Team Colors

It was in the spirit of wringing every last bit of fun out of our weekend that Treat and I dragged out the cornhole set this morning. Even though the day had dawned dry for the first time we had been down on the Northern Neck, the yard was still a soggy morass, and the wind was a little bit brisk, so we set it up on the covered back deck of the river house we were staying in.

The boards were homemade from plywood and 2x4s with a couple of bolts and wingnuts to fasten the folding legs. They were painted burgundy and gold, and we found a faded set of bean bags that matched. "Redskins colors," I noted, as we took our places.

It wasn't a competitive game. To begin with, there were only three bean bags of each color, and then when Victor wanted to join, we each gave him one of our sets, and he played for both sides.

"You said these were Redskins colors," Treat said, "but I think they're Gryffindor!"

"Or Virginia Tech," Victor added.

"You cannot distract me with this useless thought exercise," I told them through dramatically gritted teeth and then tossed my red bag way short.

"Yes we can!" Treat said, sliding his yellow bean bag over the board and off the deck. "Your brain works exactly the same as ours! You know you're thinking of other red and yellow things right now."

"No I'm not!" I replied, cheering Victor as he landed the red bag on the board. "Except... Lucy is red and Rosie and Sonic are yellow! Go Lucy!"

"Lemons are yellow and strawberries are red," Treat responded. "Go lemons!"

"I love lemons!" I scowled. "But bananas are yellow and cherries are red, and cherries are much better than bananas. Go cherries!"

"What about pineapple and pomegranate?" asked Victor, "or mango and passion fruit?"

"Easy for you," I said, "you have both colors!"

Herstory

It's not just our own history that has occupied us this weekend. Yesterday we spent a couple of hours out of the rain and into a tiny local history museum in one of the nearby villages on the Northern Neck peninsula. Upon entering, we were greeted by a women who looked for all the world like the faded hippie she later proudly proclaimed herself to be.

Wire granny glasses rounded blue eyes that wrinkled on the sides when she smiled, which was often. Her reddish-brown hair was dusted in gray, and even the earth tones of her Indian-print tunic and ankle-length skirt were muted. "Am I expecting you?" she asked. "Are you teachers? Should I recognize one of you?" When she reached out and gave me a little one-armed side hug, we knew we were in for an adventure.

Over the next hour or so, she regaled us with stories of the heroes and villains of the town, enlisting the members of our group to act out some of the more dramatic scenes. Interspersed were tales of her own life and the personal journey that led her to that place and that moment. There were props and books and photographs to enhance her version of local history. Along the way, we found out that she was an Eccles scholar at UVa, like Bill, and she actually knew Emily's brother Chris, from the days when he lived about 45 minutes north.

Before our stories diverged she gave each of us a hug and a kiss, then we zipped up our raincoats and stepped back into the present, through the mud, and out to lunch. 

Record Keeping

I don't even remember why I decided to start saving the Oscar ballots, but when I mentioned that I had them as we were cleaning up at the end of the evening last year, my brother told me I should definitely bring them next time. Last week I spent some time collecting them from the two or three different places I squirreled them all away, and carefully placed them in labeled ziplock bags, one for each year, and packed them up for our annual Academy Awards Getaway.

We spent some time this morning going over the archive. Stretching back to 2003, there was a record of all our pools and parties, with the exception of 2004 and 2011. Our initial data analysis determined that Victor is the current grand champion, with 3 wins and 2 ties, but Bill is in second with 3 wins and 1 tie. The ballots are so much more than just records of right and wrong predictions, though.

For example, they remind us of all the people who have celebrated and played with us over the years. Early on there are ballots for both of Emily's parents, Vic and Judy, who have since passed away, Kyle has joined us twice, Josh is in and out, my mom has several ballots, both in person and remote, and our friend Mary has also played along 3 times. (In fact, Bill considers Mary his spoiler-- he would have had one more win and the current overall crown, if not for the year she took home the prize!)

It is clear what a primary source these simple sheets of paper are when you consider some of them individually. Treat was 7 when he filled out his first ballot, and the tiny, lower-case scrawl of his name at the top might suggest how unprepared he felt to enter such an enormous competition. Even so, he did pretty well, out-preforming half of the adults at the party. The pages also show the transition from Riley to Victor; Heidi's have flowers and hearts on the years she does well; Josh artfully scribbles semi-solid blocks around the categories he misses; Judy primly Cs and Xs her hits and misses, Kyle signs his name "Mr. Moo" in honor of his job as the Chik-fil-a cow.

