Eleven Twelve Ready or Not

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

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

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

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

C U

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

See you tomorrow!

See you Sunday!

See you Monday!

See you next week!

If I don't see you, Happy Thanksgiving!

See you in December!

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

Life Imitates Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hang of It

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

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

Mutually Beneficial

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

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

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

Obviously a Middle School Teacher

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

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

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

Blame it on the Sorting Hat

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

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

"Not Lucy, though," I assured her. 

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

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

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

Worshipful Master, Finally

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

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

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

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

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

Worshipful Master, Part 5

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

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

Worshipful Master, Part 4

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

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

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

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

And all to protect their secrets.

Worshipful Master, Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worshipful Master, Part 2

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

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

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

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

Worshipful Master, Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

Maturity

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. T.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain Check!

I've been expecting it.

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

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

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

At least I have more time to train!

Ya Mama

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

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

She nodded curtly.

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

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

I laughed. "What year was she born?" 

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

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

"D.C.," she told me.

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

"George Washington, I think," she replied.

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

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

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

ISO Verbal Processing

We saw "You Can See Everything" this afternoon.

Please see it so we can discuss! 

P.S. You won't be sorry.

Some Years You Do

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

Not so in 2026!

Behold the spookiness:

Tear It Down

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

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

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