A Room of One's Own

The past six years have seen a swelling enrollment in our school system. Even though it wasn't really that long ago that it seemed as if they might close our middle school, now the opposite is true: we are running out of space. As our school becomes more and more crowded, a solution is for teachers to share classrooms. We teach 5 out of 7 periods of the day, but the rooms are in demand even when we are not teaching.

I understand the problem, but what that approach does not take into account is that we have other duties to perform during the non-teaching time, and our classrooms also double as our offices. It is unreasonable to think that we can get as much work done when we are forced to be away from our desks, our phones, and our materials.

Before this, our rooms have been commandeered for use after school and on the weekends by various organizations for classes, meetings, and youth groups. Besides having to pack up and leave whether I am through for the day or not, over the years I have had things damaged and lost by the people who use my room after hours.

To be required to share our professional space is at best an inconvenience and at worst a lack of regard for teachers and their time. With growing enrollments, added accountability measures, and shrinking funds, each year we are expected to do more with less, and now there will be times when we won't even have a place to do that.

Best Practices

One of my pet peeves about educators is that we rarely apply our knowledge of human nature and learning to adult audiences. So many of our presentations for "grown ups" are auditory, made to a sedentary audience. If we want to add pizzazz, we do an ice breaker and a power point.

Seriously?

That's why today, at the midpoint of an all-day meeting, I jumped at the chance to try an activity that one of our PTA members brought back from Alice Water's Edible School Yard Academy in Berkley. At the lunch break, I had seen the gorgeous weather-- all sunny, breezy, and blue skies-- through a window, but when it came time to go outside, our agenda still had several items left, and our principal kindly opened the activity to a vote: Do we have time for this? she asked us.

I knew that for me, time outside would clear my head and probably make the remaining work we had to do easier, so I raised my hand as a yes, and gleefully headed out when the votes were counted. I recognized that some of my colleagues wished we would just get on with it, so that maybe we could leave a few minutes earlier, but they were good sports once we got out there.

The activity was simple, a gentler, more reflective version of musical chairs that I could easily imagine using with students. We sat in a circle next to the garden and under the shade of a couple Magnolias, and everyone laughed and joked and switched seats whenever the wind blew for us.

And perhaps it's just my opinion, but the rest of our meeting was very productive, and we even got out early.

Making Good Time

We pulled out of my sister's driveway in Atlanta at 9:30 this morning. The day was clear and traffic was light from the start, and we made our way 500 miles up I-85 to Petersburg, VA in about seven and a half hours. From there it was just a couple more hours to home. Our luck held, although the weather did not, and despite torrential rain, we were back in town by 7 PM. A long day, yes, but good conditions, good company, good snacks, and good radio made it a practically pleasant day.

Editorial Integrity

We got an email the other day that a colleague of ours, another teacher at our school, is to be featured in a local magazine. The article is called Lessons Learned: Advice from Veteran Teachers, and it profiles seven educators from our area with some bulleted gems of wisdom from each.

Without exception, every  co-worker I have discussed it with has made a gagging gesture. Let's just say that we know the guy, and we're not convinced that he is necessarily the best representative of our profession. He takes a pretty picture, though.

I think that Alfie Kohn might say that this is what kids feel like when we give awards recognizing a few among many. They are often baffled that anyone might make such a decision and resentful of what they consider to be the undeserved recognition of a peer. Such feelings render the entire exercise meaningless. Rather than motivating everyone to strive for the ideal, we are often undercutting the effort instead. We are also establishing ourselves as arbitrary authority figures who are not to be trusted.

What is the fall out of such a dynamic? Well, I'm canceling my charter subscription to that magazine. Clearly they don't know what they're talking about.

Arnold Palmer

When we were kids, one of our favorite summer time quenchers was the mix of Tetley tea and lemonade concentrate that our mom would stir up in half gallon batches. It must have been thirty years later that I learned the concoction had a real name. Now I often order a half-tea half-lemonade when I am out for a lunch, and when the waitress nods and says, "Arnold Palmer?"  I smile and nod in return. Nothing is quite so refreshing.

Today we were on our way home from the pool when we passed a specialty popsicle cart. The kids, Richard and Annabelle, ordered right up, but I wasn't so sure I wanted anything so sweet. "They have an Arnold Palmer," my sister pointed out, and right then? My resolve started melting.

In the end, I carried away the first Popsicle I have eaten in over 20 years, and let me tell you, friends, the frozen tart lemonade tempered by the icy brisk black tea was absolutely delicious.

Injured Pride

We were on our way home from the High Museum of Art yesterday when I took a little tumble.  There was a curb, an uneven sidewalk, a dog, the sun in my eyes,-- all of it came together to literally trip me up. I was on the sidewalk before I knew it.

Unfortunately, there were several witnesses. In addition to Heidi and Annabelle, at least four other people asked me if I was okay. I brushed off their concern as I dusted myself off. "I'm fine, really," I said. "More embarrassed than anything."

"No worries" the doorman in front of the building said. "We've all been there."

His kind words did not take the sting away, and my skinned knee hurt almost as much as my pride. "I will get you a band aid when we get home," four-year-old Annabelle promised. "It might be cool," she added to comfort me.

I was all patched up a little while later as we waited for Richard's school bus. The minute it pulled up to the stop, he and his friend Jake bounded off. "Hey guys!" we greeted them. "How was school?"

