Those Old White Guys

One of my best friends from high school lost her dad today. He was 90 and died peacefully at home with 2 of his five children by his side; not a bad way to go, right?

When I heard the news, I noted the date, because me and dates? We have something going. Just the other day, I ran into a couple of friencquaintences (yes! by all means give me credit for that portmanteau word) at Target, and I had the occasion  to impress them with my knowledge of their birthdays. I wish I could take more credit for it, but (shrug) it's just how my brain works.

So, today, I thought of Nixon resigning. It was August 8, 1974, (Bobby Bloomer's birthday), and we had been to Great Adventure theme park with my aunt and cousins. That hot, sweaty night, with all the window fans blowing, we watched on TV as the president made a speech from the oval office that he would resign the next day. It was history.

How old was my friend's dad then? I wondered, and I calculated that he was 51, my age exactly. He was a fortunate man, and I personally wouldn't turn down another 39 years like those, but then I got to thinking. How old was Nixon then?

The answer-- 61. Just 10 years older than I am now. Hmm. So he was... 55 when he was elected. That seems impossible. How could that be? NIXON was only 4 years older than I am when he ran for president? But wait. The first time he ran, when he was that stodgy alternative to the young and vibrant JFK? He was just 47!

So, I did a bit of research into all those old, white guys who have led our nation. (Thank you, Wikipedia.) The median age is actually a youthful 54 and 11 months, which falls between Herbert Hoover and Lyndon Johnson. (Really? Really!) Seriously... Tyler, Fillmore, Grant, Garfield, Arthur, Cleveland, BOTH Roosevelts (FDR? C'mon!), Cleveland, Kennedy, Clinton, and Obama were all my age, or YOUNGER!, when elected president.

Gasp.

You know how politics are these days. I'm already following "Ready for Hillary" on Twitter, and I am ready for her-- mostly because she's a woman, but also because she will kick that median age up a notch.

Turning Point

It comes every summer, that clear sense that nothing lasts forever and that no matter what, fall is on its way. Was it the bright red maple leaf I saw tucked among all the green on the trail the other day? I nearly picked it up. Might it be the butternut squash and pumpkins(!) that are dominating our garden, despite the fact that not a single tomato has ripened? Could this unseasonably cool weather be the herald of even crisper days yet to come? Maybe it was our conversation with Richard and Annabelle this morning wishing them good luck as they start school tomorrow, or perhaps it was the time spent at my own school last week, on an interview committee, setting up Heidi's new class room-- even though I am disillusioned with my field, the pull is strong.

Oh, there are still 20 days until teachers report back and summer is officially ended for us, but this evening when I showered after the gym, I ignored my shorts and put on a comfy pair of sweat pants.

Roula-la-la

I ran into a former colleague and old friend in Target today, and she looked great. She's left public school teaching behind and spends her days raising her four-year-old, doing and teaching yoga, and blogging to let off steam.

She was never one to be shy with her opinion, and so I eagerly noted her blog address, and I share it now with you.

Shout out to Bitches Broo!

Friends with Benefits

My newest friends are a half-dozen or so national parks. Well, okay, they don't actually know me, but

I
really

 Like

them.

And it turns out those guys are a wealth of interesting information and spectacular photos. For example, Catoctin always tells me with a wink that "some parts of the park will be closed," meaning of course that the president will be at Camp David. The Badlands gossips shamelessly about fossils and stargazing, Acadia always shares gorgeous sunsets, and Great Falls is the first to let me know that the weather is going to be great so plan ahead to avoid the lines.

My BF GF means it, too: the cars went all the way from the gate down the access drive and around the corner to Georgetown Pike as we left there this gorgeous afternoon.

Teacher Knows Best

As I prepared dinner this evening, I had the TV tuned to Jeopardy. I like the show, I have even auditioned for it, but I am not a regular viewer. You couldn't have known that tonight though, as I shouted each answer (ok question-- but we know what they really are) at the television, despite being alone in the kitchen.

As much as I love summer vacation, I suspect I am suffering a bit from a certain type of withdrawal.

There are just not enough people asking me questions.

Orange is the New What-huh?

So many folks have recommended this Netflix original series to me that it seems for sure like "must see TV." (Remember that? the 90s were golden years, were they not?) So we watched the first episode tonight, and, "eh?" might be a little too strong.

I'll keep you posted.

Network Enabled

"What are you doing?" Heidi asked me a little while ago.

I turned from the computer. "Just entering a contest for a free trip to Vegas and listening to the only known recording of Virginia Woolf," I shrugged. "Why?"

Her raised eyebrows said it all.

Modern Living

My home was built in 1985 with no regard to cross breeze; it had central a/c from the get-go. Very early on, we found that the days when open windows create an ideal climate are rare, and there have been many summers in the last 15 when the house has stayed closed up from June to October.

Oh, air conditioning can be seductive all right: its promise of complete climate control and the undeniable relief of entering an artificially cooled place on the hottest of days draws us to the thermostat. Some days it's not even the heat, it's the humidity-- when the bills start curling up on my desk, I'm inclined to close the windows and crank the a/c.

When I was a child air conditioning was rare. In the hot hot heart of summer we sat around with windows opened wide and all manner of box fans blowing. When the heat was at its worst, we were advised to take a shower and go to bed wet so we could fall sleep.