When we were finished with our artifact review, there was one ziplock bag still left on the table. Labeled 2019, it contained a crisp stack of blank ballots, patiently waiting for history to be made.

Friday Night Lights

It was crazy-hectic packing up and getting out of town for a weekend away on a Friday evening. Dashing home from school after making sub plans during the deafening din of Anime Club, we threw 3 days of clothes and toiletries into our duffles, packed the cooler with essentials (beer, coffee cream, and ragout for dinner) and then huffed all our stuff out to the car.

The map app confirmed what I already knew-- it was rush hour in DC, but I obediently piloted the car into the gleam of brake lights and stop and go traffic, along the twinkling tree-lined streets of Old Town, and under the incandescent gauntlet of lights lining the Wilson Bridge, and past the pulsing red, white and blue of the Capital Wheel, and down through the suburban glow of Fort Washington and Waldorf.

When at last the roads cleared, we found ourselves on country roads so dark we almost (almost!) missed the starless glimmer of city nights we were accustomed to. Along shadowed farm fields, over unlit bridges, and finally onto a pitch-dark rutted dirt road, we drove on. And at the end of the trip there was warm light spilling from the windows of a house and family and fun waiting within.

Fantasy Avenue

It was planned chaos in my classroom today. After analyzing and evaluating commercials, students were now ready to apply all they knew about persuasive techniques by forming groups, choosing a product to brand and market, and creating a commercial of their own.

An array of three dozen colorful, if perplexing, gadgets were laid upon a table and ceremoniously unveiled. A spin of the wheel determined when each group got to choose, and when the selections were through, trades and additions were welcome.

The kids didn't need to know what each item actually was; in fact it was better if they didn't. Imagination is a premium for this project, and so the sooner you believe a silicone dish rack is a portable grill to be sold with the slogan You go grill!, the better off you'll be.

Snow Goggles

Sometimes when I take Lucy out in the morning our one-on-one time is interrupted when she slams her nose to the ground and pulls me in the direction of some invisible trek. So single-minded is she that even treats can't break her concentration; I hop along scooping up the expensive, "high-value" nuggets that she spits on the pavement. "You don't understand!" says the look she gives me when I tug sharply on the leash, and I have to admit she's right.

This morning when we stepped out our door the world was hushed and muffled in the snow that had begun falling at dawn. No one else was about, and ours were the only footsteps in the powder that covered our way until we got to the hill in the back of our complex. This time, when Lucy's nose hit the ground, I saw what she was after. Boot prints and dog prints meandered along the edge of the woods and up to the bushes.

"Who is that?" I asked her, and she wagged her tail and came over to me.

A little further down it was a set of rabbit tracks hopping up to the pool gate that drew her attention. "Bunnies!" I said, and she was ready to keep going.

Next a bright spray of yellow snow caught her nose, and she turned to look at me. "I know!" I told her. "Someone peed!" And it was clear to both of us that we were connected by more than the leash.

President's Day

One of my favorite presidents has always been Abraham Lincoln. Before I was 9, I knew his entire life story from reading every biography in the school library. Even today, odd facts about him occur to me now and then, almost like remembering something about someone I really knew. Just last week, the path from the movie theater to our dinner reservation took us up 10th St, past Ford's Theater and the house where Lincoln died. "I wonder what the street was like in 1865," I said, looking across the 4 lanes of traffic from the box office to the steps of number 516. "Was it this wide? Were there hitching posts? Did this house have a yard?"

One of my favorite purchases in the last year or so is a cylindrical cast-iron doodad a little smaller than a breadbox. Forged in America, it has an open ring at the top connected to a sturdy base by two solid columns. Welded in the center is a fan-shaped wedge, and the idea is to put a log through the hoop on top, balance it on the wedge, and knock it straight down to the ground and split it in two.

Oh, it makes a lot of racket, and yes, you have to swing that mini-sledge like you mean it, but the effort it takes to split wood is really minimal.

But?

The satisfaction of cracking those logs in half with a single blow (or two)?

Is not.