The Grapevine

When I was a kid, it was just about this time of year that they published the school classes in the newspaper. Back then we would open the local evening paper and turn eagerly to the columns of small print in the somewhere in the back pages. There, listed by town, then school, then grade, were the classes. Once we found our own names, we would scan with excitement and a little dread, to find our friends, and then get on the phone to see what everyone knew about kids and teachers and our new classes.

I thought about those days today as texts were flying between colleagues at our school. Have you heard yet? What priority are you? Who else has gotten the call?

The priority system was put in place by our district to manage the discrepancy between teacher requests for distance vs. in-person learning and those made by the families. Priority one teachers will be the first to return, whenever it's safe enough (but not safe for everyone) and priority four will be the last. In between staffing will be determined by enrollment.

Our principal is calling staff alphabetically, and folks are sharing the news anecdotally as it arrives. We are waiting with excitement and more than a little dread to hear the news.

Maybe they should just put it in the paper!

Cynosure

I had another frustrating customer service experience today, and I was really tempted to use this space to vent a little, but I was very mindful that I did that yesterday, and I try to avoid too much griping, because, well, it's boring. So, as I sat at the keyboard watching my cursor blink and still steaming about my mobile phone company, I took a deep breath and considered my day, looking for that bit of glory in all its banality.

And it occurred to me that I had a perfectly delightful customer service experience while shopping this afternoon. As Heidi and I scoped out the long, long check out lines, we spotted a young man standing at a register nearby. The light was not on, but since we were tenth in line for self check, I made eye contact and asked if he were open. He politely informed me that he was not, and continued with his task. A moment later, though, he scanned the lines and called us over, opening his register for us and several others after.

It was a small, unnecessary kindness, but I appreciated it in the moment. I would have totally forgotten the gesture, too, if I hadn't been looking for an antidote to the toxic interaction I had recently concluded.

So often it's easier to fixate on what nettles us than what soothes us; I'm glad I had a chance to refocus today.

Amateur Hour

Recently I've begun to shy away from shopping at what was once one of my favorite groceries, and I couldn't figure out why. But today, the time and the place and the list seemed right to give it another try, so I parked in the garage, masked up, and climbed the stairs to the store. This particular location is only a few years old, and it has the compact layout of one of this chains urban outlets.

Before, I enjoyed being able to find what I wanted quickly, scanning the app on my phone for my discount, and paying by tapping my watch, but since the Covid shortages, I've been frustrated by spotty inventory, which is more of an issue when there are fewer items to choose from.

I realized today, too, that my fellow shoppers are also contributing to the decline in my shopping pleasure. Most of the people in the store were paid shoppers; all of their attention was on the lists on their phones, rather than social distance, or even the courtesy of selecting an item quickly when someone was politely waiting to get to the same shelf or cooler.

Personally, I enjoy grocery shopping, it's an aesthetic experience for me, but there was no pleasure or appreciation in their activity; shopping with them was like trying to make dinner in the kitchen at a McDonalds while the staff was serving customers. Don't get me wrong, there was no animosity, but in my encounters with them, whether it was pushing my cart past theirs in a small space, or trying to get to the cilantro, I felt the pressure to step aside and let the professionals do what they were hired for.

I guess that attitude is completely understandable-- they are at work! But I'm not. And it will be a while before I go back to that particular store.

The I of the Hurricane

According to the Capital Weather Gang, In the history of hurricane names, ‘I’ stands for infamous.

Their argument is that by the ninth named storm of the season, things get cranking in the Atlantic, and so conditions are right for some powerful hurricanes. Of the 84 storm names retired, 10 of them have begun with I, more than any other letter.

Anecdotally? I can support that claim. For me, that ninth storm of the season has had great impact over the years:

In September 2003, Hurricane Isabel closed school for a couple of days. Many in our community were without power, but our lights were on, and we used the windfall of time to find a puppy. Isabel was a great dog.

In late August 2011, we battened down the hatches for the impending destruction of Hurricane Irene, but that storm was a bust, neither class was canceled nor puppies adopted. Was I disappointed? Perhaps, but it made a good blog topic.

Today, in 2020, Hurricane Isaias came ashore in North Carolina and stormed up the East Coast. Here at home we had some rain and wind, but no flooding or other damage. Up in New Jersey though, half a million are without power, and 2 nice ladies and a dog got their vacation rained out.

Sure, there have been other memorable storms in my life. I vaguely recall Camille and Agnes from when I was little; I rode out Gloria with my dad and sister in Virginia Beach in '85; my ex went to Puerto Rico for a month after Hugo in '89, and of course Katrina and Superstorm Sandy made big news.

But when it comes to me? It's all about I.

Yer Out! (but Safe at Home)

Concerned about the impending storm, I contacted the owner of the bay-front vacation home we had rented for advice. The house is equipped to withstand the storm, she replied. The house will rock, but don't be scared. I love storms there! And this morning as we packed for our week away, it seemed like the storm track was favorable; it would be rainy tomorrow, but nice the rest of our stay. And so off we drove the 3 1/2 hours to the southern shore of New Jersey.

The air was heavy and still when we arrived, and the sky was low. We worked up a sweat as we unpacked the car, our footsteps crunching over the crushed shell drive and up the outside steps to the entrance. Inside, it was cold. Someone had set the window units to 60, probably to cool the place down fast, and we stepped out on the deck overlooking the Delaware Bay to call the owners and let them know we had arrived.

They assured us again that although the house would rock, and the waves would be high, and the power might go out for a short time cutting the well water, by tomorrow night all would be well, and we would have a story to tell our friends. With that, we unpacked.

The phone rang a little while later. The owners sheepishly told us that an evacuation order had just been issued. Seems like a second storm was predicted to collide with the first, and flooding and power outages were practically guaranteed, putting the house out of commission for a couple days and threatening our car. You can ride out the storm with us, they offered, or maybe go to a hotel?

Neither option fit the cooler full of food we had brought to comply with the quarantine order for residents of our state, and 2 days away from the house was half of our vacation gone. It was 5:30, and the wind was picking up. Isaias was predicted to arrive from the south in a few hours, so we thanked them, repacked all of our stuff, carried it down to the car, and came home.

(But not before buying some peaches and blueberries and corn. And I would've stopped in a heartbeat for hoagies  if I'd seen a place. I'll be back New Jersey-- just you wait.)

Yesterday Once More

I like to think I have a pretty good memory; that's why it was so appalling today as we listened to the AT40 countdown from July 28, 1973 that I kind of knew the songs, but not really. "What the heck was I doing that summer?!" I asked Heidi in exasperation. But of course she had no idea-- we would not meet for another 25 years. "Obviously not listening to the radio, for some weird reason," I concluded.

It wasn't until the countdown reached number 2 that it all became clear to me. As the Carpenters sang Yesterday Once More, I remembered that for my birthday in June that year I got a cassette tape player and recorder, and I spent the summer listening to the one tape I also received, The Carpenters Greatest Hits.

I also recalled that when we went to California to visit our friends, I made everyone listen to my tape. Those kids were Callie cool, and let's just say that the Carpenters were not on their playlist, but after a few days there, I got the confidence to play my music. It went over fine, but later that night, when our parents tuned into the summer replacement variety show hosted by, who else? The Carpenters! There were groans all around.

"Why did we have to listen to that tape?" one of the kids moaned as Karen and Richard crooned, We've only just begun... "Once a day is enough!"

Two Strikes

Mandatory quarantine AND a hurricane?

I'm beginning to worry a little bit about my vacation next week.