None of that seems like a hardship, even now. These last few days have been both cool and dry, and even in this ill-designed house open windows have regulated our days perfectly. This morning I heard on the radio that a front would be passing through bringing along with it warmer and more humid air. I believe I felt the change in the weather when I came downstairs. Things were just a little stickier, and there was a scent in the air of green things growing in moist soil that transported me back to those days when every morning felt like this morning.

Who needs air conditioning? I thought, until my downstairs neighbor grabbed her cell phone and cigarettes and camped out below my living room windows. I'm sure we'll open them again soon...

The Piper

It wasn't a peck, but I did pickle a pint of peppers I picked from my petite pepper patch this morning.

A Breather

As I write, all the windows are wide open and we are enjoying a cool evening breeze. This is our second break this week in the typical July heat and humidity. I'm headed out to the deck with a glass of wine and a little Wagon Wheel playing.

Who can say much more than, Aaaaaaaah?

And so We Beat On

On our way to drop Sonic off at his family's home pending their return from Charlottesville, we noticed that The Great Gatsby was playing any minute at the theater we passed. "Want to go see it?" I asked Heidi.

She shrugged. "Sure."

And so we did.

Great movie! Personally, I love Baz Luhrmann and this Gatsby did two things really well:  it, #1, made Daisy a pretty sympathetic character, and by doing so, it, #2, made me actually believe in the green light. Despite knowing the outcome, I was like, Yeah, Jay, this could totally work out!

Identical Cousins?

It seems like forever that I've known that eggplant and tomatoes are related. Both are members of the night shade family, which also contains peppers, potatoes, tobacco, and bella donna. Besides recognizing that the food members of this botanical group pair well, I never gave it much thought, particularly in terms of appearance.

Until today. Summer has delivered a bounty of all things night shade and I am serving them up-- raw, roasted, fried, etc., it's not dinner without one of them. And so tonight I prepared these:

Now... which fruit of the night shade family might this be?

B.I.N.G.O

This morning in Hershey we played a version of BINGO with Josh's younger brother and sister, Jonah, 5, and Evie, 7. It had colorful cards with pictures for the non-readers among us and a nifty plastic dealer that spit out two plastic chips at a time with images corresponding to the cards. The object was to be the first to call out the chip you needed and then mark off that space on your card with it. There were many duplicate images, and as we played, there were some hard feelings especially when one child beat the other to the call.

Oh we played through it, using the game as an opportunity to model and discuss good sportsmanship, (we ARE teachers, after all!), but even so, some of the fun was gone. After several rounds, I volunteered to clean up. Restoring the chips to the dealing device I did so deliberately, pairing up all the images so that they would appear two at a time. Two kites, two smiles, two trees, two cats, two houses, I laughed as I imagined the next game-- would there be more harmony? confusion? delight?-- and then I slid the lid on the box and put it away.

Pick Me Up

Once, when Josh was little, we drove up to visit him and his mom. He was excited to see us, and even more excited to show us his new stuffed hamster. As he cuddled it proudly, I heard a rustling in the corner. "What's that?" I asked.

"That's my other hamster," Josh said. He shook his head sadly. "He's not a holdin' hamster."

"He bites," explained Michelle, Josh's mom. "So I got him a hamster he could hold."

Today, we drove the now 17-year-old Josh home after a week-long visit with us. Michelle had thoughtfully prepared some vegan blueberry muffins for Heidi. "Try one," she offered, "they have oatmeal, flax seed, chia seed, and chai tea."

It was delicious-- warm and cinnamony, and the texture was super-dense and moist. I like these," I said, they're kind of like portable oatmeal." 

A little while later Josh came in the kitchen. "What's this?" he asked.

"You'll love it!" I promised. "It's holdin' oatmeal."

Rock Star

Emily was kind enough to arrange a college tour at her alma mater, the Corcoran College of Art + Design, for Josh while he is visiting this week, so at 10:15 sharp, the four of us trooped into the lobby of that famous gallery and presented ourselves to the volunteer manning the desk.

It wasn't long before Ayesha, a friendly graduate student, came and brought us back to admissions. There, in probably one of the coolest office spaces ever, we sat on retro red and white vinyl lounge chairs facing a serpentine cubicle divider which was perhaps six by twelve feet and folded entirely from brown craft paper.

When Sarah, the admissions officer, came to formally introduce herself and find out who we were, too, our group started with Josh, the prospective student, and proceeded to Heidi, his aunt, Emily, his aunt, and me, also his aunt.

Was it my imagination, or did Sarah hesitate just a fraction? "Josh is lucky to have you all supporting him today," she responded.

"Oh," I told her, "don't mind us. We're just his aunt-tourage."

Productive Avoidance

Isn't it always like this? Tonight I had my writing group, and yet with a whole summer, I woke up this morning with nothing written. No problem, thought I, I have all day.

Behold the most productive day of my entire vacation!

