Saturday Evening Post

I spent my day puttering.

In the kitchen I fed my sourdough starter, made a levain for bread, and another for some raised muffins with peaches and berries.

In the attic, I organized the Halloween stuff (don't ask!), sorted my seed starting supplies, and tossed a few things that haven't been used in years.

On the back decks and front stoop, I pruned, watered and fed the hanging and potted plants.

In between, I changed the batteries in some flashlights, painted a couple of rocks, did a little online shopping, some reading, some writing, some journaling, a set of abs, a short kettlebell workout, and in a few minutes? We're off to the pool.

Classic Saturday, right?

Ghost Town

At 8:30 am we had the National Mall mostly to ourselves, with the exception of a few joggers, so it was still the perfect place to meet up with friends to walk and walk the dogs. This time our group veered to the left past the Washington Monument and picked up the trail circling the Tidal Basin just before the MLK Memorial.

There was a lot of flotsam, mud, and goose poop on the walkway, so we opted to go through the FDR Memorial, which was nearly deserted. A few people were doing some sort of photo shoot near the statue of Eleanor, but no one waited in the bread line, and we had the president and Fala all to ourselves.

Continuing on our way, we noted the empty cricket field, and crossing the Ohio Street Bridge over the inflow, we passed not one tourist on bike or foot, and when we arrived at the Jefferson Memorial, we could have climbed the stairs and stood alone with the 19 foot sculpture of that complicated Virginia man on its pedestal of Minnesota granite, but we chose to walk on instead.

And then it was past the abandoned paddle boats, and the closed doors of the Bureau of Engraving and the Holocaust Museum, and back onto the Mall where the sprinklers were set on jet, casting rainbows in their spray and keeping America's front yard green.

When I See It

We shared our pool time with a little boy today who had tons of energy and absolutely no volume control. As such, it was easy to offer my informal professional educational evaluation. "That kid is extra," I told Heidi as we treaded water in the deep end listening to his endless narrative about water taxis, bandits, and climbing Mountain Everest. I was borrowing one of my friend and fellow teacher's favorite terms for those students who are over the top, usually with a bit of self-regulation challenge tossed in.

Heidi hadn't heard the expression, but she appreciated its accuracy. "I like him, though!" she declared about the boy paddling and shouting in the shallows.

"All the more proof!" I told her.

Wicked Heat

I set my phone in the shade at the garden this afternoon, out of the way of the sprinklers as I watered and weeded. I kept my airpods in, though, and listened to a podcast as I worked. Right in the middle of an appreciation of Naya Rivera, the actress who played Santana Lopez on Glee, the audio abruptly stopped. The sun had moved to where my phone was and it had a too hot to use error message that I've never seen before.

As my phone cooled off, I continued to think about the character of Santana, though. Like Regina, the evil queen in Once Upon a Time, she was a complex villain with a well-developed heart and soul, which made her redemption in later seasons of the show moving. I appreciated that she was gay, and identified with all the teenaged heartbreak that went along with her sexuality, and I found her happy ending to be one of the most gratifying. And so I was genuinely sad when I heard that Naya Rivera had drowned.

Checking my phone, I found it sufficiently recovered to use again, and this time I put it in my pocket where I could keep it safe, but not before I put on my Santana playlist.

Like Something In July

We went to the pool today, which is a thing we do every July, but not quite the way it is this summer.

First, we had to make an online reservation, for according to the square footage of the pool and deck, only 15 people are allowed at a time to ensure the proper distancing. Then, we had to bring our own chairs, which wasn't a problem, especially since I got the throwback, made-in-the USA webbed lawn chair for my birthday, which weighs in at under 5 pounds. Still, it was one more thing to carry.

When we arrived, the lifeguard asked for proof of our reservation, something I wasn't prepared for. Fortunately, I had the confirmation email on my phone, and waving it his way proved to be enough. There were only six people there, but the way they were spaced out and the fact that 2 were kids made it impossible to ask to remove the divider so that we could swim laps. So we swam the short way in the deep end, until someone wanted to go off the diving board. Then we just treaded water until the whistle for the safety break tweeted, another new phenomena at our little pool.

Even so, sitting in our chairs waterside in the shade with a nice little breeze drying us off felt almost like a regular summer day. Almost.

Distance Explaining

A friend and colleague texted with a question about our choices for returning to school in the fall and their consequences as related to family leave.

You can request distance teaching for any reason, I answered, but if they deny you and you can't return to school because of child care, then you would have to take leave. But in that case, you wouldn't be doing any teaching, you'd just be on leave. If you think distance teaching would work best for you, then you should request it, and then have a plan B.

Thanks, he texted back. I forgot how good you are at explaining things LOL

Thank you, I replied, but remember, explaining *is* my job.

Now and When

The farmers market was not where I left it.

I had decided around 10:30 this morning to lay my recent, negative, open air shopping experiences aside and check out the larger, more established produce market a couple of miles from my home. The hope was that a combination of time into the growing season, more vendors, organization, and people on vacation would make the trip both more profitable and less unpleasant, but the green space where I have shopped for years was empty. Fortunately, as I drove around, I spotted the canopies and tents of the market just across the pike, so I parked, put on my mask, and walked over.

And it was better organized and more bountiful. I waited on colorful dots painted at six foot intervals, first to enter and then to shop. Everything I wanted was available, along with one thing I hadn't planned on. "What are those pink beans back there in the crate?" I asked the young woman who was bagging my heirloom tomatoes.

"October Beans," she told me, "they're kind of like pinto beans,” she explained.

“So they’re shell beans?” I clarified with a note of excitement in my voice, for in the last few years I have come to prize the fresh version of those beans we usually get canned or dried. The sweeter flavor and creamier texture of them is so much more satisfying than their preserved versions, which is really not that surprising. I guess I just never considered them to be real vegetables. My bad, fresh beans! Please accept my apologies.

So I bought a pound of the October Beans, and I left the market with a spring in my step. Crossing back over the space where the farmers usually set up their stalls, I imagined the scene a year from now, when things would be more as they have been in the past: shoppers strolling through and handling the wares they wanted, musicians playing, memories of face masks and painted dots fading into the background.

Back in the present, I shelled those beans the minute I got home. They were gorgeous inside and out, pink and cream swirling on pod and bean alike; their beauty made my heart sing. This is real, I thought as I worked, and I knew it was true.