"Good," Richard said.

"Cool band aid!" Jake said.

I felt better already. 

What's the Buzz?

This hot droughty summer has produced a lot of reports of  climate change and what we might expect from a warmer planet. Long term and short term predictions of "the new normal" are dire. Just the other day I heard that because of the warm winter and the hot summer, we were looking at an insect population explosion that would probably last into November.  "Just think of the mosquitoes!" the report ended.

I didn't have to think too hard. I've never seen so many as we saw when we were in Maine in June. Even the locals were complaining. On the other hand, the bees in our garden have been plentiful, their colony strong, and yesterday on the ten hour drive from our home to Atlanta, I saw more butterflies than ever before, hundreds of yellow wings pressed into the August sky. There have been lots of dragonflies around, too, probably because they eat mosquitoes, and the chorus of the cicadas is strident, invigorating the lazy summer afternoon.

More bugs? Doesn't have to be a bad thing.

Slippery Statistics

Yesterday when I was setting up my calendar for the coming school year, I took a minute to review our snow day policy. Several years ago, after we got socked with a huge snowstorm that kept us out for over a week, our system responded to the lost time by adding 4 minutes to every school day, and they never took them away. That's why even though we only go 181 days, we have four days to spare and still make the state mandate of 180.

Admittedly, that calculation is just another example of the fuzzy math we educators are encouraged to use when "objectively" measuring just what it is we do all day. Still, I won't complain. According to Accuweather, it looks like we just might need those extra minutes this year:

Big Snows for Washington, DC, Philadelphia, and New York Next Winter

Baby Steps

Last week I ordered my planner for the 2012-13 school year, and today I filled in all the important dates that have been published so far. It was a simple enough task, but I confess to feeling a twinge of excitement for the year to come.

Especially when I wrote "Last Day."

I'm getting there, though.

No News

This afternoon when we were on our way home from seeing The Bourne Legacy, our local public radio station broke into programming to alert listeners to the fact that there had been another mass shooting, this time near the campus of Texas A&M University. We sighed, and spent a few minutes speculating about this recent rash of attacks. Copycats? we wondered. Could the fact that some recent gunmen have survived encouraged other unhinged souls to plan their own offensives?

I considered the movie we had just seen; the body count was high. We live in a society that not only views violence as common and often justified, but also as entertainment. Not only that, but firearms are readily available. Survey after survey has shown that, collectively, we do not have the will to curb gun access. The second amendment is consider a third rail in electoral politics. In the wake of recent shootings pro-gun sentiment has actually risen, along with some catchy tag lines.  

100 million gun owners didn't kill anyone last week.

Things would have been different if someone else had a gun in that theater in Aurora. 

I braced for the gruesome coverage of the latest tragedy, but it didn't come. There were reports of yesterday's PGA tournament winner, Gabby Douglas and Michelle Obama visiting the Tonight Show, and Helen Gurley Brown's death at 90, but there was not a mention of any shootings on either the local or national news programs that I watched this evening. Its omission was so glaring, that I checked on the internet to see if perhaps the radio station had somehow been the victim of a hoax.

But, no. People died today in Texas when a gunman open fired on them. It just isn't news.

I ♥ Ratatouille

And it's a good thing, too, now that our garden is finally coming in. Tonight I was able to prepare the dish completely with homegrown ingredients.

Now that's fresh and local!

Hail to the Chief

The news that Romney was announcing his running mate this morning definitely piqued my interest. Maybe it's our proximity to Washington that engages me in politics, maybe it's something else, but let's just say I was the only adult of five in our group today who had any interest at all.

I'm not sure what I was hoping for when I tuned in, but I don't think it was Paul Ryan. As a liberal, I think I should be happy: Ryan is polarizing, but substantive, his record will frame an interesting debate that I think will ultimately wind up in an Obama victory. We'll see.

It's much more of a gender thing that's beginning to irritate me, though. Why can't the United States elect a woman to the executive branch of our federal government? With the current tickets set as they are, we will have to wait at least four more years to join these countries:

Argentina
Australia
Bangladesh
Bermuda

Bolivia
Bosnia and Herzogovina

Brazil
Bulgaria

Burundi
Canada

Chile

Costa Rica
Dominica

East Germany

Ecuador

Finland
France

Gabon

Georgia
Germany

Great Britain

Guinea-Bissau

Guyana

Haiti

Iceland

India

Indonesia

Ireland

Israel
Jamaica

Kosova

Kyrgyzstan

Latvia

Liberia

Lithuania

Malawi

Malta

Mauritus
Moldova

Mongolia
Mozambique
Netherlands Antilles
New Zealand

Nicaragua
Pakistan

Panama
Peru

People’s Republic of China

Philipines
Poland
Portugal
Rwanda
Sao Tome and Principe

San Marino

Serbia
Senegal
South Korea

Sri Lanka

Switzerland

Tannu Tuva
Thailand
Trinidad and Tobago
Turkey
Ukraine
Yugoslavia

Cooperative Story Telling

By Evie and Jonah

Some flowers are different from each other. Some flowers are alike. Eyeball, eyeball, angry bird angry. Jonah and Evie ran to the angry birds and flowers. They saw a tooth fairy in a beautiful sparkly yellow flower dress. Her hair was orange and she was carrying prizes to put under the pillows in a pretty basket with pink silk roses all over it . "You are stupid children!" she yelled, and then they realized that she was the rotten tooth fairy. She changed into a blackish-grayish for a quick minute and then she waved her wand and turned back. AND she turned good accidentally. Her name was Rosie Kayons. She reached into her basket and pulled out a rotten egg. She held it up and pinched her nose. "Ew! Rotten, rotten!" she said and threw it down and it bounced away. Jonah and Evie laughed and ran away.