I gathered all the recycling and put it on the curb before going to a breakfast meeting with two other teachers to work on curriculum planning. I went to the grocery store, next. Returning home, I made lunch and then re-hung the pot rack, this time screwing it firmly into the oak board I stained to match the shelf above and which I bolted to the studs.  I replaced all the pots, taking care not to ding the freshly patched and painted wall. Then I turned my attention to the rest of the house, tidying up for my guests this evening. A little later, Josh and I spent some time in the kitchen working on our version of s'mores ice cream. We took marshmallow cream and used the kitchen torch to meticulously roast it to a caramely brown, then mixed it ino a vanilla custard base. Once it was frozen, I stirred chopped chocolate bars, graham crackers, and a few mini marshmallows. Delicious! 

By 5 PM, I hadn't written a word, and it was easy to kill another hour looking back over some of my older pieces, trying to find a thread of an idea. Then I had to take the dog out, feed the animals, and start the grill.

I managed to find some writing that I actually did four years ago, almost to the day. It was fresh and funny and well worth another look. Well, I thought so, anyway. Regardless, I shared it with the promise that I will have something substantial (and new!) by next month. 

If not, at least I'll get a few more things done around here.

Bucket List

Ride a Segway... Check!

Innovation

I've had my eye on that fancy ice cream maker for a few years, not because I love ice cream (although I do), but rather because of all the opportunities it presented. Especially since Heidi went vegan, the lure of personalizing my own frozen desserts has been overwhelming.

Now that I have it, my fear is that it will be another expensive gadget, gathering dust and taking up counter space. To combat such dread, I have been drumming up my ice cream business. Vegan, classic, add-ins, custom-- you name your frozen fantasy and I will do my best to whip it up.

So far, I think my attempts have been quite good. In addition to classic chocolate and vanilla, I have made tasty vegan versions of both. For my birthday celebration, Emily made delicious lemon custard and watermelon sorbet. In addition, any houseguests we have enjoy the name your ice cream amenity. Just the other night? Josh wanted coffee, and of course Treat wanted tea. In my opinion, the Earl Grey was definitely one of the best so far.

Oh, we have plans (and all the ingredients) to concoct a s'mores version in the next day or two, but beyond all that pure fun, today, my gadget took on a practical role. At a loss as to how best use all the freakin' cucumbers our CSA has provided, coconut cucumber lime sorbet with a hint of basil, mint, and cilantro is on the menu.

And despite what Josh says, it is verrrry refreshing!

King Corn

Just a little while ago, Josh and Treat were shucking corn on the front porch. The coals were almost ready for the ribs and burgers when they delivered their handiwork to the kitchen and I crossed my fingers that it would be good corn, tender and sweet.

In my mind, few things go together as well as corn and summer. I remember when eating a whole ear was too hard and all I wanted was for my mom to cut the kernels off. Then I lost my front teeth and I had to eat it that way, and I couldn't wait to get back to the cob.

I remember how cleanly both my mom and my best friend, Nicci, were able to eat their corn off the cob. There was not a single ragged bit of kernel left on their ears. It was like they had a corn vacuum or something.

I remember when my brother lost his tooth while eating corn. We watched in fascination as my mom plucked it from the bloody cob like an errant kernel injured in battle. Then, a few days later, it happened again.

I remember the first summer visit we made to Heidi's family. One of the big events they had planned was a trip to the Eden Corn Festival. A county or two south of them, this event was like a fair or a carnival; it had rides and games and plenty of concessions, but their tradition was to eat corn, and only corn, for dinner.

I was very skeptical of their plan as we approached the corn tent. Volunteers sliced open big burlap bags full of local ears waiting to be shucked. Huge propane fired steam kettles simmered in the back, and the only thing on the menu was corn. "How many should we start with?" Heidi's dad asked, "Two or three?"

He meant dozen, of course, and although the six of us started with two, we easily polished off three and made a good sized dent in the fourth. That corn was probably the best I have ever had-- doused in salt and butter, each sweet kernel practically melted in my mouth, and I learned that night that corn can indeed make a mighty fine meal.

Oh yeah?

Don't make me and my best friend jump into a giant robot suit and smack you down!

We saw Pacific Rim today, can you tell?

Happy Summer

One of the perks of having such a lengthy summer vacation is having the time to explore your own home town. Today Heidi, Emily, and I did three things that were new to all three of us. First we took the free tour of the brand new NPR building. For such a public radio person like me, it was a really great hour. Before it even began, I saw Melissa Block in the gift shop. Then, because they were trying to fix a bug, we actually got to go into the studio where they do both Morning Edition and All Things Considered, after that, we actually saw and heard Jean Cochran do the top of the hour newscast. It was awesome!

After the tour, it was off to the Atlas District for lunch at Sticky Rice. The food was good, and although the service was leisurely, it was kind of nice to spend time over a mid-day meal. It almost made up for the several hundred five minute lunches I've bolted through in the last twenty years.

Our final destination was Union Market. A friend at school had mentioned how cool it was, and since we were in the neighborhood, we went over to check it out. As we walked past Adirondack Chairs, picnic tables, and a half-dozen corn hole boards, a Streamline trailer selling snow cones, cold beer, and other summer food blasted music. At 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon, the place was a party waiting to happen. Inside, we browsed the artisan food vendors and the hip housewares shop, and came away with a few goodies-- fennel pollen for me!

Heading back out to the car, I was happy to see bean bags flying and cold beer sweating on the picnic tables. The party had started! 

