Say What You Want

When I was a kid there a lot of games whose very names were warnings: Don't Break the Ice! Don't Spill the Beans! and even Kerplunk! whose premise was not to let the marbles fall. I never really liked those games; the fact that nobody actually won because somebody lost, was not fun, and trying not to do what the rules directed was very stressful.

As a teacher, I learned back in grad school to phrase directions positively. For example, rather than tell students not to be late, it's more effective to remind them to be on time. That construction takes the whole idea of tardiness out of the conversation. Likewise, stop talking becomes please listen quietly, and so on. We remove even the thought of what we don't want and focus on what we do.

I thought of that today in my garden as I chose to shell the beans there and compost the husks right away. It was an exercise in mindfulness as I stood in my windswept plot under swirling skies with only the goldfinches for company and strung and split each pod, emptying the beans into a pint container I set on the little storage unit by the compost bin. More than once I knocked the square bin with my wrist, threatening to tip it over and into the top of the shed. 

"Don't-- !" I warned myself, and then paused and reframed my thinking. "Keep the beans in there!" I encouraged myself. And you know what? With the exception of a few errant legumes, which I quickly retrieved, I did it!

Not Gonna Lie

After 18 months of COVID chaos, going to school in-person, five days a week? Will be a tough adjustment.

Fortunately? With holidays and what-not, that won't happen until the week of September 20, three full weeks after the start of school.

So, maybe I'll be more ready then.

Nah.

My Kind of Party

It was a bit of a drive to get out there, but the invitation to wish Victor well on the eve of his departure for Iceland as well as celebrate his partner Emily's birthday was impossible to turn down, and Emily's parents were generously hosting the party on their farm in PG County.

There were steamed crabs that our host had caught the day before on the table when we walked in, and our hostess brought us seltzer water garnished with frozen blueberries to go along. As we picked the crabs, fresh salsa made from homegrown tomatoes, roasted summer squash from the garden, pears from the orchard, and a wheel of brie made an appearance. 

Later, as our hosts grilled local lamb and potatoes and okra to accompany the fresh green bean and potato salad, watermelon and feta, and orzo with fresh pesto, we were invited out to the blueberry patch to pick and chat among ourselves. After that fine meal, plenty of conversation, and a dessert of fudge-oatmeal bars and blueberry cake, we said goodnight, but not before we were handed a bag with our fresh-picked blueberries, and cantaloup, summer squash, and tomatoes.

Dread Days of August

I know I should be savoring these last days of my summer vacation, but it's tough. There was a meme going around a few years ago that went something like For teachers, the month of August is just one long Sunday night. It is sort of true; along with the excitement of a new year, there is a little sorrow at saying good bye to sleeping late and being productive in entirely different ways.

This year, of course, there is also apprehension around COVID and how it continues to impact our lives and routines. In fact, a recently retired friend emailed me the other day, subject line: A new word for your vocabulary. The word was paraskevidekatriphobia, or fear of Friday the 13th. 

Rather than boast that I already knew the word, I replied instead This year? I'm more afraid of Thursday the 19th!

And she reassured me that, like Friday the 13th, 2021 only has one Thursday the 19th, too.

The Wave

For 15 years or so, our second car was a Jeep Wrangler. Really, the navy blue soft-top with flower magnets all over it was Heidi's car; she always wanted a Jeep, and although we used it sparingly, it was fun when we put the top down, turned the radio up, and blasted around town. Heidi did most of the driving, which was fine, because whenever I drove? I could never remember to do the Jeep wave.

For those who are unfamiliar, the Jeep wave is a real thing. Whenever one Jeep passes another, the drivers acknowledge each other, usually by nothing more than lifting the fingers of their right hand off the steering wheel. Now that you know, look around, you'll see Jeep drivers waving everywhere. But that didn't happen much when I was the driver, despite Heidi's frequent reminders. Half the time I don't think it even registered with me that I was driving a Jeep, much less notice other Jeeps coming my way.

No, I am a Subaru driver; I have been for the last 20 years, and I do actually notice other Subarus on the road. Back when we still had the Jeep, I used to tell Heidi that I was going to start a Subaru wave, because after all? Subarus are equally cool, right?

We revisited that conversation this afternoon as we rolled out of our complex in our Subaru to do a few errands. At the bottom of the hill we passed some neighbors returning home in their own Outback, and I waved as they passed. 

"Was that the Subaru wave?" Heidi asked.

"No," I answered, "it was Mike and Charlene."

"Is there a Subaru wave?" Heidi responded.

"No," I told her. "Remember? I was going to start one."

"That's right!" She laughed. "What was that going to look like again?"

"Something like," I rolled my right wrist forward three or four times, "Whoop dee doo for my Subaru!"

Heidi laughed again. "That's pretty good."

"I can't take credit for the slogan," I said. "Don't you remember that old commercial?"

She did not, and so when we stopped for gas, I googled it. Midas Mufflers, 1978: they were offering the same guarantee for "foreign cars" as they did for American cars, and the owners of these alien vehicles cheered. 

It's a great day for my Datsun.

a triumph for my Triumph

a victory for my Volvo

and of course the old lady in white gloves and hat who brings it home at the end

Whoop dee doo for my Subaru!

Hard Questions

We have been more careful since the emergence of the delta variant. Masks that we so blithely tossed aside in June are back in all our bags and pockets. And as I make my way about in the world (because I haven't returned to deliveries, yet) I notice who is wearing a mask, who is not, and where they are required again. 

Despite the governor's mandate for universal masking in schools, it seems like a foregone conclusion that most of us will be exposed and infected. Just tonight, a close friend and neighbor told us that she had been exposed through a co-worker. Her rapid test came back negative, but her experience reinforced the cold truth that unless we are willing to go back to hardcore social-distancing, how can we possibly expect to avoid infection?

Mighty Mites

Many reports of worse than usual mosquito bites have prompted some investigative journalism in these parts. A hyper-local web-based news outlet broke the theory that we are being plagued (YES! Another plague!) by oak mites, tiny, invisible insects who feed on cicada eggs and whose population is booming due to the emergence of Brood X.

When they fall, or are blown about in the hot, summer breeze, they bite! And those bites can trigger a vicious reaction-- welts and even bruises in some. I couldn't tell you the last time I had a mosquito bite; it's hard to say if I/m not bitten, or I don't have a reaction, but the same cannot be said about these oak mites. I have a bunch of itchy spots on my stomach and legs.

Our neighbor has had it much worse, though. Before the story broke, she went to urgent care at the end of July because of the bruises and itching she was suffering. "I'm not even walking around the neighborhood until snows!" she told us the other day.

"You'll miss the Halloween and Christmas lights," I reminded her, knowing how much she loves those.

"Okay!" she recanted, "until the first frost!"

That *mite* do it.