Adjust if Necessary

Yesterday I wrote about getting my head back into the business of teaching. Today, Heidi and Emily and I (teachers all) were talking about the pre-pre-service steps we were taking and considering taking to prepare our classrooms and our minds to head back to school in a few weeks.

"I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel," Emily said. "Summer's ending."

"Yeah," I agreed, "but I think what I'm seeing is the dark at the beginning of the tunnel."

I guess I better keep working on my attitude.

No Endless Summer

Over the last few days, I've had several chances to get together with friends and colleagues to start strategizing and planning the school year ahead. Each conversation was good in its own way, but my major take away?

I need to get my head back in the game.

Barefoot Girl

I usually wear my crocs when I go to water and weed the garden. It's nice that they are waterproof, but sometimes the way they squeak when my feet slide around in them makes me a little crazy. Wearing socks is not the solution-- they just get soggy and unpleasant. The other day, I finally just left my slippery shoes behind and stepped barefoot into the grassy pathway that runs the length of the community plots.

The grass was cool and soft, and I was transported back to summer days when I was a little girl and we never wore shoes to play outside. Why haven't I gone barefoot recently? I wondered, before remembering that I live in a condo without a yard. No worries, though. Now I just kick my shoes off the minute I get to the garden, and there they stay until it's time to go.

Not So Total Recall

We saw the remake/reboot/whatever of Total Recall today. (That's what happens when you hang with teenaged boys; although I confess, I kind of wanted to see it.) As it progressed, I realized that although I have definitely seen the original, probably more than once, ironically, I had very little recall of it. Sure, the first one had Arnold Schwarzenegger in it, and early on in this version, as I watched Kate Beckinsale beat the crap out of Colin Farrell, I remembered the old one had Sharon Stone in it as well, back in the day when she had the rep as a serious ass-kicker.

After the movie, Riley and Heidi assured me that the two versions were not much different from each other, with the exception of the setting, and Treat did a little digging to to find that neither one was much like the Philip K. Dick story they were based on. "I don't think the wife's character was quite as resilient in the first one," Heidi added. "I'm pretty sure she didn't make it to the end."

And that's when one more detail sprang immediately to my fifty-year-old brain. Arnold's inimitable Austrian accent deadpanning, "Consider that a duh-voorse," as he terminated his "wife".

Now, that, I totally recalled.

Degree of Difficulty

Cats have the reputation of being rather graceful. The elegant stalk, the arch of the back, the effortless leap-- these are feline markers. Well, that is true for every cat I've ever met, besides our own Penelope. That one is downright clumsy.

Perhaps we first noticed it the time she raced across the wood floor, and for no apparent reason suddenly attempted a full stop. Unsuccessful, her back legs kept going, passed beneath her, and flipped her ass over tea kettle in a full somersault. What did she do? She shook it off. It couldn't have been as novel to her as it was to us.

Since then, she has tripped numerous times; she has misjudged many leaps and several landings, including a few onto my lap, the latest of which was just a while ago, resulting in some pretty deep punctures to my thigh, and a bump on the head for Penelope.

None of it seems to bother her, though. It is what it is, and so she goes on.

I heard a piece on the radio the other day about human satisfaction. It was in conjunction with the Olympics and was, in part, addressing why most silver medal winners are disappointed with their achievement, while most bronze winners are satisfied. It seems that we rely on comparisons to help us figure out how we're doing. The silver winner is looking at the gold he or she lost, while the bronze medalist is feeling pretty happy to be going home with something, unlike all of the other competitors behind him or her.

Fortunately, Penelope does not get caught up in such head games. Maybe she's on to something.

We Are Family

Heidi and I have been together for nearly 14 years, and over that time we've shared great times and tragedy, like any couple. We feel fortunate to have the love and support of both of our families, and we have brought them all together in various circumstances and constellations over the years. It works, and for that we are thankful.

Even so, living in a time where same-sex unions are still very controversial (I'm talking to you, Chik-fil-A) and in a state where they are not recognized at all (yes, Virginia, there are committed gay couples), it's hard at times to keep calm and carry on, but of course we do.

Today we were cleaning out drawers in the guest room when we came upon a whole cache of photos. The oldest was from 1969 and the newest was probably 2004. I don't think we've even looked at them in five years or more, so we had fun going through them after so much time.  

The pictures were all mixed up: There's Josh, there's Jennifer, that's me in college, there's Riley, there's Treat, that's Bill and Emily's wedding, that's Kyle, that's Kevin, that's Courtney and Jordan's wedding, and so on.

Some were mine, some were Heidi's, and some were ours.

As it should be.

Chops

"Let's have this for dinner tonight!" Heidi suggested while looking through my new cookbook.

"Sure," I agreed without a second thought, without even looking at the recipe, because, after all it's summer, so what's a little extra cooking?