Privilege

According to Wikipedia, over one billion people in the world live in slums. A slum, as defined by the United Nations is, "a run-down area of a city characterized by substandard housing, squalor, and lacking in tenure."

Perhaps you are wondering just who it is that doesn't know what a slum is, after all, the word carries enormous emotional freight, but as I listened to a piece on NPR this morning about the efforts of some residents of slums to use 21st century technology, GPS and satellite imagery, to literally put their homes on the map, it reminded me how skewed my perspective can be. 

1200 square feet with electricity and running water? Don't mind if I do.

Something for Everyone

I can't say enough how impressed I am by my 5-year-old niece's thoughtfulness. Take for example our daily conversations revolving around meal planning during her recent stay with us.

Me: Would you like french toast for breakfast?
Annabelle: Yes! I would love that, but what will Aunt Heidi have?

And so it went, as what took me several months of living with a Vegan to wrap my brain around became second nature for her in one day. Mac and cheese for lunch? You bet! But what about Aunt Heidi? Hamburgers for dinner? OK, but what can Aunt Heidi eat?

At this time of year, when we're cooking out a lot, the answer to the question What will Aunt Heidi have? is quite frequently, "A mushroom." We do veggie burgers and chik'n patties, but more often than not, a couple of grilled portabellos and an extra helping of salad will satisfy our resident vegan. It's definitely our fallback entree.

When my sister and brother and I were kids, we used to play a game that started like this, I'm going on a picnic, and I'm going to bring [fill in the blank]. What are YOU going to bring? The object was to have some pattern in mind, so that whenever it was your turn, you gave an example of an item that fit your pattern, and the other players had to figure it out by trial and error.

So, if my pattern was alphabetical order, I would say, I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing apples. What are you going to bring? If the next person said balloons, or anything else that started with a B, then I would benevolently reply, You can come.

But, when they guess something outside your pattern, "You can't come!" is the answer. The audacious rudeness of that reply makes me giggle to this day, as does the shock on the face of anyone who hears it for the first time. Their eyes widen in disbelief and quite often they say, as Annabelle did when I taught her and Richard the game, "That is not nice!"

Even after a week of playing, at five-and-a-half, Annabelle never really got the game (although she played it like a trooper, and coined a new term, "Boss of the Picnic"), but at almost eight? Richard was totally on it, working hard to decipher our patterns and creating some very complex ones of his own. This afternoon he listened closely as Heidi started. "I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing tomatoes. What are you bringing?" She turned to Richard.

"Lettuce?" he tried.

"You can come," she told him. She looked at me. "What are you bringing?"

"Bacon?" I offered, thinking BLTs, maybe.

"You can't come." There was something in her expression that made me realize the pattern immediately. "I'm bringing blueberries," she said. "What about you, Richard?"

He wasn't sure, so he looked around the table. "French fries?" he said.

"You can come," she said.

Annabelle was busy doing something with her mom, so it was just the three of us. "I'm bringing..." I paused and considered all the vegan options. There were so many, but I was feeling contrary. "...fried chicken!" I finished.

Heidi raised her eyebrows. "You can't come!" she said.

Richard was listening closely. "I'm bringing hamburgers!" he said.

I laughed.

"You can not come!" Heidi told him.

"I'm bringing hot dogs!" I said.

"Nope!"

"Steak?" Richard asked.

"No!"

By this time, Richard was collapsed in the restaurant booth, laughing hysterically. When his sister returned, he couldn't wait to explain the joke to her. "Annabelle!" he cried, "Aunt Heidi's picnic is vegan, but we're bringing things that aren't vegan!"

Annabelle frowned.

"What do you think? Can I bring chicken wings?" I asked her, suggesting one of her favorites.

"You can if you bring a mushroom, too," she said.

Happy Holiday

I know that after ten days away, Richard and Annabelle are really looking forward to seeing their parents, their cats, and just being home, but it is always the mark of a successful vacation when at dinner the night before everyone packs it in and packs it up someone says, "I wish we could just stay a little longer..." and nobody disagrees.

Arachnophobia

When I stepped out onto my stoop this morning to greet the day and collect the paper, I noticed a firefly caught in a web that had been spun in the corner of our tiny front porch. The spider was nowhere in sight and the firefly looked very vigorous despite the mortal inconvenience of its predicament, and so it was really without a second thought that I scooped it from the edge of the web and set it free.

This evening I shared my experience at dinner. "Oh, yes," said Heidi, "I saw it there, too, but I was late for my class and so I kept going."

"What would you have done?" I asked my nephews, Richard, 7,  and Treat, 18.

"I'd have left him for the spider," Richard shrugged.

I nodded and turned to Treat. "What about you?"

"I would have recognized him for the bait he was!" he shuddered. "Save the firefly? Face the spider!!" 

For the Birds

Heidi has a thing about documentaries. "Why don't we see more of them?" she demands, and who can disagree? So this morning I navigated to our "on demand" feature and found a documentary short that seemed like it might be interesting.

Birders: The Central Park Effect did have a pretty good premise-- that in this age of decreasing woodlands, migrating birds are actually drawn to urban parks as travelers to rest stops and so the diversity of the avian population there is rather impressively wide.

