Sabado Gigante

Maybe the limos should have been my first clue. After all, a line of 6 stretch humvees and a luxury mini bus is a little unusual on a quiet city street at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. 

On this beautiful day, we decided to park at the new aquatic center and walk the trail along the railroad tracks and the river beyond. The path took us into one of the many urban neighborhoods of our county, the one which was renamed National Landing when Amazon announced that its HQ2 would be built there. But the park, a shady 1.5 acres with a cool, multi-level water feature, some colorful Adirondack chairs, and a giant chess board, still bears its original Crystal City name. 

Word in the press is that the place, as nice as it is, will receive an upgrade like everything in that area, but today the sun, the shade, the paths, and the fountains were all the perfect location for at least 10 Quinceañera photo shoots. As we approached the park a team of three photographers and videographers recorded a white limo parking curbside. Doors opened and a young girl in a midnight blue dress with hoops and crinoline piled out with her court of 6 damas, dressed in slightly fewer frills in a lighter shade of blue, and 6 chambelanes, dressed in dark suits with powder blue waistcoats. A little girl and boy dressed like their older counter parts completed the court. Parents and grandparents climbed out of the limo next, and the entire entourage proceeded to the fountains stopping and posing as they went. 

Almost every corner of the park was occupied by a similar group, some in pink, some in yellow, some also in blue, all attended by cadres of photographers. The activity was too interesting to pass by; we found a couple of empty Adirondack chairs at the far corner of the park, and took a break to watch. After a half or so, the action showed no signs of slowing: each time a limo left, another eased into its parking space, and 20 more celebrants replaced the court that had departed. So we took our leave, and headed back to the car, enchanted by the tradition.

Yeah, Right

On the back side of Hurricane Ida, which delivered 24 hours of steamy winds and torrential rain to our area before walloping the Northeast, the prediction is nearly a week of early autumn weather, crisp and golden, with cool mornings and warm, sunny afternoons. Rather than complain of whiplash, or otherwise rue the days as they pass, I prefer to take each as it comes and find the pleasure in it. 

But secretly? I still have my favorites.

One Tech, Two Tech, Old Tech, New Tech

A few years ago, when a student needed to call his parent, I invited him to use the phone on my desk. "Dial 9" I casually told him as I handed over the receiver, and then stepped away to help another student. 

A few minutes later I looked over and saw him helplessly standing there.

"How does this work?" he asked me. 

I showed him how to hold it to his ear and then pointed out the number pad and pushed the hook switch. "Do you hear a noise?" I asked. "That's the dial tone," I told him when he nodded. "Now push the 9 button, and when you hear that sound again, dial your mom's number."

I thought of that child today when one of the new sixth graders brought me her iPad. "I think I broke the screen protector," she reported sheepishly.

But the flimsy piece of plastic that covered her iPad was all in one piece and holding the countless shards of her shattered screen in place. "Lucky for you sixth graders are getting new iPads next week!" I told her. She and her classmates have had their devices since second grade, and the school upgrades them as a matter of practice when the students enter middle school. I handed her a lap top, showed her how to navigate to the activity we were working on, and then stepped away to help another student.

A few minutes later I looked over and saw her fingers hovering helplessly over the keyboard.

"How does this work?" she asked me.

You Didn't Really Have to Be There

"That's what she said!" a student blurted across the room yesterday when one of his classmates said that something was "painful".

I asked the jokester to step outside so we could discuss his brand of humor. Our conversation did not take long: I knew just what to say to move him from feigned innocence to admitting his mistake and promising to avoid such shenanigans in the future, and we were both back in the classroom before many people even noticed we were gone.

But I must admit, I sure did not miss that part of teaching middle school when we were virtual.

From the Esoteric to the Mundane

 Day 2 of this school year is in the books, and just 2 more days until a long weekend. 

That's right-- our calendar this year is a little silly. As I explained to the sixth graders today, "We have four days of school, and then five days off. Then we have three days of school and two days off. Then we have three days of school and one day off. Then we have one day of school and two days off. And then? We have five days of school!"

Their heads must have been swimming. "And don't even get me started on the block schedule!" I continued, but it was too late. "We have A, B, and C days. Yesterday was a C-A day, and today is a C-B day. Tomorrow is A and Thursday is B. When we get back next week, Wednesday is a C-A Day, Thursday is an A Day, and Friday is a B Day. There are no more C Days for 2 weeks, but the next one will be a C-B Day!"

Their eyes were glazed over.

"It's super confusing," I laughed, "but you know what is even crazier than this crazy schedule?"

They shook their heads. 

"In a couple weeks, we will all understand it completely!"

No Time for Drama

During the open house last week a student stopped me. He was an eighth grader, and one of our school "ambassadors", kids who are tapped to welcome and guide visitors during special occasions. He had a woman with him, and they were both a little turned around. "Do you know where the door to the parking lot is?" he asked.

"We don't have one anymore," I frowned.

"This lady says her husband dropped her off at Door 19, and she's supposed to meet him there right now."

The woman sighed and literally drummed her fingers on her crossed arms. "I just need to know where Door 19 is!"

The question threw me a bit, because even though it's been several years since our many outside doors were numbered for easier emergency management, I never really bothered to match the doors with their designations. 

"Isn't it in the gym?" the student said.

"I don't think so," I replied, vaguely recalling that those doors had single digit numbers. "But I do have a map of the building in my room right over here," I offered. "We could look at that."

"Just take me to the door," she said to the student, and off they went toward the gym. Back in my room, I checked the map and found that Door 19 was right down the hallway. 

A little later, I saw the 8th grader again. "Did you find the door?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said. "That lady said you were causing some drama, but I just ignored her."

"What drama?" I was confused.

"The whole map thing," he shrugged. "She just wanted to go."

"Well I guess it's a good thing she's gone, then," I said.

On Our Own

Heidi had a reunion in Pittsburgh this weekend, so Lucy, the cats, and I were solo. AND we did just fine, walking and cooking and cleaning and grooming and playing and so forth. BUT it must be said that we were all very happy when she got home this evening.

Children Get Older

In the spirit of Friday Night, I decided to look for a movie to watch when I collapsed on the couch at the end of mt first full week back from summer break. What I landed on was When We Last Spoke, a film that takes place in a small town in Texas in 1967 and follows the lives of two young sisters living with their grandparents because their dad is in Vietnam and their overwhelmed mom took off. Starring Melissa Gilbert and Corbin Berenson ad featuring Cloris Leachman in one of her last rolls, the movie seemed targeted at folks like me. 

And it was pretty good, if a little predictable-- that is once I got past Melissa Gilbert playing the grandma!

Angel

I got a chance to meet most of my homeroom at our annual open house. In past years, the event has usually drawn a little less than half the rising sixth graders; the kids have already visited the school in the spring, and families are often too busy or off enjoying their last days of summer. But COVID injected more of a sense of urgency into the tradition, and in addition to the high turnout for sixth grade, many seventh and eighth graders attended as well. 