What indeed. It's high time to acknowledge that I am not the cook I once was, and this vegan dish of  homemade pasta, filling and sauce, not to mention hand filling the tortelloni totally kicked my ass. We'll be lucky to eat by 8:30 and my back is killing me.

It's going to be good, though.

Juiced

After much soul-searching and debate, we finally broke down and bought one of those professional blenders. You might recognize it from the store demos where folks with mic headsets prepare all manner of smooth foods. The big finale is always a hot cream soup prepared from raw ingredients-- the friction generated from the sheer speed of the blade is enough to cook it (!)

That's not why I wanted it, though. In fact, if anything, such a public spectacle made me steer clear of this product for many years. It was not until Heidi became vegan that the profile of this blender rose in my consciousness. After that, they were in every third recipe I read, always with a note that a regular blender "would do" and a clear implication that your product would be a little inferior.

These babies will run you some serious bucks, though, and for a long time I was able to resist. That was, until I came across The Conscious Cook, by Tal Ronnen. Tal is a chef who also happens to be vegan, and although I've collected a lot of fantastic recipes in the last year or so, this was a book that appealed to my former professional sensibility. The first pages have  In my Kitchen and In my Pantry lists of tools and ingredients, and as I read through them, I was proud to see that I had everything I needed, except... yes, that blender.

And here's what it came down to... I feel like I have mastered an excellent replacement ingredient for almost all the eggs, meat, seafood, and dairy dishes we have always enjoyed, except for cream. Soy milk, rice milk, and almond milk do not have enough fat. Coconut milk works in some situations, but it has a high flavor profile. Ronnen's Ur-recipe is for cashew cream; he uses it liberally throughout the book, and you can't buy it-- it is handmade with, yes, that blender.

So now I have one. I have made cashew cream and it is amazing; I'm looking forward to putting it to great use. I have also made some quality frappucinos and smoothies. Today for lunch we had an avocado and cucumber soup with cilantro, mint, and Thai basil. It was a hit. Last night, on Top Chef Masters, I pointed out every single blender like ours, and there were many, all being used in cool delicious ways.

BUT, yesterday, the food section in our local paper did a feature on juicing-- how healthful and great it is to make your own fruit and veggie juices-- but when all was taste-tested and done, a dedicated juicer turned out to be preferable over... yes, our blender.

Sigh.

Sticking the Landing

There has been a lot of press the last week or so about the impending landing of the latest Mars rover, Curiosity. On Sunday, it will enter Mars's atmosphere at a speed of about 13,200 mph, and in the space of about 7 minutes will have to slow to a full stop. NASA engineers have developed a series of ingenious systems involving rockets and parachutes and ultimately a "sky crane" that will hover above the surface to lower Curiosity gently down. All of it has been tested, but none of it together, and so some NASA officials have dubbed the upcoming event Seven Minutes of Terror.

On another note, despite my objections, we watched the full prime time coverage of the Olympics last night. What can I say? Not only does she like dancing, Heidi is a fan of gymnastics, too. I can say this-- NASA should consider using a few of the fab five on their own team. Talk about practical experience with hurtling full speed through the air only to come to a complete stop-- those golden girls know how to nail it.

I Can See Clearly Now

Especially since I took down all the curtains, washed them, and washed the windows, too. Several years ago, when we hired our weekly housekeeper, we told ourselves that having someone do the basics would free us up for more frequent deep cleaning.

Why then did the dog watch me with such concern as I worked? Could it be that at the age of nine, she's never seen me do any housecleaning? Maybe she just doesn't remember. Isn't that Estella's job? she seemed to ask as she tiptoed around.

The cat was upset as well. I thought we agreed that we wouldn't change the smells around here! she might have sniffed if she could.

But it really felt good to get a few things done, and who knows what might get cleaned or fixed around here tomorrow?

Final Destination

"The guy at the garage said fill it up, set the odometer to zero, drive 40 miles, and come back. It will pass with no problem."

That's what Heidi told me when she picked up the Jeep last week after it failed its emissions test for the second time. It sounded like hocus pocus to me, but you don't really have a lot of options when you have no idea about the thing you need fixed. As a couple of women, we do our best in this area, enlisting men when we can, and trying to find establishments we trust.

In what can not be characterized as anything other than avoidance, we got home, parked the Jeep, and let it sit there. Unfortunately, its registration expires tomorrow, so yesterday we hopped in and headed out. My first idea was to drive straight down the interstate for 20 miles and then turn around. It might have worked, but for the sign we saw just a few miles down the road, Exit 160 12 miles 37 minutes.

"Oh no," I said, "Get off at the Beltway."

From there it was like a puzzle-- what would be a 40 mile loop from our house? I was all over it. With an eye on the mileage, we passed Route 50, Route 7, and I-66. "Let's take the GW Parkway," I said. We were only at 29 miles when we came to I-395, so we kept going through Old Towne and back up King Street to home.

Mileage? 40.1

Epilogue: It passed! 

No Harm Done

We were in the theater parking lot this morning when a friend rolled up behind us. "Hey! Are you going to see Batman?" she asked eagerly.

I stepped up to her window wide-eyed and clutched the door to her Jeep. "No!" I said. "We're going to see Step Up Revolution." And then I raised my eyebrows and jerked my head at Heidi and our neighbor Susan.