I love identifying birds to begin with, and so I was initially on board. The addition of author Jonathan Franzen was an interesting plus, as was the terminally ill birder who continued to find meaning in life through birdwatching season after season. Ultimately, though, the film dragged a bit for me. Perhaps it was all the distractions of a Saturday morning; in any case, I found myself more interested in the newspaper and my iPad than the television.

Or, that was true until our cat, Penelope, became interested in the TV. All the bird calls and footage of darting, diving, and flying activated her feline instincts and soon she was sitting on a two inch ledge, whiskers flush to the flat screen.

Her pacing and frustrated mewing forced my attention back to the documentary, and hey! We gotta get those birds, those fabulous birds!

Goshdaughter

Mom's a science major and Dad's a science teacher, but Heidi's 13-year-old goddaughter? Doin' time in Language arts summer school.

Why?

She's just not good at that stuff, so she why bother with the homework?

Oh my...

Send her to those humanities lovin' aunties!

No Slave to Fashion

These are socks:

These are Crocs:

Can I wear my Crocs with socks?
Some might mock these Crocs and socks,
but I'll ignore their petty knocks,
and they may just react with shock
at how I rock these Crocs and socks!

In Praise of the Wish List

I started an Amazon wish list a year or so ago. It was really just a tool to help me remember the things I wanted. Of course, it is self-evident how fortunate I am that I need reminders of what I want. How can I describe the items on that list? They are things I consider luxuries; stuff I want, but don't want to buy.

When Heidi shared the existence of my list with my family, my first reaction was umbrage. Hey! That's my covertly coveted collection! It's a secret... I thought, until I started to receive the items on it. What a pleasure it was on Christmas to open the fermenting crock and weight stones I had so long ago wished for and forgotten.

This year, for my birthday, my family practically cleaned out my list, and I must say I have been both surprised (as dim-witted as that may seem) and delighted to receive each gift. Homemade ice cream? You betcha. Brightly colored sneakers? YES! Cast iron grill? Wow! What a difference! Burr grinder for highest quality coffee? Hooray!

So, although I'm quite sure that St. James did not have anything like this in mind, his words are undeniably fitting: You have not because you ask not.

And now I do have, because I'm lucky to have such a family with such resources. All that's left is to count my blessings.

Thanks everybody!

Prequel without Equal

We saw Monsters University today with Richard, Annabelle, Riley, Treat, and Emily. And it might just be the good company talking, but I'm going to go ahead and call it the best darn prequel I've ever seen.

OK, to be honest, how much competition is there in the prequel department? Star Wars? Not so much. Temple of Doom? Nope. There are some reboots that might be considered prequels (Batman Begins, X-man First Class) if they weren't um... reboots. Then there are some prequel-sequels, consider Terminator 2 and Godfather II, but do they count? Meh. Monsters U, on the other hand is a pure sequel and it has a few things going for it.

To begin with, I liked the original, but I wouldn't say much more than that. In fact, when my students wanted to watch it on the bus to our end-of-the-year field trip, it was with a shrug and a yawn that I punched play on that particular DVD. Once it was on, though, I started noticing that impeccable Pixar attention to detail, like the way Boo's laughter blows the circuits way back in the first part of the movie, and I confess to being impressed.

I think that's one of the reasons I liked the prequel, too. It is its own movie with a very entertaining plot, but the continuity with the first one is seamless, and this story enriches that one, particularly in the area of character development.

Plus, it has Helen Mirren.

Pool Time

We spent a couple of hours at the pool today with a 7, a 6, a 5, a 4 and 1-year-old. Oh, there were splash battles and tea parties, cannon balls and dive contests, and even one life guard whistle (for running), but there were no harsh words and not a single tear. It's a pretty safe bet everyone is going to sleep well tonight.

When we were kids, every summer meant at least one visit to Aunt Harriett and our cousins, Jimmy and Bobby. They lived on a couple of acres in the country, but their close friends and neighbors, the Wilsons, had an in-ground pool that they were kind enough to share. After fun mornings, most of our afternoons were spent there, and many times it was just our moms and us-- having splash battles and tea parties, cannon balls and dive contests.

I remember two things clearly about those days. The first is the sign that the Wilsons had prominently displayed: We don't swim in your toilet, please don't pee in our pool. I guess there was just something about the symmetry of the construction that made me feel guilty every time I peed in that pool, either that, or it was a little freaky imagining the Wilsons, Jack, Leona, John, and Karen, so tall and so tan, swimming in my toilet.

The second thing I'll never forget is how everyone conked out at night-- no matter our big plans to eat ice cream, play cards, hunt fireflies, watch TV, whatever, it was always hard to stay awake much past dark. We didn't fight it, though, because we always knew that tomorrow would be another fun day.

And it will be. Some things don't change.

Kick 'em to the Moon

My niece Annabelle loves to sing. She comes by it honestly-- her grandmother pretty much has a song for every occasion.  My mom has been teaching us songs about every holiday, this river, that town, the moon, the flag, camp, you name it, for as long as I can remember. She even taught us cheers when we were little from her high school days, so it was with a great sense of familiarity that I chimed in with Annabelle yesterday in the car as she shared one of the cheers she learned in camp this summer:

California oranges, Texas Cactus, Annabelle started.
We think your team needs a little practice! I joined in with gusto.