The plan called for us to meet our students outside, direct their parents to a Q&A with the administration, and then bring the kids inside for a quick ice breaker and a tour of the building. The sun shined in my eyes as I held a piece of paper with my name above my head, and one by one, a group of eleven-year-olds formed around me. I recognized one or two from the outdated pictures in my gradebook, but I asked for all of them to introduce themselves.

One guy was wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a short-sleeved button down that was a size too small, and a clip-on tie that only made it to the fourth button. There was something about him that I like right away. "How many of you guys were virtual the whole time last year?" I asked, and when he raised his hand I realized that he was wearing his good school clothes from 4th grade. 

Back in the classroom, one of the other students was struggling with the icebreaker. "Are you stuck for ideas?" I asked her, but she told me in broken English that although she understood the directions, she didn't know how to write her answers in English. 

I wrote a few sentence stems on the board to help her, but I also told her she could write her answers in Spanish if she preferred. "I'll do my best to understand,"I smiled, "and if I don't get it, you and I will be the same!"

The guy in the tie waved his hand. "I speak Spanish!" he said. 

"Great!" I replied. "If I need help, I know who to ask!"

When it came time to reading the questions the students had turned, I saw that there were some in Spanish, so I walked over and handed my volunteer the papers. 

He looked panicked. "I said I could speak Spanish, I didn't say I could read it!"

"It's okay!" I reassured him. "I can try it."

But he insisted, and after a few minutes, and consulting with the other student, he did great!

And just like that? I was ready for the year to begin.

Beginning of the End?

Late yesterday afternoon a a group of six or eight people walked purposefully by my classroom door to the dead end just beyond. There they poked their heads into Heidi's new room and the room across from hers which has been occupied by our friend Laura since 1998, murmuring and taking measurements. As I watched through the inside windows, Heidi came through the door. "What are they doing in my classroom?" she asked with alarm.

Just then, the assistant principal passed by, and never one to be shy, she stepped into the hall and asked him the same question.

"You're killing me!" I heard her say. "I just moved in there!"

"It was always going to be for just one year," he said, which was news to her-- it's taken the whole week to get the place put together and ready for students.

"It's security," I heard him explain. "In most other schools you can't get into the building without going through the office."

It was only 5 or 6 years ago that they locked all the doors, and gave staff key cards to a few entrances. All visitors have to be buzzed in, but our building is a mixed use facility, and the main entrance opens onto a large lobby with a community theater on the left and a hallway that leads to the main office and school on the right. Evidently, that's too much space: people can get buzzed in and slip into the school, bypassing the office. 

My eyebrow is raised here, too-- wouldn't the buzzer be aware if the buzzee never made it to the office? Ideally, yes, but I also know how many honest distractions there are in any given school day. Practically speaking, in the absence of is a dedicated door monitor, making visitors enter into the office is the best way to keep track of them.

And so, the powers that be have decided that the best way to secure our school is to cut through brick to create a whole new entrance and move the main office right to where Heidi and Laura's classrooms are. And although it was not directly mentioned, I really don't think there's a plan that saves my classroom, either. 

A Shift

I spent part of the day going through one of the bookshelves in my classroom. After 28 years of teaching, I've assembled a pretty nice professional library, full of what once was cutting edge philosophy, advice, and strategies. But while I've added to my collection over the years, I've never taken the time to prune it, reviewing and tossing the books I no longer need or want. 

I filled a box with discards, and I had the sense that this is how it will be moving forward: relinquishment will take the place of acquisition, as I pare my professional possessions. Oh, my students will not suffer-- I have all that I need to make my classroom a comfortable and welcoming place, plus more! in the storage closet down the hall. And I will always provide the consumables that fuel learning-- school supplies and healthy snacks for the kids and chocolate for the adults.

One Thing I Know is True

Today was the second of three pre-service days entirely devoted to professional learning and meetings. I do appreciate the model our district has adopted over the past few years, one where staff can choose from many offerings (including those we have found or developed ourselves) and document the hours we spend learning to improve our practice. And yet, these days might be a little too unstructured for the likes of me; I am most productive with some specific direction and a firm deadline (which is why I always meet the requirements by the end of the year, although sometimes with a racing heart and a sweaty brow).

But perhaps the best lesson of all is being in the learner position for a while. Just as I acknowledge a preference for structure, I know many of my students have that, too. And my appreciation for choice and voice when learning is also pretty universal. There are specific experiences, too, that I recognize must inform my practice. For example, many, many times when I am asked on the spot, in the name of collaborative learning or reflection, to express my thoughts on a complex question, I feel unprepared and even unwilling to participate. 

In fact, I exited a Nearpod activity this morning when the interaction became too stressful, and I knew for a fact that the same thing had happened to some of my virtual students on several occasions last year. Drawing a blank in a situation that you feel is high stakes is not that uncommon.

And so, with that in mind, I made sure to look at the agenda for my next meeting, and when I saw another interactive experience planned, I considered the questions in advance, and attended the meeting prepared with some ideas. What I missed, though, was the icebreaker, and when I ducked into the group a couple of minutes late because a colleague had stopped me in the hall to ask some questions, my stomach siezed and my brain froze when I realized what was happening, and that the only seat left in the room put me third in line to compose an articulate response.

Of the three questions I could choose from, What brings you to the school? What did you read this summer? and What is something you hope for? I could only think of one thing. 

"I came to this school a while ago," I said. "because I wanted to be a teacher, and the principal offered me a job. I think it's worked out so far."

At least that thing was true.

And Counting

 Here's a story that I wish my mom could have read.

A former student, who is going into 8th grade, stopped by my room today to introduce me to their sister who will be in my class this year. Their mom is a colleague at our school, and so I was aware of the rising 6th grader, but it was still nice to meet her in person and also really great to see her older sister, who I hadn't met in person since we went out for COVID in 2020.

"I'm excited to work with you as a writer this year!" I told my future student. 

"Me too," she said, and then nudged her older sibling. "Tell her!" she urged, sotto voce.

"Oh, yeah," shrugged Bella. "Since the 100 Day challenge, I kept going. I haven't missed a day."

"She's on five hundred something!" her little sister boasted.

"Oh my gosh!" I said, stunned. "I can't believe it! You're the only one whose ever kept writing!"

"Except you," they said.

Wink, Wink

When I was 7, my dad and Dave, a friend of my parents, took my 5-year-old brother and me to Disneyland. This was the original park in California, (Disneyworld, in Orlando was still years away). We lived in New Jersey at the time, and although our family was of very modest means, my father worked for TWA, and so travel was a luxury we enjoyed all of our lives. 

My parents are both gone now, but I wish I could ask them why we went on that particular trip then. My sister was three, and I vaguely remember some talk about her being too young to enjoy the park, but I can't figure out why they decided that my dad should take us without her and my mom. A couple years later, we all did go on another California vacation that included Disneyland, but that first trip will have to remain a mystery.

And to be honest, I don't remember much about it. I sort of recall the excitement of being on the airplane, and as both a kid int the USA in 1969 and a faithful viewer of The Wonderful World of Disney each Sunday Night, I just knew we were going to have an amazing time. But of the actual time spent in the Magic Kingdom, I vaguely recall the Mad Hatter's Teacups, Captain Hook's boat, It's a Small World, Pirates of the Caribbean, and the Flying Dumbos. I kind of remember seeing the Matterhorn, the Monorail, and the cablecars, but the one ride that really made an impression on me was the Jungle Cruise.