Our friend laughed and then pulled away to park. We ran into her again at the ticket counter, and she hooted when we boarded the escalator for the little theaters on the upper level. "You can't embarrass me," I called as we were whisked up and away to the top of the building.

And I realized that I meant it. Heidi loves those dancing shows, and she wanted to see this movie. Plus, to be honest, it was actually pretty entertaining.

It was a lot like fast food-- slick and artificial, but tasty and satisfying in the moment. 

Necessity's Child

Roasted tomato, onion, and squash blossom tarts
Peach and arugula salad with hazelnuts and chili-lime vinaigrette
Corn on the cob

Who needs to go to the store?

It's All about the Traction, Baby

We spent about three hours at the pool today, all of it in the water. Oh sure, we had a good reason, but we also had some severe monkey fingers when we got out.

When we were kids, that's what we used to call that wet finger pruny-ness. Until today, I never even wondered why that happens, but I guess seeing a 3 month old baby's feet wrinkle all.the.way.up made me consider that particular human reaction.

Fortunately for me, I did not have to go far for a theory. The New York Times did a little research on their own about the phenomena. The article is worth a read, but the high points for me were 1) It's a nervous reaction-- sever a few finger nerves and it will not occur. 2) It's only humans and macaques that are so wired. (Think about that, George Allen.) 3) Refer to the title.

Time Warp

It's just a jump to the left

One of the folks I follow on Twitter recently posted some excellent advice about limiting screen time. The gist of it is to 1) set a limit, and 2) follow it.

And then a step to the right

One of my birthday gifts was a DNA test and access to an ancestry web site. The whole family tree thing is addictive. Everyone has a story, but it is obscured by time... multiply that by four families and several generations, and that's a lot of clues to sleuth out. No worries, though, I'm just the (obsessive) detective for the job.

With your hands on your hips

Listen to this! One of your relatives was the elephant keeper at the Buffalo Zoo!

You bring your knees in tight

There goes another day with hardly a bathroom break.

Let's do the Time Warp again!

Note to self: use timer tomorrow.

Crystal Ball

We like where we live.

In the 13 years we've been here, we've seen a lot of folks come and go. In fact the place across from us is about to go on the market for the fifth time. These houses seem to fill a particular space in their owners lives-- first home, temporary home, transition home. As for us, it's a little harder to say.

It's not perfect; there are certainly times when we wish we had more space for visitors, and the bicycle storage thing has been a conundrum, but otherwise, we're fine here in our economical little corner of the county.

We invited some former neighbors up to the pool so that Heidi could give the kids some swimming lessons. When it was time to go, we walked them back to their car and helped with all the loading up and buckling in that three children require. Our friend swept her canny, ex-resident's eye across the complex. "Not much has changed," she noted.

"Nope," I laughed. "I can't imagine it's going to."

"So... Do you guys think you're going to live here..." she paused, searching for the right question. "Until you don't?" she finished.

"Yep," I answered. "You can count on that."

It's Just Not the Same Without Her

Scenario: Heidi was doing a little summer testing for a few extra bucks, so I leashed up the dog and off we went for a little afternoon walk. Generally, Isabel is a very congenial companion, all too happy to trot along by your side. Today, however, when we got to the top of the hill to leave our complex, all she wanted to do was turn back home. It took some serious goading and scolding to get her to finish our little outing.

A little over halfway, it dawned on me what must have happened. Isabel had probably heard Heidi's Jeep barreling into the parking lot at home, and she wanted to invite Heidi along on our walk. Sure enough, when we got back, there was the Jeep, and there was Heidi, an hour earlier than we expected.

Better Safe than Sorry

All weekend I've been hearing and reading coverage about the damage the shootings in Aurora, CO might have on our collective national psyche-- how a single gunman can take a place of escape like the movies away from all of us.

To be honest, I've only been listening to that part of the story with half an ear, if that. Although this event was unsettling, eleven years after the September 11 attacks we in America are fortunate to live mostly with a solid sense of security. Unlike many other places in the world, attacks on civilians here are so rare that, even here in the capital of our nation, we might only give that kind of threat a second thought when the line is so long at the airport that we might miss our flight.

Psychologically? That's where I thought I was.

That is until this afternoon when we decided to see the 4:10 IMAX show of Batman: Dark Knight Rises. I got the seats-- up high and right in the middle-- while Heidi got the popcorn. As the preshow drabble rolled across the screen, I was checking my email and playing Words With Friends in the nearly deserted row.

Right before the lights dimmed, a couple came up to sit three or four seats to my left. They were young, casually dressed; he had a beard, and she was wearing a head scarf. They also had a suitcase with them. The rolling type that will fit in the overhead compartment on a plane, something you don't often see at the movies. When Heidi came up with our snacks, they politely moved it out of her way so she could pass.

Even now, I get a little choked up thinking about it. All of a sudden, everything came crashing onto me-- what movie it was, the weirdness of the suitcase, the age and ethnicity of those people, and at that moment, my sense of danger was so high I couldn't stay there. I whispered my worries to Heidi, and we decided to leave those seats, and when we got to the exit row, I kept on going straight out the door and to the counter, to turn in my tickets and tell someone in charge about my concerns.

I got a shrug, a refund, and a hell of a lot to think about.

