle against that it's easy to lose any sense of innate well-being and balance. I'm ever so m grateful I was able to reconnect with it today.

Mending a Fuse

I love my birthday! But because it falls at the end of the month? Depending on what else is going on in the next few days, I often end up paying bills. Even so, in addition to pickleball, yoga, and the pool, the chore just added to my sense of accomplishment today. 

Bring it 64!

Is it Me?

I'm not particularly excited about the Fourth of July this year. To be honest, I'm never that into the holiday, perhaps because one, it falls right after my birthday, and two, it's in the summer, so it's never even been a day off for me. I understand that to some, this may be a marquee year, in that it is the 250th anniversary of the founding of our nation (or as a rather pompous friend of mine chooses to optimistically call it, the quarter-millennium), but to me that level of enthusiasm seems a little, ahem, trumped up. 

Maybe it's because of the divisive politics of our time, the tussle to righteously claim the soul of the country, and thereby the right to celebrate it. But, really, I think it's because I was around to celebrate the bicentennial and all the 200th anniversaries of everything leading up to it, and honestly? Half a hundred just doesn't seem that legit.

Lost Opportunity

Dinner was over, and the sunlight was waning to summer gold when I heard it: the unmistakable jingle of an ice cream truck sounded from somewhere nearby. My jaw dropped in disbelief. In the 28 years we've lived in this condo complex, tucked away from the rest of the county as it is, there has never been an ice cream truck.

My first instinct was to grab a dime and run for my popsicle. In fact, I did leap off the couch and crane my neck, peering through the window to see if my ears deceived me. A moment later, the Mr. Softee truck cruised into view, and I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out on the balcony, my thoughts racing.

Clearly? A dime would not be sufficient, and anyway, I would want something better than a popsicle, which was the only thing my brother, sister, and I were ever allowed to buy. What was on the menu? I wondered. And how do you even conduct a transaction with the ice cream man these days? Can I tap my watch? Use a credit card? Must I have cash?

But before I could form a plan of action, the jingle started up again, and the truck rolled away, probably because there were no customers. 

I sighed and returned to the couch. Maybe I'll be more prepared in 2054.

A Dozen Signs of Summer

Nothing is comfier than shorts, a tank top, and slides
The pool is a daily destination
All the fruit is delicious-- even when it comes from the grocery store
The air outside surrounds you like a warm hug
The air inside greets you like a cool kiss
Bottomless iced tea and lemonade
Rain is great:  it's good for the garden and a good time to go to the movies
The snack bag is packed and ready to go at a moment's notice
Your main accessories are a ball cap and sunglasses
Pickleball is back on the morning schedule
Sliced tomatoes are a side at every meal
Heidi is home all day

Pinch Me

I picked up a pound of jumbo lump crab meat on my way to the beach on Tuesday night. My plan was to make crab cakes for dinner, but by the time we had unpacked, I'd walked the dog, and Heidi had finished her board meeting call, a simple tossed salad with a lemony deviled crab on top seemed more reasonable. 

It was delicious, and there was plenty of crab meat left-- enough to have crab and egg breakfast sandwiches every morning for the rest of the week. I think we may have found a new beach tradition!

Right at Home

Back in the 80s, when we lived here at the beach, one of the few grocery options was a rustic chain called Be-lo. The stores were small and under-provisioned, but we made do because we didn't really have a choice. The whole company is long gone now, though, but their locations around here still have grocery stores: a newish Food Lion on Shore Drive and a big Harris Teeter over on 27th and Arctic. 

It was to the Harris Teeter that we went this morning to pick up a few things for the little girls we will be hosting a little later today. The layout of the place was familiar, similar to several of the HTs near us, but with a hefty dose of beach equipment and vacation essentials sprinkled throughout. 

Even so, we noticed that the average age of the shoppers was at least 10 years older than I am. At first, I wondered what was going on that brought all the retirees out on a Thursday morning, but then it hit me. It was Thursday, which is senior discount day at the Harris Teeters near us. And when we checked out, I asked the cashier if it was the same down here. 

Ca-ching! We saved an extra 5% plus all the sale items when I punched in my loyalty number.

Third Watch

"We'd love for you to stay for dinner," our friends with three little girls under the age of five said this afternoon, "but fair warning-- we eat pretty early."

We accepted the gracious invitation, but she was not exaggerating! Dinner was over by 5:15, and the girls were bathed and in their pajamas by quarter to six. Everyone was getting a little cranky, and it was clear that bedtime for all five of them was on the horizon. "I have to grab some sleep when the baby naps," our friend apologized, "at three months, she's not sleeping through the night yet."

We thanked them for a fun day with the kids and a nice dinner, too, and were on our way back to the beach house before six. The whole evening stretched before us, so we drove the strip down to Rudee Inlet to see what was new, took a spin past all the houses I lived in when I was here, and then walked a couple of miles on a piney trail in First Landing State Park (formerly Seashore State Park), which has an entrance just a block from our house. 

Even now, in these longest days of summer, daylight lingers: I just poured an ice-cold beer, and it seems like there are hours more of fun left in this day. (Lucy is wiped out, though!)

Take a Beat

"Would you ever want to live back here again?" Heidi asked me this afternoon as we neared Virginia Beach.

"Not today, I wouldn't," I scoffed. We had been crawling toward the tunnel in torrential rain under a tornado watch for 30 minutes, and the map app predicted it would be at least another 20 minutes, ultimately taking us two hours to go 40 miles.

My mood softened considerably the moment we turned onto Shore Drive and turned 180 when I punched the access code into our rental home, a classic beach cottage that had been renovated into a light and spacious retreat. And by the time we made our way across Atlantic Ave and down the block to the beach, I was wondering why I had ever moved away.

Quite Contrary

I was there first.

In general, I try to avoid gardening when the lady from the next plot is there, mostly because she's snide and judgmental, and I don't really need that vibe when I'm struggling to tame my plot. Oh, sure, it would be easier to tame said plot were I to spend more time there, but I dread running into her, so it's a conundrum.

This morning, my heart sank when I heard the clank of the gate latch and looked up to see her familiar blond pony stalking my way. I'd already fed, watered, and pruned all the vegetables, but there was so much more to be done, I decided to stay. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk about the dry weather and hot day approaching. I weeded my side of the border between our beds and then moved on to the ubiquitous wiregrass along the fence. 

When she went out to the other side of that fence with her shovel and gardening stool, I knew she was modeling what she wanted me to do next, which was clear the fence line and dig up the grass out there. I continued in my own garden, though; Lord knows there was plenty to do in there. I did show her that one of the strands of barbed wire that tops the chainlink fence was broken and sagging into both our gardens.

"Can you stretch it and hook it on that clasp?" she pointed, but I showed her that the snapped wire would no longer stretch that far.

"Who's responsible for the fence, us or the county?" I asked.

"Probably us," she answered in disgust. "Do you want us to cut it or repair it?" she asked. 

"I don't have a strong feeling either way," I replied.

"I'm in charge of the next two work days," she told me. "We'll take care of it then."

I nodded, but before I could return to work, she continued, "Can you believe that every single garden got a satisfactory in the last inspection?"

I inhaled sharply. Here we go, I thought.

"I called them on it," she said. "There are definitely some plots that need attention, at the least." She shook her head. "There are going to be some upset people in the coming weeks," she said, "because I refuse to look the other way."

"Well," I nodded, "you've been here a long time, and you're not afraid to speak your mind."

At that, she guffawed, and I laughed a little, too. "I don't think anyone will be too surprised when they see the inspection," I finished.