The red and white striped canopy of the boats, the sway of the gangplank as we boarded the boats and took our seats, the safari uniform of the guides, and the animatronic animals and "natives" are still very clear to me. Maybe it was because even at the age of seven I could get the jokey sarcasm of the "captain" as he narrated our tour down the river. Perhaps, for the first time in my young life I felt like I was part of the grown up crowd who laughed not at the jokes, but at how corny they were. 

In any case, you can imagine my interest, 52 years later, when I heard that Disney was making a live-action movie based on the ride and starring Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson and Emily Blunt. For a moment I could even smell the chlorine of the fake river and see the gaping maw of the hippo that the captain must always, always shoot with his pistol. How could anything billed as a cross between The African Queen and Raiders of the Lost Ark go wrong? And so on the first Saturday night of the school year, I suggested we check it out.

And... it was fine. Likable actors usually make likable movies, but it was merely a playful, tongue-in-cheek shadow of both the movies it was compared to, completely missing their spark and magic. And somehow? I think they knew that, just as they have down at the Jungle Cruise since 1955.

But for the Grace of God

As I approached the gate to leave our community garden early this evening, I noticed a gentleman standing on the sidewalk near the fence. He seemed to be depositing some sort of trash on the narrow strip of grass between the two, and I waited for him to finish before I exited, because I had a big box that I wanted to drop there, too. 

When he saw me waiting, he hastily concluded his business, although he did pause at the fence a little further down the walk way. My attention was drawn to him then, and although we have a large community and I don't know all my fellow gardeners by sight (especially with the COVID restrictions of the last two seasons), it seemed to me that he was not a member. 

He carried two grocery bags, one plastic and the other canvas, and I saw that he was filling them with whatever vegetables he could glean from the trash or pick through the fence. I considered my own bag, then, with a quart of cherry tomatoes and a half-dozen or more heirloom tomatoes, too, as well as the squash, beans, and pumpkins I had left in my plot for another day. 

And as I lifted my head to call to him, a metro bus pulled up, and he pulled up his mask, shouldered his bags, and was gone.

Off Again On Again

The brain is a funny thing: so strong, yet so easily affected by circumstances and situations

A few weeks ago, my brother and I were talking seasonings: comparing our own blends of herbs and aromatics and discussing some of our store-bought favorites. "You know what mix from Penzey's I really like?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, waiting for me to answer my clearly rhetorical question, but my mind had suddenly gone blank.

"Neither do I!" I finally admitted, and we had a good laugh at the expense of my senior moment.

Today, I was in a meeting with some other English teachers talking about the new standards-based grading that our school is transitioning to. We were brainstorming assessments we could use to make sure the students have enough opportunities to demonstrate mastery and discussing how the two language arts classes, reading and English, might fit in the big picture. 

"Maybe we should combine the results and give just one overall ELA grade," I said. "That kind of makes more sense since both classes are assessing the same standards, right?"

"Let me look into it," our department chair responded, thoughtfully. "I never thought of that."

"Neither did I!" I said. "Until right now."

Repurposed

When I checked out my classroom for the first time this school year, I was genuinely pleased to see that those vintage trapezoid tables had returned. By my reckoning, they are original to the building, circa 1971, but they have been in my possession since 1993. Already 22 years old when I got them, at 50? They have been with me much longer than that, but last year, COVID social distancing requirements meant every classroom was equipped with single-seat desks, and I had to trust that the trapezoids were in safe storage.

There was something missing from my room, though. An abandoned typing desk that I adopted many years ago to provide a little technology dogleg to my teacher desk must have been moved out with the student desks. To be honest, I was a little at a loss for how to finish setting up my room without that small but crucial surface, and so once the bookshelves were moved (Teflon sliders!) and the tables and chairs were placed in their customary positions, I started a treasure hunt through the building.

Along the way, I began to feel like the little red hen, but in reverse. Everyone I asked was kindly willing to help me find my table, and by the time I ended my search, I was surrounded by 3 custodians, the director of facilities, and my sister-in-law the art teacher, all offering solutions to my dilemma. When the head custodian wasn't quite sure what piece of furniture I was looking for, the facility director tried to describe it to him. "Ms. S is old school, like me," he said. "She wants a table like they used to put typewriters on,  long, long time before they had computers"

The other guy looked blankly at him. "What for?" he asked.

"For her computer!" his boss told him.

An hour later? They brought a table to my room.

Say What You Want

When I was a kid there a lot of games whose very names were warnings: Don't Break the Ice! Don't Spill the Beans! and even Kerplunk! whose premise was not to let the marbles fall. I never really liked those games; the fact that nobody actually won because somebody lost, was not fun, and trying not to do what the rules directed was very stressful.

As a teacher, I learned back in grad school to phrase directions positively. For example, rather than tell students not to be late, it's more effective to remind them to be on time. That construction takes the whole idea of tardiness out of the conversation. Likewise, stop talking becomes please listen quietly, and so on. We remove even the thought of what we don't want and focus on what we do.

I thought of that today in my garden as I chose to shell the beans there and compost the husks right away. It was an exercise in mindfulness as I stood in my windswept plot under swirling skies with only the goldfinches for company and strung and split each pod, emptying the beans into a pint container I set on the little storage unit by the compost bin. More than once I knocked the square bin with my wrist, threatening to tip it over and into the top of the shed. 

"Don't-- !" I warned myself, and then paused and reframed my thinking. "Keep the beans in there!" I encouraged myself. And you know what? With the exception of a few errant legumes, which I quickly retrieved, I did it!

Not Gonna Lie

After 18 months of COVID chaos, going to school in-person, five days a week? Will be a tough adjustment.

Fortunately? With holidays and what-not, that won't happen until the week of September 20, three full weeks after the start of school.

So, maybe I'll be more ready then.

Nah.

My Kind of Party

It was a bit of a drive to get out there, but the invitation to wish Victor well on the eve of his departure for Iceland as well as celebrate his partner Emily's birthday was impossible to turn down, and Emily's parents were generously hosting the party on their farm in PG County.

There were steamed crabs that our host had caught the day before on the table when we walked in, and our hostess brought us seltzer water garnished with frozen blueberries to go along. As we picked the crabs, fresh salsa made from homegrown tomatoes, roasted summer squash from the garden, pears from the orchard, and a wheel of brie made an appearance. 

Later, as our hosts grilled local lamb and potatoes and okra to accompany the fresh green bean and potato salad, watermelon and feta, and orzo with fresh pesto, we were invited out to the blueberry patch to pick and chat among ourselves. After that fine meal, plenty of conversation, and a dessert of fudge-oatmeal bars and blueberry cake, we said goodnight, but not before we were handed a bag with our fresh-picked blueberries, and cantaloup, summer squash, and tomatoes.

Dread Days of August

I know I should be savoring these last days of my summer vacation, but it's tough. There was a meme going around a few years ago that went something like For teachers, the month of August is just one long Sunday night. It is sort of true; along with the excitement of a new year, there is a little sorrow at saying good bye to sleeping late and being productive in entirely different ways.