Her Story

I've been doing a bit of genealogy research this summer. I like it because it's like a puzzle or a scavenger hunt-- search the records to find the connection and fill in the family tree! Some branches of our family have been in America a looooong time. (I would be more impressed except for the fact that there are tens of millions of people living in the U.S. today who are descended from the Mayflower passengers and crew alone, and we are not among them... so far.)

Those folks are relatively easy to trace, both because they've created a lot of records in all the time they've been around and they have a lot of descendants researching them. The same can not be said about my ancestors who came here later. All of them so far have come from Ireland, and there is a certain commonality of both surname and first name that make them tough to pin down.

For example, when I began all I knew of my father's mother's mother was that she was named Margaret. Through some digging, I found that Borrie may have been her maiden name. But wait! A few records later, it turned out that Borrie was probably a mis-transcription of Bowler. Her mother was Helen Bowler. That made sense-- my grandmother was Helen, too-- but who was Margaret's father?

Scouring the records, I hit dead end after dead end, and I was just about to give up when something made me search for Maggie Bowler. That was the breakthrough. I found Maggie in the census at 2 and 12 and so forth, and even though her mother was variously referenced as Ellen Bowler, Helen Borrie, and Mrs.Thom Bowler, it was great grandmother Maggie who helped me piece together the story of a couple of young Irish immigrants who married in America, moved to Upstate New York, and built a family before Thomas died of consumption at only 39, leaving Helen with five children ages 15 to 2.

The 2-year-old was Margaret, or Maggie, my grandmother's mom.

Postcard

It was cool and rainy here today, which was really a blessing after the dry, blistering heat we've had. There was no need to go to the garden and we decided to do the Sunday farmers market, so we hung around and read all morning.

Still, at around 2 PM a restlessness struck me that could not be denied. I need a purpose and I wanted some activity, so I proposed a walk down to our local olive oil shop. (Yes, I know what that sounds like, but sue me-- we have a local olive oil shop, and damn it, I'm glad.) Anyhoo, we leashed up the dog, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped out into the soft weather.

When we got there, Heidi waited outside with Isabel while I went in to do the shopping. Soon enough, one of the proprietors pushed open the door to invite Isabel in (what a great place!). She also offered her a sample of their bacon-infused olive oil, and it is here that the story takes a little jog to the unexpected. Much to the dismay of all of us, our dog literally turned up her nose at such an extravagant treat.

Why I'm not sure, but her disdain did not stop me from splurging on a couple of nice bottles of the evoo, and when they were safely wrapped in plum tissue paper and placed in a fancy handle-bag, the three of us headed back into the mist and home.

1001 Reasons

I am not a big fan of the Olympics, which will come as no surprise to anyone who's ever had to hear me moan about the blind nationalism of the games.

I acknowledge that that's quite a few of you, considering that there have been about 900 days of Olympic competition in my adult life alone. Add in all the pre-game coverage, and that's well over 1,000 opportunities for me to complain, both in person and in writing.

Well, here's yet another reason: This year the games fall during Ramadan, the Islamic holy month of fasting. There are over 3,000 Muslim athletes competing in London, where the average length of each day will be 15 hours and 12 minutes with no food or water for the observant. How is that sporting?

Not only that, but this is a major Islamic holiday season, which is often celebrated with all the trimmings of parties and gifts. It is a time for families and friends to gather and rejoice in their faith.

Imagine scheduling the Olympics in late December. Wouldn't happen, would it?

Recipe for Summer Break

Go to the garden.
Go to the gym.
Go to the movies.
Go to the pool.

Toss with some good books and a few magazines.

Repeat.

Quite Contrary

June 3

July 18

It's been a tough year in the garden: we were late getting it in; we were gone for two weeks; there was a derecho, and it's been very dry.

All in all, I can't complain. Although there aren't silver bells and cockle shells, there are pretty tomatoes all in a row.

The Soul of a Chef

When people find out that I used to work as a chef, they often ask what my specialty was. It's a question that stumps me, because any chef will tell you that their specialty is the dish the last diner loved. 

Even so, on the path to find the perfect dish for someone else, you must pursue what you like as well. Most chefs will tell you that they started cooking because they wanted something to eat that they knew they couldn't get anywhere else. Mother Necessity exercises her considerable influence again.

Let me give you an example. A friend of mine posted this about her 4-year-old on fb today:

So Isaac just made himself a sandwich, but he needed help gathering ingredients. He said, "Mommy, I will need the ham. And peanut butter. And mayonnaise and jelly. And ketchup." 

I asked what flavor jelly? Cherry, peach or grape? 

He said, "Whichever one you think is the best for my sandwich." 

Raised eyebrows and knowing nods all around, right?

Almanac: July 16, 2012

96 degrees
8:32 sunset
7 swans a-swimming or 7, 7, I forget what 7 was for
6 AM flight for Mom
5:57 sunrise
4 birthdays-- Victor, Kyle, Tonya, and Unika
3 sixth grade teams-- Dolphins, Owls, and Stingrays
2 movies-- Beasts of the Southern Wild and Prometheus
1 waning crescent moon

Long Days of Summer

We were arriving home from a movie and dinner just a little while ago. The clouds were shreds of charcoal and violet against a periwinkle sky. A single star glimmered in the dusk. "9:15," Heidi noted, "and almost dark. The days are getting shorter." She sighed.

