Snow Day

The sharp smell of wood smoke filled the air when I stepped outside to walk the dog this evening. All day long a wintery mix of precipitation had tapped on the windows, but by 4:30 the sky was a bit lighter and the air was still. It was cold though, below freezing, as it had been for the last 24 hours, and an inch or so of icy snow drew a gauzy veil over all the grassy slopes and valleys in this hilly neighborhood making them ideal for fast but gentle sledding. Everywhere we walked Lucy and I heard the shouts and squeals of small children sliding on saucers and toboggans and then trudging back up  in the fading daylight for at least one more go. 

Downhearted

In anticipation of taking a dive into conflict with the young fiction writers in my class, today the intro question was What is something you hate to do? Most of the kids were quick to answer: dishes, chores, cleaning my room, homework, stepping on my little brother's legos, and so forth. 

But one student, who is usually quick and earnest on the Chat Snap was silent. "I can't think of anything," she unmuted to report.

"Nothing?!" I asked, mugging for the camera with wide eyes and exaggerated double take.

"Yeah," she confirmed, "I don't hate anything."

This kid is awfully sweet, and I kind of believed her. Or at least I believed that she believed it. "Do you have any pets?" I asked.

"We're getting a dog soon," she said.

"Well," I told her, "I think you might hate picking up dog poop. I do!" I paused to think. "What about chores?"

"I like chores!" she replied in a very credible tone.

"You are amazing!" I said. "I love your positivity! What about exercise? Burpees? Donkey Kicks?"

"I don't mind any exercise, except push-ups," she answered.

"Do you hate push-ups?" I asked.

"Yeah," she admitted.

"Well, put it in the chat!" I told her with false cheer, because rather than experiencing that satisfaction that accompanies talking another writer through the process to dig deep and find some inner truth, instead I felt kind of bad for forcing a sunny little kid to admit to some inner shade.

We're Going to Need a Bigger Toothbrush

I went to the dentist today for the first time since October 2019. My regular appointment was scheduled for just a few weeks after everything shut down last spring for the pandemic, and well, time slips, even more so these days. But having had my first dose of the vaccine, I called to schedule an appointment last week, expecting it to take some time for them to fit me in. But as luck would have it, there was a cancellation and so my teeth are sparkling and clean.

"Have there been any changes?" the hygienist asked.

"I think I might have a little more sensitivity to hot and cold," I told her.

"That is a classic symptom of clenching," she shook her head. "Have you been doing that?"

"Well, yeah," I answered. "These are kind of stressful times!" 

She laughed in agreement and continued her examination. "Go ahead and bite down for me," she directed, moving her fingers to my jawline. Her eyes widened. "Wow!" she said. "Those muscles are like little rocks. You really have been clenching!"

Oh Ho the Radio

Often when we're traveling by car I like to scan through the radio stations as we go, hoping to hear something new or something I haven't heard in a while, or even better, discover a station with a format and playlist that is surprising and satisfying and so pleasurably passes the time. As music, like so much other media, becomes more and more solipsistic, such stations are more and more rare. Sometimes, I worry about the future of radio. 

But today, as we were whizzing around the Richmond Bypass on our way home from the beach our scanning landed loud and clear on Bing Crosby singing White Christmas. "What the heck!" I said to Heidi, and peered at the display screen: Radio SNTA.  The next cut was a hilarious mash-up version of The Twelve Days of Christmas by Straight No Chaser, and then the DJ, Santa himself, broke in to explain that he wasn't ready to head back to the North Pole quite yet, and so Richmond got to enjoy some holiday spirit a bit longer than usual. 

Truth be told, I was hooked (and Heidi is very tolerant), so we sang along with an interesting and charming assortment of holiday songs until we were halfway to Fredericksburg, where the station faded into static and Christmas was past once more.

Family Ties

Not long ago a guy we have known all his life posted a birthday message. Happy 50th to my big sister! it read. The joke was that she is his little sister and she is still several years away from the half century mark. 

Even so, many people echoed his regards, prompting his sister to finally reply in exasperation, I am the little sister! 

We laughed about that today when we visited with those two and their mom. We were there to offer our sympathy and pay our respects to their dad who passed away a few days ago. "What gets me," the sister said, "is that some of the people who replied went to high school with me! Did they think I flunked five grades?"

Later on in the conversation we spoke warmly of the closeness our families have enjoyed for so long;  their parents and ours were dear friends since we were children. "We've known you guys for over 50 years," I said to their mom.

"I. am. not. 50!" her daughter answered.

"True," I agreed, "but we've kind of known the idea of you for 50 years." I shrugged.

Because that's how family works.

Tumble Dry

We always say, "A rainy day at the beach is still a day a the beach," but that attitude was definitely put the to the test today. 37 degrees, with driving rain and wind speed of up to 20 mph made even a short little walk on the beach a stinging trial of fortitude. Amid the blowing foam and flotsam were four sets of wings on the sand literally torn from the backs of the birds they once thrust into flight.

Back at our little bayside cottage we tossed our sopping clothes and even our coats in the dryer before heading out on our next adventure. When the timer buzzed and I opened the metal latch to fetch Heidi's jacket, the metallic smell of static and hot nylon nudged my nose with nostalgia. The heft and warmth of the freshly tumbled coat transported me back fifty years to the snow days of my childhood.  

When the cold and wet got the best of us and pink-cheeked we returned to the house, my mom gathered our stripped snow clothes and popped them in the dryer while we sipped steaming mugs of spiced tea and orange juice served with buttered slices of freshly baked Sally Lunn. And when we were ready to bundle up and go back out to play, Mom held our jackets right from the dryer and we slid our arms into them like receiving a warm hug, and then, so fortified, we readily faced the elements without hesitation.

So Long, Gar

hamburger, hamburger

all red hot

with an onion in the middle

and a pickle on top