This year, of course, there is also apprehension around COVID and how it continues to impact our lives and routines. In fact, a recently retired friend emailed me the other day, subject line: A new word for your vocabulary. The word was paraskevidekatriphobia, or fear of Friday the 13th. 

Rather than boast that I already knew the word, I replied instead This year? I'm more afraid of Thursday the 19th!

And she reassured me that, like Friday the 13th, 2021 only has one Thursday the 19th, too.

The Wave

For 15 years or so, our second car was a Jeep Wrangler. Really, the navy blue soft-top with flower magnets all over it was Heidi's car; she always wanted a Jeep, and although we used it sparingly, it was fun when we put the top down, turned the radio up, and blasted around town. Heidi did most of the driving, which was fine, because whenever I drove? I could never remember to do the Jeep wave.

For those who are unfamiliar, the Jeep wave is a real thing. Whenever one Jeep passes another, the drivers acknowledge each other, usually by nothing more than lifting the fingers of their right hand off the steering wheel. Now that you know, look around, you'll see Jeep drivers waving everywhere. But that didn't happen much when I was the driver, despite Heidi's frequent reminders. Half the time I don't think it even registered with me that I was driving a Jeep, much less notice other Jeeps coming my way.

No, I am a Subaru driver; I have been for the last 20 years, and I do actually notice other Subarus on the road. Back when we still had the Jeep, I used to tell Heidi that I was going to start a Subaru wave, because after all? Subarus are equally cool, right?

We revisited that conversation this afternoon as we rolled out of our complex in our Subaru to do a few errands. At the bottom of the hill we passed some neighbors returning home in their own Outback, and I waved as they passed. 

"Was that the Subaru wave?" Heidi asked.

"No," I answered, "it was Mike and Charlene."

"Is there a Subaru wave?" Heidi responded.

"No," I told her. "Remember? I was going to start one."

"That's right!" She laughed. "What was that going to look like again?"

"Something like," I rolled my right wrist forward three or four times, "Whoop dee doo for my Subaru!"

Heidi laughed again. "That's pretty good."

"I can't take credit for the slogan," I said. "Don't you remember that old commercial?"

She did not, and so when we stopped for gas, I googled it. Midas Mufflers, 1978: they were offering the same guarantee for "foreign cars" as they did for American cars, and the owners of these alien vehicles cheered. 

It's a great day for my Datsun.

a triumph for my Triumph

a victory for my Volvo

and of course the old lady in white gloves and hat who brings it home at the end

Whoop dee doo for my Subaru!

Hard Questions

We have been more careful since the emergence of the delta variant. Masks that we so blithely tossed aside in June are back in all our bags and pockets. And as I make my way about in the world (because I haven't returned to deliveries, yet) I notice who is wearing a mask, who is not, and where they are required again. 

Despite the governor's mandate for universal masking in schools, it seems like a foregone conclusion that most of us will be exposed and infected. Just tonight, a close friend and neighbor told us that she had been exposed through a co-worker. Her rapid test came back negative, but her experience reinforced the cold truth that unless we are willing to go back to hardcore social-distancing, how can we possibly expect to avoid infection?

Mighty Mites

Many reports of worse than usual mosquito bites have prompted some investigative journalism in these parts. A hyper-local web-based news outlet broke the theory that we are being plagued (YES! Another plague!) by oak mites, tiny, invisible insects who feed on cicada eggs and whose population is booming due to the emergence of Brood X.

When they fall, or are blown about in the hot, summer breeze, they bite! And those bites can trigger a vicious reaction-- welts and even bruises in some. I couldn't tell you the last time I had a mosquito bite; it's hard to say if I/m not bitten, or I don't have a reaction, but the same cannot be said about these oak mites. I have a bunch of itchy spots on my stomach and legs.

Our neighbor has had it much worse, though. Before the story broke, she went to urgent care at the end of July because of the bruises and itching she was suffering. "I'm not even walking around the neighborhood until snows!" she told us the other day.

"You'll miss the Halloween and Christmas lights," I reminded her, knowing how much she loves those.

"Okay!" she recanted, "until the first frost!"

That *mite* do it.

Things as they Are

Things seemed to be looking up back in June, when school was ending and summer was starting. Oh sure, there were warnings about the Delta variant and the delay in the vaccine for kids younger than 12, but still... there were also blue skies and a couple of months to get it all sorted out. I crossed my fingers for a full, maskless reopening. 

One of our big summer plans was to return to seeing movies on the big screen, but at first we were traveling, and then there wasn't much to see, and then most recently, theaters didn't seem quite as safe or fun as they did a couple of months ago. So last night, we paid to watch Black Widow on TV (which compared to the screens we had growing up, is pretty big), and it was a really good summer movie: fun and funny with lots of action and girl power. 

But, spoiler alert: Natasha Romanoff is still dead, and recent guidance from the school system has made it clear that masks are still required, and we won't be going to the movies anytime soon.

Boomers

Unspeakably hot and humid daytime weather subsides to high winds, drenching rain, and thunder and lightning each early evening.

Hello August.

Starbells

Heidi has been teaching a free water aerobics course every Tuesday and Thursday evening up at our community pool this summer for the neighbors. Never one to half-ass anything, her days have been filled with making playlists, finding exercises, trying them out, and organizing them into routines. My role has been supportive spouse, making suggestions for 70s songs, driving to find pool noodles, and trying out a few of the more confusing moves in the pool to see if and where they fit in the workout. 

Today I stepped up my support: when Heidi wanted water dumb bells for some variety in the arm work, I came up with a design that was cheap and easy. A quick trip to the big box home improvement store for a couple more noodles (of the star-shaped variety), 20 feet of 3/4 inch PVC piping, and a little pipe-cutter, and 15 bucks later, we had all the makings for 20 little starbells. 

I assembled 4 to audition at the pool, but on the way up a couple of rumbles of thunder put the kibosh on that part of the plan. They are super cute, though, if I do say so myself.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

"I haven't driven since we've been here," Heidi said as she slid into the driver's seat for the first leg of our trip home yesterday. "You'll have to tell me how to go."

"You know the way," I reassured her. "It's left at the end of the driveway,  around the bend by the beach, past the F*ck Biden flag, over the railroad tracks, and a left again at the chicken coop."

She nodded, and we waved good-bye to northwestern Vermont.

Pit Stop

It's a ways from Vermont to Virginia, a couple of stops to stretch and pee at least. Usually we play it by ear, stopping when the stopping seems good, but today? A day in August when the most direct route was through New Jersey? Our last stop was planned. Before we left Vermont, I found a farm stand not far off the Turnpike and close to our childhood home in Burlington County, that promised Jersey peaches. 

And I felt more than a little thrill when at last we reached Exit 5 and we headed off into the farmlands of the Garden State. Arriving at our destination 20 minutes later, I was genuinely surprised to find a very commercialized operation, complete with petting zoo and hay rides. The farm stand was more of a gift shop with produce, but they did have softball-sized peaches from their own orchard, just like the ones we used to pick with my mom, and local corn and blueberries, too.