My mom nodded in agreement, but I shrugged. "What are you talking about?" I said. "Summer is hardly winding down."

Before they could object, I continued. "If you were seven and you had to go to bed when it was still light out at 7:30 in your underwear because it was too hot for pajamas, then you would know that July has verrry long days!"

I guess that was a formative experience.

Gracious Isabel

Here's another reason why our dog is great:

We got her a new bed today, a special Sealy posturepedic model for the aging pooch. (Ok, so it was a bit of a splurge, but her birthday is Tuesday. She'll be nine.) When we brought it home and showed her, she was polite enough to roll right on it and then lie down and stretch out with a comfortable sigh.

Now that's gratitude!

Happy Birthday Cupcake

 Tomorrow I'm going card shopping. From July 12 to July 17 we have seven birthdays.

I know that some people despise the greeting card industry. I get it-- set aside all those holidays they have ginned up for their own profit, there's a whole raft of people making their living by basically telling us what we are feeling so that we can send our sentiments to others without taking the time to write them ourselves. (Seriously--who has time for that, right?)

Oh, but I have a soft spot in my heart for the greeting card aisle. Sometimes, those hacks can really put their finger on some string of your relationship that you may or may not have overlooked. Who cares if they are sitting in a cubicle in Nebraska throwing wadded paper at each other? If it's funny, I laugh, and if it fits, I send it. Har, har, har.

Summer Time Zone

During the school year I find that I don't always sleep well. It's usually an early wake-up and trouble falling back to sleep-- too many things on my mind make it hard to drift back off. For a while I thought it might be my age; I took an herbal supplement, and I'd like to say it helped, but I'm not so sure.

We busted out of here the day after school ended to spend two weeks in Maine, and I forgot my supplement the whole time we were there. I also slept fine. Once we were back and there were a few things I needed to get up for, I woke up again in the middle of the night. Call me Sigmund, but that seems pretty psychological to me.

It makes me wonder about internal clocks and every day anxiety. Left to my own devices, I wake up between 7:30 and 8. I eat a few small meals throughout the day and am ready for dinner between 7:30 and 8 at night. It's easy to lose track of the time between the pool, the kitchen, the computer, and the conversation, but Heidi is often reminding me that we really have no deadlines. It takes a while, but I eventually relax.

That's cool, until I look up and it's almost midnight and I haven't posted my blog.

No worries. It's 11:11 somewhere.

Overtime

I was in the pool this evening when our neighbors splashed over. Their daughter will be in sixth grade at my school next year and they had some friendly questions.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am not the sort to engage in conversation casually; small talk is a struggle. Not so tonight-- ask me a specific professional question and away I go. I had no problem chatting with them for well over 20 minutes.

On the way home we checked our mailbox, and our contracts were there. Through a series of funding changes and snafus the school system was unable to have us formally commit to returning next year before we left in June; so it was that today we had big envelopes with explicit directions to Open Immediately. I did as I was instructed, and then I did a little happy dance when I saw that my salary would crest a level I never dreamed I'd earn.

Being informally on call at the pool? My pleasure.

And that summer vacation thing? It's not too bad either.

Proveganda

Last night after I went to bed, Heidi and Josh watched Forks Over Knives, the documentary that turned our kitchen upside down. As I drifted off, I heard Josh raising objections, and I appreciated his critical thinking. Try as I might, I don't think veganism is for me.

We were rushing to get on the road this morning to reunite Josh and his full-time family. I offered to heat up his left over pizza for a quick breakfast, and he gratefully accepted. His left over bacon cheese pizza.

"How was it?" I asked on the way to the car.

"It was good, but somehow it didn't seem right eating it," he answered, "all that bacon."

Another one bites the dust.

Listen Bud

Josh is going home tomorrow and so we let him pick the movies the last couple of days. Yesterday it was Ted, which was a bit of a disappointment to all. Heidi and I thought it was kind of a vulgar, not very funny movie, and Josh found it hilarious in places, but inconsistent. Either way, it was a little uncomfortable to sit next to him through drug use and raunchy sex talk.

Today it was The Amazing Spider Man. Not a bad movie, but for me it added nothing new to all the other Spider man movies I've seen-- I mean how many times do you need to see (or read about, or watch on TV) a  guy in red and blue tights swinging through an urban canyon to get it that it would be cool to be bitten by a radioactive spider?

Even so, I appreciate the complexity of the Marvel Comics universe. I admire that the movies generally stand alone but also work on a different level for the most dedicated of fans. For them, the producers always embed another layer of connection and information that we casual fans can mine like gold nuggets, if we are of the mind.

And yes, we stayed for the extra scene after the first credits. Who was that guy??

If Not for You

The darkness was falling fast as walked  down the fire road behind Heidi's stretcher. Fifteen volunteers took turns bearing the weight as they rolled her over the uneven terrain on one nubby mountain bike tire. "We're double timing!" one guy announced jubilantly, and they really were, considering that they had just carried her down from a height of 500 feet over a half mile of granite ledges and boulders.

One of the two women volunteers fell into step with me. She was about my age, and we had seen her slip and actually fall a few times on the trail. We had also seen her spring right back up and into action each time. "Do you know how to get to the hospital from here?" she asked and then helpfully clarified my vague ideas about the directions.