But it was when she started singing What a Wonderful World a few minutes later that my ears really perked up. "I can play that one on the ukulele!" I told her. And so this morning, I did, and it was magnificently awful to hear a five-year-old belting out that Louis Armstrong classic with her novice ukulele-playing aunt strumming along.

So what? Go ahead-- put us in a high chair and feed us with a spoon.

Summer Equation

656 miles
13 hours
a basket of peaches
a fried green tomato BLT +
two helpings of green beans
a squashed penny on the train tracks
Richard and Annabelle for 10 days
___________________________________
Lookin good, July!

Trust but Verify

Yes, the title of this post quotes Ronald Reagan, a man not too ideologically similar to myself. Or at least I thought so at 18 when I first voted and voted against him. I did him the same courtesy in 1984, but I was outvoted by my fellow citizens again that year.

When you're young, well, okay, when I was young, everything seemed much more absolute, particularly right and wrong. Reagan was wrong, and I was right. Back then I developed an affinity for the liberal press, particularly the New York Times and NPR. How gratifying it was to read and listen, especially since it seemed like they reported just what I was thinking.

To this day, I love them both, but I am no longer their yes lady. It's to the point where I swear NPR is more conservative than I am, especially their big-data lovin' ways. Perhaps it started with the 2008 election and the giddy infatuation with Barack Obama. Regardless, it continues with their mindless reporting on education, particularly standardized tests and national standards.

Maybe it's because it's taken some time, but I do feel like I have some first-hand knowledge and perhaps even expertise on some of the things they are reporting, particularly education. Such a perspective makes me much more critical of what I'm hearing and reading.

Just yesterday, I listened to an interview with fireworks expert, John Conkling. It seems that true blue is the holy grail of fire crackers, and you can tell the caliber of the show you are seeing by the intensity and brightness of the blue. At the end of the piece Conkling is asked whether the average person would be able to tell if the blue was true.

"Well, it's something that people who have really been involved with fireworks look for when they watch a show. But for the average person watching our Fourth of July show, the other colors that are out there, the patterns they produce, the effects they shoot up in the air, the timing, it just is so overwhelming that there - I think very few people who leave the show saying, boy, I wish I'd really seen a good blue," he says.

And that's how it is with press coverage; if you don't know what you're looking for, it all seems like a really good show.

Let Freedom Ring

A riddle:

Q: Do they have the fourth of July in England?
A: Yes, but it's not  holiday.

Oh, America, you're so funny.

Happy Birthday.

First Do No Harm

We had our cat at the vet today and were waiting in the exam room when a short knock came at the door. A young woman in scrubs entered, and I knew from experience that this was the vet tech who would do the preliminary questions and exam. She introduced herself as Tatiana, and looking at her face, I knew I knew her. "Did you got to [and here I named my school]?" I asked.

She nodded briefly. "Yes I did."

"Do you remember me? I was your English teacher."

Over the years I have run into many, many former students, and usually they are friendly, or at least seem glad that I remember them. Not so with Tatiana. "Mmm hmm," she said and turned her attention to Heidi, "What seems to be the problem here?"

And that was it. She only spoke to Heidi for the rest of the visit. Afterwards, I thought and thought about what I might have done to get such a reaction from her, but I couldn't remember anything out of the ordinary. I do know that over the years, I've become a much nicer teacher; I've learned that you can have good classroom management and still be kind and empathetic. In fact those qualities help.

So, whatever it was, I'm sorry, Tatiana. I hope I'm a better teacher, now.

You Say Restaurant, I Say...

Recently I heard a discussion about local zoning laws on the radio. The guests were on opposite sides of the issue as to whether there should be a moratorium on liquor licenses in their neighborhood. Their disagreement was civil, and as things like that go, not very good radio.

They did, however, make the distinction between restaurants, bars, night clubs, and taverns clear. It was a difference I had never considered, and one I have been thinking about since. Any of those establishments might have a liquor license. For a bar, it wouldn't make sense not to have one, because that is a place that serves alcoholic beverages. A tavern, too, serves booze, but they must also serve food; sometimes their menu is limited, sometimes not. A restaurant must make the major percentage of its income from food sales, even if they sell beer, wine, and/or liquor, and a night club offers entertainment to its patrons, with or without serving alcohol.

The other night, we went out for dinner at a place which I knew to have a full bar, but which also had an extensive menu. As we waited to be seated, a plaque I'd never noticed before caught my eye. It quoted no one less than Patrick Henry as saying, "The Tavern is the cradle of American Liberty."

Hmm. Maybe it is, I thought... but wait! Does that mean this place is a tavern? I think it just might be! That was a much more interesting idea to me.

And so my eyes have been opened to a whole new way of sorting things, and I like it. Just today, I heard a joke. A hamburger walks into a bar and orders a beer. "Sorry," says the bartender, "we don't serve food."

That's right.

Master and Student

I told Kyle that my old brain was only able to learn new tricks before noon, so if he wanted to teach me how to play Minecraft, he was going to have to set his alarm. I figured I might be safe, but this morning, as I read the news in bed, I got a text: GET UP!!!

I laughed and texted back that I was up, and I would come to the kitchen shortly. I found him there bleary eyed and wearing the Minecrafter t-shirt we got him for his birthday. He was eager to begin.