The place was run by teenagers, most of them updated versions of the kids I knew when I lived here. A surly-sassy-spacy girl, who was almost a ringer for my best friend Nicci, waved me toward the restroom with exasperated (and totally wrong) directions, and a friendly blond girl was my cashier.

"Have you had a good day so far?" she asked while packing my produce in cheerful yellow plastic bags.

Feeling a little road-weary, I hesitated. It had been seven hours since we rolled away from Lake Champlain, and we still had three hours to go. "Yes," I answered, and then uncharacteristically elaborated. "I just drove here from Vermont," I said. "I was on vacation there," I explained, "but I'm on the way to Virginia."

Her eyes widened a bit as I continued. "I grew up in New Jersey," I shrugged, "and I had to stop for peaches."

"Wow," she said. "Where did you grow up?" I told her, and she nodded. 

"But you couldn't resist the peaches? You just had to stop?" She smiled, but I could tell she didn't get it.

Eh? Give it 40 years. 

Local Sports

As we drove along the Trout River yesterday and through the towns of Enosburg Falls, Montgomery, and Montgomery Center, we noticed yard signs in front of a lot of the houses and businesses we passed. Contrary to the divisive messages that so many of those signs broadcast lately, all of these had a unified focus. "Go for the Gold Elle!" they cheered.

A little research informed us that, a hometown girl, Elle Purrier-St. Pierre had qualified for the finals of the women's 1500 meter race. Furthermore, we learned, she would be in the blocks when the starting shot fired at 8:50 this morning.

It's been a bit a challenge keeping up with the Olympics here in Northern Vermont. The only broadcast TV our rented house gets is from Canada, which is only 10 miles away. Watching the Canadian coverage of the games has been refreshingly low key and without the laser focus on American athletes that NBC shills to US viewers. This morning, though, we wanted to root for Elle along with our neighbors up here, but since the Canadian women were playing for gold in soccer, there was no way that race was going to be on. So we rigged up a picture-in-picture kind of a set up, streaming the race on my laptop, while the Canadians and Swedes battled it out on TV.

Elle finished a disappointing tenth, at 4:01 flat, well slower than her personal best, but it was still fun to support her. Since she so far off the podium, NBC did not provide an after-race interview, and we turned our attention to the soccer match. What a nail-biter it was! Going past double overtime into a shootout and then sudden death? My heart was in my throat every time Stephanie Labbe stepped into the goal. And when she made that save, setting up Julia Grosso's game winning shot? Well! 

In the words of the Canadian Tire commercial we've seen a million times this week? 

We all play for Canada.

Pilgrimage to Dog Mountain

The destination was 80 miles a way, but in northern Vermont? That's over 2 hours. Still... it was Dog Mountain. And so we em*bark*ed on our journey, the fastest route of which was literally on winding country roads, across covered bridges, through tiny New England towns, over mountains on dirt and gravel roads, and up I-91, the majority of it without cell service.

Located on 150 acres on a private mountaintop spot, Dog Mountain is the former home of artist Stephen Huneck and the location of a gallery devoted to his work, as well as a giant off-leash dog park with trails and ponds, and THE Dog Chapel. 

Huneck built the classic Vermont-style chapel in 2000 and furnished it with dog-ended pews and stained glass. From the time it was opened, he invited visitors to add a picture and some words of tribute to honor the dogs they had lost. When we entered today, the walls were layered with thousands of remembrances, 

and we left, there was one more, a watercolor that Emily did of Sonic and Isabel.

Nature Dog

After three breezy days of choppy water, Lake Champlain was like glass this afternoon. The reflection of the sky on the oh-so-gentle ripples had me shucking my sneakers and cargo shorts in exchange for water shoes, gym shorts, a tank top, and of course, a kayak. 

While Heidi tossed a tennis ball and stick into the lake for the dogs, I paddled smoothly around the little inlet on the shore of our lake house. Any time I ventured past the dock, though, Lucy felt it was her canine duty to swim out and fetch me back. Eventually, with a little encouragement and a lot of treats, we got Lucy into the kayak, so that she and I could explore a little deeper water together.

It was hard to tell if she was actually enjoying the ride; she bailed out of the kayak more than a few times, but for a first attempt, I'd call it a success. And after the off-leash hiking yesterday and the kayaking today, Lucy has become quite the outdoorsdog, which naturally?

Pleases me greatly.

The Spirit Moves

Another day, another scramble through hardwoods, conifers, and over granite to make my way up a New England mountain with an expansive view. Today it was Eagle Mountain, the highest point overlooking Lake Champlain. 

It's been five years since my last summer sojourn up north, and I had almost (almost!) forgotten how much I love this terrain. I used to think that if I lived up here I would hike the mountains at least three times a week because I enjoyed it so much, but years away had me convinced that such a plan was only the result of young legs and fond memories. 

Today, a local hiker at the trail head let us know that dogs did not have to be on leash, and so Bill, Emily, Heidi, Lucy, Rosie, and I set off through grassy meadows. The sun was shining and the dogs ran up the trail and back to check in, excited by all the new sights and smells. Huge granite outcroppings and a variety of ferns defended the trail as we entered the woods and began a steeper climb to the summit. there was no view at the top, but a short path down and to the west led us to the edge of a drop-off and an open vista of the sun shining on Champlain and its islands.

We followed a loop back to the fork where we had entered the woods, and the blue sky and wide lane tumbling gently back to the parking lot were just irresistible, so even on these old legs?

I had to run.

Fearless

 Our Vermont adventures took us to Stowe today. After searching somewhat unsuccessfully for a lovely lunch spot and poking around the quaint village, we headed up Mountain Road past the turn off for the Von Trapp Family Lodge to Stowe Mountain Resort. There we pulled up to the booth to pay our way up the auto toll road to the highest point in Vermont, Mount Mansfield. As we idled at the foot of a very steep hill, a young man in a red polo, safari hat, and a name tag reading Paul ambled over to the passenger side of the car. 

"Have you all been her before?" he asked.

"No!" we answered enthusiastically.

"Welcome!" he replied. "It's 4 1/2 miles to the top, and another 3 mile hike to the summit, but you'll have 360 degree views about 10 minutes up the trail. Cars coming down the mountain have the right of way. Do you know how to put your car in low gear?"

"Um, I think so?" I said.

He smiled. "You think so? Or you do? Or you don't?" he laughed.

"How do I do it?" I asked.

"Pull the shift down to Drive and over to the left where it says M" he instructed, "then you have to use the paddles."

The paddles I knew. "These, right?" I flipped the levers on my steering wheel with my fingers.

"Right!" he smiled again. "Use 1 or 2 on your way down, instead of riding your brakes." 

After paying our toll, we started up the mountain. The road was steep, and my ears popped even before the pavement subsided to gravel a quarter of a mile up. After that, the grade was steep and the hairpin turns were harrowing, especially when we met another car coming down. My passengers, Bill, Emily, and Heidi were kind of white-knuckling it; without having to focus strictly on the road ahead, they could see the drop-offs and other hazards to either side. But I was unfazed, keeping an even foot on the gas and warily watching for oncoming traffic.