"You go right past the village green," she said, "but you'll miss the concert," she smiled wryly. "That ends at nine."

I had no idea it was even close to nine o'clock, there is a certain timelessness that sets in with any crisis.

"Our son plays in the band," she continued. "In fact, he's the reason we're here. Last summer he was working on a trail maintenance crew when one of his co-workers was injured. He came home and told us it took 20 people to carry him out. 20 people! We looked at each other and said, 'We can help with that!' and so we do."

I sighed. "Wow," I said, "You hike these trails and you never think about what would happen if you couldn't get down. Well... I never do, anyway. Thank goodness you all are here. What would we have done without you? I'm not sure how to thank you."

She nodded and then gestured to Josh and Riley and Treat. "Well, I think we made an impression on some young people," she said. "If they see that they can help out, then that's a good start."

Losing Streak

Well, we made it home from Maine about an hour ago, but not before we crashed the mini-van on I-95 in Connecticut. Bright spot? Zip ties, which are available for sale at all NJ Tpk rest stops, work wonders to hold a crunched up rear panel on.

Sigh.

Half and Half

I wouldn't call myself an optimist, exactly, but I never really expect things to go wrong, either. Therefore contingency planning is not my strength, but on the other hand, I can usually roll with it when unexpected things come up.

That's how it was yesterday when we were hiking Acadia Mountain. Of all the trails in the park, that one is one of my favorite because of the dramatic views of Somes Sound as you descend a pretty steep granite trail from the summit. Most of it is like high steps, although there is a bit of scrabbling, and the older I get, the more likely I am to sit down, swing my legs over, and scootch my butt forward until I can hop down. Even so, we had the dogs with us, and they were doing fine.

The boys are strong and have young joints like springs, so they were way in the lead. Emily was ahead and Bill and Heidi and I were walking and talking when Heidi put her leg down and grimaced. "Uh oh," she said, "I just hurt something."

The pain was obvious as she swayed a little. "Do you feel faint?" Bill asked, taking her elbow and helping her to sit.

"A little," she answered, "I kind of want to lay down."

From there it was a volley of questions, utilizing the meager first aid kit I always carry, and ultimately, when we realized she couldn't walk, calling 9-1-1.

The rest is a story we will tell for years: How the next hikers along the trail happened to be MDI Search and Rescue volunteers, and I could hear the dispatch of my call squawking from their walkie talkies even before I was even off the phone. How Riley, Treat, and Josh hiked up and down the trail to meet and assist the rangers and other SAR team members. How Heidi really wanted to walk down, but eventually consented to being strapped into a stretcher and hand carried out a mile by twelve guys, including Josh and Riley. How the injury happened before five, and it was 9:30 when we emerged from the forest. How we didn't want to go the ER, but were pressured into it. How Josh rode in the ambulance so I could drive the van. How we laughed at our antics at the hospital as we tried to entertain ourselves for three hours with no food or rest. How today Heidi is walking with a bit of a limp and some soreness, but otherwise is getting around fine.

The thing is, we pretty much knew on the trail that it was a pulled muscle. If she had been running at home, she would have called me to come get her, and after ice, compression, elevation, and rest, she might have seen a doctor. 500 feet up, however, there was no way down other than to rely on the NPS and the MDI SAR (and for them, we are grateful).

As Bill, Emily, Treat, the dogs, and I slowly followed the procession bearing our injured Heidi down the mountain, there were plenty of opportunities to pause and contemplate the view. It was gorgeous-- the sun was setting and night was gathering over the mountains, islands, and boats before us. Another time, I might be in a rush to make the trail head before dark, but all rules were off then. I snapped a few pictures and wondered if Heidi and I would ever go hiking again. How could we, when we knew what could happen?

Later, though, when we all talked about it, we said how lucky we had been, and how well things had worked out, considering. And ultimately, that's the question isn't it? Do you allow the possible pitfalls and perils of everyday life to prevent you from doing what you like, or do you deal with setbacks as they arise?

I guess that's the proverbial cup we all must drink from.

Meeting the Locals

Josh, Heidi, and I were waiting in the ER this evening when an orderly pushed a somewhat disheveled woman past us on a gurney.

"Is that the pizza delivery guy?" she asked loudly. No one answered so she waved at Josh. "Hey! Are you the pizza delivery guy?"

"Uh, no," he answered.

"Well you really look like him!" she said, and then she was gone.

Yeah. There's more to the story. Tune in tomorrow.

One Morning in Maine

My sister's family is heading home to Atlanta tomorrow, so when I saw a copy of One Morning in Maine by Robert McCloskey today in a gift shop in Lubec, I bought it for the kids, hoping that whenever they read it in the future it will remind them fondly of our vacation here.

This evening Annabelle and I sat side by side on the couch with the book spread across our laps. I turned to the imprint and saw that it was published in 1952. We began to read; the story is about Sal, of blueberry fame, waking up one summer morning to find her tooth is loose. The illustrations and text continue her tale as she scrambles down to the rocky beach past a fishing eagle, loon, seal, and flock of sea gulls to meet her dad who is clamming.

Culminating in a trip across the bay by row boat to visit the village which is little more than a dock, garage, church, and general store, is a charming story, but to me the most notable thing is how little has changed up here in the last sixty years.