Like Sands through the Hour Glass

This year I find myself clutching each summer moment as it passes-- just sitting in the chair enjoying a cup of (okay, really good) coffee while reading the morning paper with the window open becomes a precious little gem I want to stow away for leaner times. Perhaps that's wise... the prospect of returning to another year of contemporary public education weighs heavily on each bright day. I'm sure there is a healthier way to handle this time off, but that strategy will have to wait until next year.

Day Tripping

When I was a kid, my mom worked in the summer. Most days we had specific chores that were to be completed before she got home. Ever efficient, she typed a form for us on her IBM Selectric. I can still remember that typeball script.  

Good Morning _________,

Please complete the following jobs.

[Then there was a checklist, and of course the closing,]

Love, Mom.

Looking back on it, those chores were the least we should have done, and to be honest, it was no hardship whatsoever. That's not exactly how we considered it then, but there were always a few days when either we didn't have a list, or better yet, there was a note that Mom was coming home early and we were going to the beach.

In my memory, those days seem too good to be real; I can't recall a single bad thing about any of them. In my mind, the roads are never congested, the parking lot has plenty of space, the beach is never crowded, the day is never too hot, the picnic lunch never has sand in it, the drinks are always cold, no one ever gets sun burnt, and should we stop to pick blueberries on our way home? They practically jump into the buckets on their own, while we help ourselves to as many berries as we can eat.

This morning, when we awoke to a 60-something degree day in August, that siren call of the summer day trip was irresistible, and so we set aside the unit planning and pre-service reading we should be doing and instead packed a picnic and threw the dog, some towels, and a couple of beach chairs in the back of the station wagon and headed to a new destination for us. Two hours away there lies a peninsula that marks the confluence of the Potomac and the Chesapeake, and there, where once was a Union prison camp for all the Confederate soldiers captured at Gettysburg and later battles of the Civil War, is a state park with several picnic areas and beaches, some of which allow dogs.

There was no traffic as we drove out of town and down to Southern Maryland. When we arrived, the parking lot was empty and so was the beach. We set up our chairs, and ate our lunch as our dog played in the waves. Beachcombing our way down the shore, we found a fair amount of sea glass, an arrow head, and a shark's tooth. For most of the afternoon, two bald eagles swooped over our heads, chirping and whistling to each other. We only saw one jelly fish all day; it was not too hot, and no one got sunburned.

On our way home, we made two stops-- at a farm stand for some local corn and tomatoes and at a seafood place where they were selling pounds of lump crab meat that had been picked on the premises this morning-- then it was back home in time for dinner, almost too good to be real.

Fun at the Pub

We met some friends for trivia night at a local Irish pub this evening. Well, we talked about doing the trivia contest, but when we arrived the weather was too nice to go inside and so we dined out front, chatting and people watching, until the skies opened and a torrential rain forced us inside to pay our bill.

The wait staff was apologetic, seating us at an open table so that Stephen could finish his tea. Marty seized the opportunity and went off to gather the proper trivia supplies. It was the beginning of round three, and we were game. In addition to the questions that our spirited host posed to the assembled patrons, there was a visual round as well, a page of photos that we passed around the table.

The noise in the pub was a bit loud, though, and the questions did not come as quickly as we may have liked, and so it was around question six that we agreed to pack it in at the end of the round. "What three word phrase popularized by migrant worker advocate Cesar Chavez became the slogan of Barack Obama's 2008 presidential campaign?"

"Yes we can!" shouted a guy at the end of the bar.

"Really?" asked the announcer. "How about shut the fuck up asshole? Oh, wait! That's too many words. No one's going to get any points for that one, because you are such a douche, man!"

I started giggling at the first sign of confrontation. What can I say? It's funny when people don't follow the rules and then get in trouble for it. Well, it's funny when you're not the one whose job it is to get people to follow the rules. For the record? I would not have used that method to redirect a wayward participant.

At the end of the round, Marty, our 74-year-old, gray-haired, ex-teacher, mother of four, grandmother of seven, friend, took our answer sheet up to the guy at the mic. "Sorry for the rough language, ma'am," he said.

"Thanks," she told him, "but, it's not the worst I've ever heard."

We All Scream

One of the amenities that we have been offering to our guests this summer is the opportunity to design their own ice cream flavors. Regular readers may recall the s'mores, Earl Gray, and Thai cucumber flavors we tried last month. Before that, it was a vegan chocolate gelato, a coconut mango, and good old vanilla custard with add-ins.

I love it when visitors rise to the challenge, and this weekend the girls had some interesting requests. Allyn wanted root beer, and Delaney requested peanut butter cup. The pb and chocolate was a huge hit, but the root beer was too sweet and it lacked something to take the place of the fizz. 

Don't worry-- it wasn't disappointing enough to keep people from eating it, and fortunately, the micro-batches I've been making leave plenty of chance for improvement, so I would be happy to try that one again.

As much fun as it is to make all that ice cream, the drawback is that I don't really want to eat it. I like a taste, but more than a couple of spoonfuls is way too much for me. I think I have it figured out though: I've ordered some cartons so that I can start packaging up these creations to go.

And so it Begins

25 pounds of tomatoes from the farmers market are sitting in a box in the dining room.

Can 12 quarts of canned tomatoes be far behind?


UPDATE: 8/13/13:
Make that thirteen quarts!

Paparazzi

We took the girls to the pool in our complex this afternoon. It was pretty empty for a Saturday, but as we approached, the sound of kids splashing and playing carried over the fence. It turned out that our neighbor was celebrating her birthday, and the noise we heard was five almost seventh grade girls enjoying the party. I thought nothing of it until I put my stuff down and looked a couple of lounge chairs over. There was a former student staring at me with her mouth wide open. I guess she's not used to running into her teachers in their bathing suits. That makes two of us.

I played it cool, though, like it was no big thing, and after a brief conversation, I jumped in the pool. 

Was it my I imagination or did her fingers fly to her iPhone the minute I turned away? A few minutes later, the birthday girl sat down next to her. They whispered for a minute, then our cheeky neighbor called out to me. "Hey, Ms..." she paused because that's not what she calls me. 

"Tracey?" I suggested.

"Nuha and Esinam say, 'Hi!'," she finished, naming two other girls who were not present.

""Tell them I hope they're having a good summer," I said, and I flashed a big smile and waved before I swam off to play with the girls, because I'm pretty sure there were pictures, if not video, to go with that text.

Company!

Just home from seeing The Smurfs 2, we got One Direction blasting, and we're making beaded rings, lanyards, and friendship bracelets. There was a little ballet demo from drama camp earlier, too.

God daughters in the house, yo.