The trip to the top was worth the toll and the trouble: the views of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks to the west and the Green Mountains to the east were stunning. The trip down, in low gear, was a bit grating, but we all agreed that timing our visit for late enough in the day that there was no upward traffic was a brilliant accident.

Later, at the house, when we told our guests about the day, my brother said, "Tracey is the bravest driver I know!"

"Thanks," I replied, "but bravery is when you're afraid of something and you do it anyway." I shrugged.  I wasn't really afraid today. Maybe that makes me foolish."

"Tracey is the bravest fool I know," he corrected himself, and we all laughed, but I think there may be more truth in that than I care to believe.

C & C Part 12

This story could never be complete without mention of Debbie and Louise, the founders of the company, but now that I've reached the end, it's hard to know what to say about them. They were in their thirties when they opened the shop. Debbie was a few years younger; tall and willowy she had the reputation as the "pretty one" and "the nice one," but she could be rigid and bitchy when she needed to or had a bad day. Louise was the dynamo behind the company's success. She had a loud, outsized persona, and with a booming southern accent and an iron will, she was the incarnation of a steel magnolia. 

Because she was so volatile and exacting, the mood in the kitchen would tense immediately whenever she came down from the office. It was impossible to predict if she would ignore you, praise you, or tear you a new one. Louise was a study in opposites: stingy and generous, belittling and supportive, relaxed and stressed, you never knew who you were going to get. But she was always, always confident; whichever Louise you were dealing with, she was committed to her position, 100 percent.

And, for some reason? Louise really liked me. When I quit to move up to DC, she took me and my sister and girlfriend out to dinner at the hot new restaurant in town. "Taste this," she pushed her appetizer toward me, "what do you think is in it?" When I told her, she clapped and said, "I think you're right!" Later that evening, she gave me a huge, beautiful copper skillet, made in France. It must have been worth over a hundred bucks in 1989 money.

A few months ago, my sister and I were talking and the topic of our days in the catering/cafe business came up. I did a quick Google search, found a recent picture of Louise, and texted it to my sister. "Oh," she said, "Louise is an old lady now."

Proof that it happens to everyone, in case there was any doubt.

C & C Part 11

I can't think of a single story about Sherrill, she was strictly no-drama. Once she told me that she was named for the girl group from the 60s; her mom switched the vowels around, but the pronunciation stayed the same. She started as a sandwich maker, just like me, and she made the most delicious tomato sauce we served, just pureed tomatoes with fresh garlic and rosemary. 

And I'll never forget the time "Like a Prayer" came on the radio in the kitchen. The song was new, and our stations were next to each other that day. "Have you seen the video for this song?" she asked me. I had not, but Sherrill described it to me in amazing detail. "And then Madonna mouths, He didn't do it, at the end," she finished and shook her head incredulously. 

Those were probably the most words Sherrill ever spoke to me at one time, and to this day, I cannot hear that song without thinking of her. And as an aside? Of all of us, she is the only one who still works for the company; she is the chef de cuisine.

C & C Part 10

For the first few weeks I worked there, Regina was the kitchen manager. She knew everything about the operation, and to me, Regina seemed almost like a third partner in the business. She worked very closely with them, ordering food from the suppliers, filling the schedule, making the daily job lists, and planning party menus. She was an even-tempered problem solver, and a great cook to boot, and when Regina was in the kitchen, everything seemed completely under control.

But she wasn't a partner; Regina was an employee just like the rest of us and subject to the same capricious outbursts from the owners that we were. We pretended to be really engrossed in our cutting boards when she called on the carpet because someone was frustrated about something.

And when she had the chance to leave the company for a position where she could be part owner? She quit without even giving her 2 weeks notice. Or maybe she gave it, and it wasn't accepted. Either way, we never saw or mentioned Regina again.

C & C Part 9

Martin was kind of the yang to Linda's yin. About the same age, early 40s, where she was an uptight party girl, he was a laid-back stoner guy, at least on the surface. Like Curtis, he rocked an impressive mustache, although his was gray, and he had almost twinkly eyes behind square wire-rimmed glasses. At first, he was kind of like a mentor or guru to some of the younger staff, inviting people over to hang out at his house to drink beer, listen to Windham Hill, Steely Dan,  and Rickie Lee Jones, and shoot the shit, but there was a lot more going on underneath that kindly, cool-uncle facade

Martin was from a long line of cooks; his father had been a chef, and his grandparents were restauranteurs in France. He had recently married his second wife, a woman at least 15 years younger than he, and he was estranged from his 20-something son from his first marriage. He was a soldier when it came to knocking out his cooking list every day, but it was clear to all of us that he felt this place and this food was beneath him. 

As time went on, there was muttering from Martin about how tight the roux in the common bucket was, and eye-rolling about the use of Uncle Ben's long grain and wild rice mix, and he obviously hated picking the shells from crabmeat or peeling shrimp. Sometimes he was sulky and grumpy, and soon there were clashes between Martin and Linda and Martin and Gertrude over silly things, but they all thought they knew best, and none of them were the type to back down.

One Saturday, it was Martin's job to stuff 140 chicken breasts with wild mushrooms and par-grill them for a wedding reception that night. He slogged through the task for most of the afternoon, counting out the finished product on sheet pans, covering them in foil, and sliding them onto a rolling rack. He personally loaded his entree into the truck. 

Martin and Curtis and I were all working the kitchen at the party that night, where the 250 guests had the choice of salmon or chicken. A service that big takes a while, and by the time we got to plating up dinner for the last tables, the waiters were almost ready to clear the first tables. 

"I need 8 chickens!" someone yelled. 

"That's impossible," Martin said.

I looked up from where I was placing julienned vegetables on each plate as it came by. 

"Count again!" Martin insisted, red-faced and searching the rolling rack for a sheet pan that wasn't there.

The line froze. Unsure what to do next, we looked at the owner who was running the back of the house. Just then, waiters started coming back to the kitchen with the plates they had cleared from the head tables. Several of them had leftovers from the generous portions we had served. 

"Don't throw those away!" snapped the owner. "Martin, slice those up into portions. With sauce, no one will know."

And Martin did it. The rest of the chicken dinners went out as medallions, instead of whole breasts, never mind they had already been to the party once. 

C & C Part 8

Curtis and Martin started on the same day I returned to work after my father's death. The business was expanding, and they were additions rather than replacements. 

Curtis was just a year older than I was, tall and skinny with dark, moppy hair and a mustache to rival Groucho Marx. He was broody, and bossy, and had a huge smile and an even bigger laugh. He rode a motorcycle; in fact the only time I've ever been on one was when we rode together to work a party at the Virginia Living Museum out in Newport News. He insisted I wear my leather jacket and, handing me a helmet told me, "If the bike goes down, you want to tuck and slide like you're stealing base." 

There was no conversation over the roar of the Harley, so for 45 minutes I was alone with my thoughts as we rode out the toll road, along the bay, and through the shiny white glare of the Hampton Roads Tunnel. I wasn't afraid, but I didn't love it, either. 

If we had a choice, Curtis and I usually worked at adjoining stations. We spent our days talking and bickering about recipes and music and life in general. He loved asking "big" questions. "If God was a celebrity," he asked me one day, "who would he be?"