"Don't worry," he assured me, "I'm a good teacher." 

And he was. He was patient and protective, killing all the creepers and zombies and spiders, and he only laughed out loud at me once, and that was when I fell into a mineshaft. "I saw the whole thing," he told me. "You were looking up and you walked right in! You never saw it coming." He shook his head, unable in the moment to empathize with anyone who might have trouble navigating that blocky world. 

Overall, it was pretty fun, though, and I made sure I thanked him for going to the trouble of getting up early for me. 

"No problem," he said. "See you tomorrow morning-- you have a lot more to learn."

A Naturally Wonderful Birthday

We spent the afternoon at Niagara Falls. After three days of rain, the weather cleared into a birthday-miracle, 75 degrees and sunny, blue skies and puffy white clouds kind of a day. We got a great parking space less than a block from a really cool street festival that we had no idea was going on. After grabbing lunch at the food trucks, where there were several vegan options, we crossed the street and walked the shady paths to the twin bridges that span the raging Niagara river on its inevitable course to the American Falls ans Bridal Veil Falls. Despite being crowded (it was after all a Sunday), the international crowd was quite companionable and courteous in our polyglot fashion, wordlessly stepping in and away from the railing in an improvised choreography to allow for any desired photo op. An Indian family handed me their iPad for a group shot, and of course I was happy to oblige. Every now and then, the wind would shift and we would all be refreshed by the errant mist. Below us we saw those who had paid for extra access; prowling the redwood boardwalks in their complimentary sandals and thin yellow plastic ponchos, they embraced the spray, many allowing themselves to be drenched by the falls. Next we climbed the steps and passed the visitor center to get our best view of Horseshoe Falls. The stench of a thousand seagull nests, inaccessible and invisible, but just a hundred feet below us, detracted slightly from the view, but rounding a gentle curve, we saw a real cloud rising, made of the vapor from the falls and pure white against cerulean; everything I learned in fourth grade science about weather was captured in that image, and once again, at Niagara Falls, I understood the meaning of "natural wonder."

What?

As my birthday approaches, it is sobering to see Diane Lane, that cute little girl from A Little Romance, who happens to be 2 1/2 years younger than I, playing Superman's mom!

Accentuate the Positive

Sometimes it can be a challenge to put together a vegan meal for Heidi when dining out. Going out for a Friday night fish fry is a tradition here in Buffalo (and they make the best fried fish I have ever tasted anywhere in my life!), but it is not a very friendly meal for those who are on a plant-based diet, so before we went left for the restaurant tonight, we looked at the menu online to try to figure out what Heidi might order. 

It is a pretty traditional place with many classic dishes, but aside from the salad and French fries, not a single one was vegan. "Look! They have chicken in a basket," Heidi said. "Who even calls it that anymore?"

I remembered back when I was very young, my family used to occasionally go to this restaurant that was down a long wooded lane and right next to the water. It was there that I first had not chicken, but shrimp in a basket. At the time, it was one of the most delicious things I had ever eaten, and I would have ordered it anytime we went out, but for the fact that I knew it was too expensive. Somehow I understood that I shouldn't ask for it too often, but I also knew that whenever I did, my dad would say yes.

"That's a nice story about your dad," Heidi said. "I haven't heard many of those."

She's right. I'm going to try to tell more.

Dig Dig Dig

Perhaps one of the qualities that has helped me to be a good teacher is that throughout my life I have maintained an appreciation for things that kids like. At 9' I was a little older than the target audience for Sesame Street, but I was charmed by it never the less, and I never considered it too babyish when the younger kids wanted to watch. Likewise, I have always found a way to enjoy drawing or building or reading or playing with kids, and not just because they were having fun. You can't fake engagement, and that's really what kids, what people, respond to.

Lately there has been a lot of Minecraft in my life. Students and nephews are wild about the game, but so far I have  resisted its charms. It hasn't engaged me. "Please play with me," Kyle pleaded tonight. "I don't want to have to play with myself!"

I laughed at his choice of words but promised him that I would give it a try tomorrow. "OK, show me how to start," I added because he looked so disappointed. 

I knew from my students that there was some kind of wood chopping to do at the beginning and then later on, mining and crafting. (Yeah, the significance of the name was not lost on me, the English teacher.) Tonight I peppered Kyle with questions as he punched the screen with his thumb. Why are those rocks different color? What's the difference between cobble stone and common stone? Why do you want to craft a better pick axe?

At the last inquiry, he sighed, and answered me with slight exasperation. "Because it makes it way easier to mine."

"Oh yeah," I responded, pretending to get it, "you wouldn't want to sprain your thumb."

Do You Know Why I Pulled You Over?

I remember the first time I ever got pulled over by a cop. It was like 30 years ago; I was in college and some friends and I were on our way from Hamilton, NY to Virginia Beach for the weekend. This was a spur of the moment trip-- we piled into my yellow VW Rabbit at 7 PM on Friday, and six hours later picked up another friend of mine in DC. The sun was rising over Hampton Roads and I could literally smell the salt water as I sped across the causeway leading from the tunnel. It was then I spied the flashing red lights in my rear view. My hands were trembling as I guided the car to the narrow shoulder. The other three people woke up when we stopped. My heart was pounding and there was a giant lump in my throat as I struggled to roll down the window to speak to the stern-faced trooper on the other side; I was in big trouble, and I knew it. 