"That's easy," I replied without hesitation. "Paul Simon."

When Curtis moved into the extra bedroom in the house I shared with my sister and my girlfriend, it was probably a little too much togetherness. As simpatico as we were, he was like an older brother, condescending and annoying. So when he broke up with his girlfriend and moved back to Northern Virginia, I was glad to get a little space.

A few months later, the rest of our household moved north, and we weren't there more than a week when Curtis called me with a job opportunity. I accepted, but what happened next is another topic all together.

And then? There was Martin.

C & C Part 7

The front of the house staff wore pink shirts and khakis beneath the green aprons that the shop issued. Their job was to run the register, keep the case full, make coffee, heat up and dish out eat-in meals, and weigh and pack to-go orders. My sister worked out front, and she got me the sandwich-making gig. Because of the nature of the job, people came and went, but even so, there was a core group on the schedule for most of the time I was there.

Suzy was the manager; her asymmetrical bob was 80s cool, but she was strict and no-nonsense with her staff. The corners of her mouth would turn down and her blue eyes would flash with irritation at any unfilled serving platter, empty coffee pot, or unwiped counter.

Kate was the assistant manager. She had graduated from Rutgers a few years earlier with a chemistry degree, and she was living in the area temporarily because her husband Paul had been stationed there out of West Point. Peter was a local guy; barely five feet tall, he had the slow and lazy speech of a surfer and a matching reputation as an airhead. Gaye was a southern belle; her hair and makeup were always perfect, she lived with her wealthy mother, and read fashion and travel magazines. Hope was the high school sweetheart; blond and pretty, she was dating a local cop who turned out to be a big jerk. 

With such a cast, there was always some drama, and we spent countless off-hours talking endlessly about the people we worked with. It was enough to drive other people from the room!

C & C Part 6

Linda was in her mid-40s and single, and she had that year-round beachy tan. She wore her hair in a messy bun when she was working, but her look was totally different, all tube tops, crop jackets, strappy heels, and white jeans, when she clocked out and hopped into her white Fiero convertible. Her parents owned one of the oldest Italian restaurants in town, but she came to work with us after some kind of fallout with her dad. Her 23-year-old son still worked for the family restaurant, and it was clear that he was being groomed to take over the business when her folks retired.

Linda was 3rd generation Italian with a southern Virginia accent, and her specialties were Pizzaiola Sauce and Brunswick Stew. She was also very bossy, and being closer in age to the owners than the rest of the younger staff, it wasn't long before she started telling us what to do. At least that's what it felt like to me. By this time, I had worked my way up from sandwich maker all the way to cook, and I had a reputation for being quiet and competent; I always got along with everybody in the kitchen. 

One Sunday morning, though, Linda and I were on the opening shift. Our first job was to put out the case, filling bowls and platters with salads and entrees. On Sundays there was usually party leftovers in the walk-in, too, and we either put those out as specials, or created something new with those ingredients. That morning, Linda wanted to start cooking, so she set up her station and proceeded to micromanage me as I finished the case. 

I had my own list of cooking to do, and I didn't consider ordering me around as helping put out the case. "Let me know when you need to use the bathroom," I finally told her after she gave me one direction too many, "then I can wipe your butt for you, too."

C & C Part 5

Lisa was the baker at the company, but anywhere else? She would have been called the pastry chef. A round-faced girl from New Jersey of about my age, Lisa had graduated from the CIA and was easily the best cook in the kitchen. She turned out chocolate chocolate cakes, sour cream apples pies, carrot cakes, and chocolate mousse pies by the half dozen, not to mention cookie dough, and an assortment of pick-up desserts for all the catering jobs, and she made it look easy.

Lisa lived with a friend named Amber, whose husband, Ron, was a sailor on active duty and often gone for months at a time. Amber and Ron had a three year old daughter, Savannah, who Lisa loved like her own. Times were rough when Ron was in town; Lisa didn't like the way he treated his family and, living under the same roof, it was a struggle for her. Ron was always trying to set Lisa up with guys he knew, probably to get her out of his house, although financially the arrangement worked for him (and emotionally it seemed to work for his wife and daughter).

That was how Lisa met Ernie, and things were going really well for a couple of weeks until he had to go to jail to serve the prison sentence he had received before Ron introduced them. Lisa stayed faithful to Ernie, though, talking to him on the phone when they could, and visiting him on her days off. As summer approached that year she grew increasingly concerned. Ernie wasn't happy; Ernie was worried for his safety; Ernie was distant. She did what she could to help, and she planned a surprise visit with a cake and all sorts of goodies for Ernie's birthday on July 14. 

That morning the phone rang in the kitchen and whoever answered it called Lisa over. I can still remember the look on her face as she twirled the cord around her finger, listening. "I don't know anything," she said and then hung up. "That was the police," she announced to the kitchen. "Ernie escaped."

Well, it was Bastille Day.

C & C Part 4

Technically, Seward was Robert's big brother, but in reality Seward was at least 4 inches shorter, much slighter, and a lot less independent than Robert. Today, we would likely identify an intellectual disability if we were to diagnose Seward, but back then everyone just recognized that he was "special"; a guy who would live with his mother as long as he could.

Seward was as silly as Robert was serious, and he always had a huge, crooked-tooth smile on his face. He was also one of the friendliest folks you could ever meet, greeting everyone with a "How you doin today?" His nickname at the shop was Ma-shur, a wacky, southern corruption of the the French word, "Monsieur". I do not know how he came by this moniker, but the owner called him that, and so did a lot of the other staff. 

Personally, I called him Seward, and he was the most cooperative coworker he could be, happily scrubbing any pot or bowl or hotel pan right away, the minute you needed it. It was also his job to mop the floors, and one evening at the end of shift I was carrying a load of knives and cutting boards and tubs over to the pot sink, when I slid precariously across the freshly cleaned floor. Regaining my balance, my eyes met his, and we both laughed.

"Whoa!" I said, "I almost fell!"

"You did, didn't you?" he answered. "You shore did!" 

It was a line I heard him say a hundred times in a hundred different situations.

Another time he overheard a conversation I was having with another cook as we passed the dishwasher and he thought I was saying something to him. "What you mean?" he asked.

"I'm not talking to you, Seward," I told him.

He looked hurt. "Why? What I do?"

C & C Part 3

The company started in a storefront in 1981 with a skeleton crew and a pasta machine special-ordered from Italy. Fast casual was not a thing back then when it was either TV dinners, takeout, or cook it yourself from scratch, and with fresh pasta, sauces, salads, and desserts that you could take home to make a quick meal, the place filled a need that people didn't know they had.

When they opened, the owners did most of the cooking, and they hired a couple people to handle the counter and someone to do the dishes and clean up. Robert was a native of the area; he grew up in a big family in Norfolk. He was a hard worker, quiet and smart, and it wasn't long before he was the guy who operated that pasta machine. He mixed durum semolina, eggs, and water in the Hobart, added tomato or spinach powder if need be, and then pushed fist-fulls of the grainy mixture through the twin rollers until it became satin sheets of fresh pasta. He cut linguine or angel hair, pressed ravioli, and could take the machine apart, clean it, and reassemble it in no time.

By the time I was hired five years later, the business had expanded to new location and added catering to their  services, but Robert was still there. Dressed in a white snap-shirt and uniform pants, he was in charge of the pasta and supervising the back of the house cleaning crew, which consisted of his brothers, Seward and Richard, and a friend of theirs, Steven. 

His sister, Recia, was a prep cook. Her station was away from all of the other cooks, a tiny stainless steel table by the pot racks and across from the dish sink where her brother Seward worked. As far as I could tell, she never cooked anything; her job was to prep vegetables, peel shrimp, and pick the shells from all the fresh crabmeat. 

At the end of their shift, Recia might help her brothers finish their lists, so they could all pile into the same car and drive home.

C & C Part 2

Gertrude worked the 6 AM-2 shift, Tuesday through Saturday. A woman of about 60, she was competent and gruff, and kept to herself unless you were doing something wrong. Then she would lumber over and let you know about it in a stern, German accent.   

Her specialty was salad, in particular the signature chicken and almond salad, but she also produced sesame chicken, seafood, Mediterranean, and pasta chinoise salads, thirty pounds at a time. Her station was next to the industrial can opener and in front of the convection oven, just down from the 10 burner range, and a very short walk to the pot sink. By the time I arrived at 9 or 10, she had it stocked with gallons of mayonnaise, mustard, soy sauce, and jarred garlic. 

In addition to chopping celery and poaching chicken breasts in 20 gallon stick pots, Gertrude spent her shift mixing huge vats of tri-colored linguine with tomato sauce, ricotta, and eggs, shaping the mixture into giant fritattas, baking them off and then topping them with more sauce, provolone, and peppers and mushrooms. 

Other days she would hoist 3 or 4 sheet pans of chicken breasts liberally sprinkled with jarred garlic and soy sauce into the convection, poach 10 pounds of small shrimp, cook off a bin of fresh angel hair pasta, julienne carrots and snow peas, crank open number 10 cans of water chestnuts, and pit 300 Calamata olives, in between smoking Kools out back on her breaks. She punched out and threw her apron in the laundry on the way out the door at 2, then drove home in her enormous 1970-something Cadillac de Ville.

She was there the day I started, and she was there the day I left. I wonder where she is today.

C & C Part 1

My first cooking job was as a sandwich maker at a cafe-catering outfit down the street from where I was living at the time. They were that type of place with a large cold case where you could order all sorts of salads and a few entrees (and of course, sandwiches) either to go or to eat in at the little dining area across from the counter.

There were a lot of kooky characters working there, me and my sister included, although we like to think of ourselves as among the sanest employees. The first week I was there a guy named Juan trained me, and the second week he disappeared. One day he was showing me how to mix up the cranberry-mayonaise that was the key condiment on the turkey sandwich and scolding me for mincing garlic instead of using the garlic press, and the next, he was gone.

The owners of the business had the police on the case after he missed a couple days of work, and no one could talk of anything else: they told and retold what he had said when they last spoke to him, who he hung out with, what his frame of mind was. A few days after his disappearance he showed up to work like nothing ever happened. It turned out he was on a cocaine-fueled bender with an ex-boyfriend, a sailor who had recently returned to our port from a six-month deployment at sea. 

He was fired, of course.

Dog Fish

Lucy froze when she caught a glimpse of something in the Tidal Basin this morning. "I saw that, too!" Heidi told her as we resumed our walk.

"What was it?" I asked.

"A really big fish!" Heidi answered.

"Remember that time..." I started.

"With Isabel?" Heidi finished.

"Of course!" I said, and we both laughed.

Back when we were new dog owners, and our first dog was only a puppy, we used to take her down to Jones' Point on the Potomac River in Old Town Alexandria. There was a little sandy shore there, and the spot was used as an informal dog beach. Isabel was new to swimming, and we tossed a tennis ball in the water to motivate her to paddle out and get it. But she was new to fetching, too, so often our tennis balls floated away or had to be collected by other, more water-competent dogs. 

Those dogs' owners were generally very nice and encouraging, though. "She's still young!" one woman assured us, even as her own dog literally swam circles around Isabel, retrieving the tennis balls that she would not. 

The three of us stood on the bank watching our dogs, hers swimming out and back, ours standing chest-deep about 10 feet from the shore. Just then, Isabel ducked her whole head under the water and came up with an enormous fish flopping from either side of her mouth. 

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then we started waving at her. "Drop it! Drop it!" 

She opened her mouth and the fish splashed into the river and swam away.

"Wow," said the other woman. "My dog doesn't do that!"

The Road to Gowanda Part 4

According to his WWI draft card, Heidi's great-grandfather was a slender man of medium height with brown hair and brown eyes. In 1918 the 39-year-old was disqualified from service, because he had been a patient at the Buffalo State Hospital since October 24, 1910. At the time he was hospitalized, his youngest son, Heidi's grandfather, was just a year old. Earlier that year, the US Census records him as working as a barber and living with his wife and five children.

Census data confirms that sometime between 1930 and 1940, he moved 35 miles south to the Gowanda State Hospital in Collins, NY. But there are no public records that suggest he ever came home.

It's impossible to say why he was hospitalized; anyone who knows the story is long since gone. It's also hard to say why his son never mentioned him, although at differing times and in various sources throughout the years, his wife is listed as his widow, and she did go on to remarry, perhaps without the benefit of a proper divorce.

The NY State archives has extensive records about former inmates in the asylums, including details of their diagnoses and treatments. Some even include photographs. Unfortunately, access to these records is restricted to all but "qualified researchers under certain conditions." Even direct descendants cannot obtain information about their family members. 

There is no statute of limitations on the restrictions.

The Road to Gowanda Part 3

Into the 1990s, unclaimed inmates in NY State asylums (and many other states as well) were buried solely by number. The records for many institutional burials have been lost or sealed, but for this particular hospital, the burial ledger was given to a museum in Buffalo, and has since been transcribed into entries on the Find-a-Grave website. 

That afternoon we walked the lefthand section searching the cast iron markers for one that was stamped 584.

The story goes that when she received the notification call that her father-in-law had passed away Heidi's grandmother was confused. "I thought he was already dead," she told the caller, "kicked in the head by a horse years ago." Her husband never spoke of his father, and although she was in high school when her grandfather died, Heidi's mom never met him. Like her mother, she thought he was dead.

The Road to Gowanda Part 2

A sunlit clearing lined with neat rows of cement markers lay at the bottom of the hill. To our right and through the woods was another opening dotted with cast iron Ts and on the left was another. We turned around and headed back up the hill. I gave a thumbs up as the car came into view and Heidi's mom was climbing out before we got there. "This is it," I told her.

After spraying our legs liberally with bug spray, we leashed up the dogs and stepped over the chain again. Once seen, this is a cemetery one never forgets the description had read, and it was accurate. Our search was over, we had found the Gowanda State Hospital Cemetery where Heidi's great-grandfather had been buried at the age of 83 in 1962 after living the last 50 years of his life in one of New York's state asylums.