Despite being 14 miles over the speed limit, I did not get a ticket that day. Perhaps there was something about a carful of kids who had driven all night to see the ocean that moved the officer to give me a warning instead. I thanked him and drove away.

Over the next few years, I wasn't quite as lucky, and I confess to receiving several speeding tickets. Lately, though, my streak has been pretty good. I've gone 25 years with just a single citation, and that one was six years ago, but when I blew past that cop in Pennsylvania doing 73 in a 55 zone this afternoon, I knew I was busted even before he turned on to the road. I moved to the right lane and waited for him to get behind me and turn on his lights. I glided to a stop on the side of the road, considerately rolling a little ways past the dead deer carcass. If he wanted to chide me, he was out of luck; there was no pounding heart, no sweaty palms, and certainly no tears. I gave the young man my documents, secure in the strength of my driving record. 

We listened to the radio and chatted while he sat in his cruiser and did his duty, and when he returned, it was not with a speeding ticket, but rather a lesser citation. I thanked him and drove away.

Things I've Learned this Week

There is a live Supreme Court of the United States blog.

The justices read their decisions in order of the majority opinion author's seniority, but the chief justice is always most senior.

Tomorrow might be a very big day.

Windows Down

Since we were on vacation, we decided to take the long road home yesterday (after the turtle incident). We avoided the traffic on I-81, opting instead for 50 miles on Skyline Drive. The temperature was 10 degrees cooler up there at the top of those blue ridges, and so we put our windows down and enjoyed the views. On a Sunday at 5 PM we practically had the parkway to ourselves. We knew the day would be long, and the golden light of the nearly midsummer's evening made everything glow as we rolled along with the wind in our hair.

Later, when we got down from the mountains, we kept the windows open, barreling along country roads, bracing for a bump. The warm air smelled like so many summer evenings spent at my Aunt Harriet's house when we were kids, and at last I felt like school was really out.

A Simple Thank-you Would Do

We kicked off our summer vacation today with a great road trip. My mom is in town and so the three of us headed 2 1/2 hours southwest to Staunton, VA, home of the famous "farm museum."

I had a hard time believing that it's been 15 years since my last visit, but finding that they had moved a whole farm house about a quarter mile away convinced me that all that time had indeed passed. Still, the place is fun and engaging, and visiting actual reconstructed houses from 17th century England and 18th century Germany, Ireland, and the Virginia frontier is still really cool, and so is the fact that they try to make them working farms-- raising crops and livestock, preparing food, and fashioning tools and clothing in the manner they would have been back then.

As memorable as the day was, it was on our way home, literally on the road out of the place that probably my most indelible memory was formed. A turtle was in the middle of the driveway as we headed out. "We should stop and move it," Heidi suggested, and I agreed. I pulled over and jogged back to the big painted slider. Sensing me, he pulled his head in and snapped the carapace closed. Undeterred, I grabbed him and stepped toward the grass. With that, he let out a huge stream of pee that ran down my leg and on to my shoe.

To my credit, I did not drop him. I deposited him gently on the bank of the pond he was probably heading toward before running back to the car hollering in total disgust.

Ummm? You're welcome, turtle.

The Twist

Morgan Freeman the villain? I did not see that coming.

Summer Brakes

And perhaps the weirdest thing about being a teacher is going from 60 to 0 in no time flat. The school year doesn't wind down; it screeches to a halt, leaving us leaning forward, seat belts locked and unable to breathe. What consumed us has vanished like a deer from our headlights.

It's going to take a minute to get our bearings and move on.

I'm a Believer

Back in April, when we were doing the poetry challenge, one of my students wrote a poem about summer vacation that kind of sums up what we were all looking forward to today, the last day of school for middle school kids:

I believe in the summer days and the joy that comes with them,
the feeling of happiness that spreads when the warm weather has finally come,
the sensation that you feel when the sun shines on your neck,
the freedom you get to do what you want when the summer comes,
and the laughs and smiles when people are having fun,
Sportsmanshp, Responsibility, Privilege.

But I don't believe in staring out the window while doing homework
and wishing that you could be playing outside.

I believe in having a good time with friends.
I believe in staying up late and sleeping in the next morning.
I believe in having no worries and no stresses in life.
Relaxation, Sleepover, Takeout.
And I believe in counting down the days until summer, 
when you can finally take a down day, 
when you are tired at the end even after a good long day of rest, 
when the days go by without notice, 
when you wake up and forget if it is Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday, 
and when your tongue is purple when you finish a grape popsicle.

The Biggest Room in the House

A couple days ago, my students calculated their independent reading for the year. Based on the weekly reading log they keep, the numbers this year were quite an improvement over last year.

They read an average of 47 books per person for an average of 9,835 pages each since September. That adds up to over 800,000 pages and 3,856 books-- pretty impressive figures.

The point of this activity is to encourage students by showing them how much they have accomplished over time. It can be a powerful lesson, and I ask them to write a brief reflection after looking at their totals and those of the group.

This year, though, the overall sentiment was different than in the past. Several students said something similar to this one, "I'm proud of myself, but I think I could've read more."

I hope they make good on that next year.