As I write, a fresh breeze floats in through the open windows. We have been blessed three perfectly glorious sunny, blue sky days, a rarity in Virginia in June. "Where is the weather like this all summer long?" Heidi asked wistfully the other day. "I want to go there."
"Buffalo? Minnesota? Maine?" I suggested, naming three of our most favored summer destinations.
She sighed and nodded in agreement, but I knew what she meant.
A few years ago Heidi and I stood on our balcony at the rear of the Norwegian Sun. We were embarking on the cruise part of our Alaskan vacation, something neither of us had ever done. As such, everything was new and a little strange, from the dining arrangements to the mandatory evacuation drill before we left port, and from the towel animals they left on our beds each evening to the ID cards we used to scan ourselves off and back on the ship during shore excursions.
The sun was setting over the bottom of the Alaska Range to our left as the ship chugged south, but Heidi was looking over the railing 12 stories down to the churning propellor. "What would you do if you fell in?" she asked me.
I blinked and turned away from the sunset. "Uhhhh, I don't know," I answered. "Drown?"
"Babe!" she said sternly. "You gotta get clear of the propellor! That's your only chance!"
It had never occurred to me to prepare for such a catastrophe, especially given the almost zero chance that it would happen. But that's a difference between Heidi and me; she is constantly preparing for a worst case scenario, especially in novel situations.
We have returned to that conversation several times in the almost seven years since it happened. I like to think I've grown from incredulous and dismissive to accepting and even appreciative of Heidi's perspective. Today we were talking about a friend whose health and medication issues may keep her from deploying to Iraq for six months. The job would be good for her career, but she's having trouble getting medical clearance.
I thought she should be able to decide for herself if she thought she was okay to go, but Heidi wasn't so sure. "It's stressful, and she won't have any of her usual supports over there," she said. "She thinks it will be fine, but I'm concerned."
"Are you saying she doesn't know what she would do if she fell off the back of the boat?" I asked.
"Pretty much," Heidi answered. "Which is a problem for someone who's fallen off the back of the boat before."
Enough said.
We are newbies when it comes to sharing season tickets to our local baseball team. For years, friends, neighbors and colleagues have exhibited their Natitude proudly, but somehow we have never been swept up in the hoopla, even when the team won the World Series a few years ago. But this year, when we were approached directly about splitting a 22 game plan, we decided to see what all the fuss was about. "They're going to be terrible," our neighbor shrugged when we agreed, "but it's still baseball!"
And after two games, we have found that she is right. It's fun to go out to the ballpark, to cheer and dance and make some noise. It's nice to sit outside and people watch, and I like try to identify the type of pitch before they put on the screen, and predict how the hitter will do based on his season stats. And it's easy to get caught up in the drama and outrage of a bad call, even if booing the guy who left for the other team is a little too much. It's not that personal for us, yet.
But... last night it took us an hour and a half to drive the 7 miles to the stadium from our house. We left plenty early and only missed the first inning, but dang! That could be a deal breaker.
This year I didn't even start packing my room until after the kids left for good yesterday at noon. Then Heidi and I stayed until almost 5, but there was very little left to do today. Even so, we rose at the usual time and carried out our morning routine one last day, arriving at school around 7:20. By 9 a.m. everything was stowed away and my bookshelves were neatly wrapped.
After getting all my check-out signatures and dropping off some dead markers in the art room for recycling, I spent some time chatting with my colleagues about summer plans, filled out the final paper work for writing prize reimbursements, and we headed home. A little while later we walked down to Shirlington to meet our friend Mary for the traditional end-of-school lobster roll lunch celebration, and tonight we are headed downtown for a baseball game.
But not before an indispensable power nap!
After the kids left on their last day of school, I was cleaning and packing my room this afternoon when I found an orange post-it note clinging to the underside of a table. On it in neat letters was the full name of a student, the date of the lockdown, the current time, a description of the lunch bag where her phone was located, and the passcode to access it.
I could only surmise that she had created it as we waited huddled in the dark and then left it there in case someone needed it to identify her and contact her family.
What a World.
There is a time capsule in the lobby of our school.
I was present when it was put in place in 2003, the 30th anniversary of our building, and scheduled to be opened thirty years later, in 2033. Recently, some students noticed it and became curious about its history and contents. They imagine themselves returning in 10 years just to see what's in there.
"You have to stay here teaching until then!" one told me today. "It will be your 40th year! We can have reunion!"
I laughed, noncommitally, and later at the end-of-the-year staff picnic I was recounting the conversation to Heidi and my friend Mary.
"No way I'm teaching until I'm 71!" I scoffed. "Unless I do," I hedged.
"You'll have to re-certify," Mary reminded me practically. "Our licenses are only good until 2032."
"And mine expires in 2031," Heidi said. "Sorry, Babe, I'm not teaching past then."
"Well, at least I know what's in there," I sighed.
Late last week, two girls proposed making muffins for the class and planning a lesson based on the recipe for teacher of the day.
"Can you make them gluten-free?" asked one of their classmates.
"I think so," answered one of them.
"No!" groaned another student. "They will taste awful!"
"Why don't you guys make two batches, one gluten free and one regular, and let us do a taste test?" I suggested.
"Yes!" said the other partner. "We can make them guess which is which!"
Today was the day they taught their lesson, starting with an informative slide show about gluten and gluten-free baking, which included both recipes for the chocolate chocolate chip muffins they had prepared for us.
I love a taste test, and I eagerly sampled the first muffin. It was delicious-- dense and moist and very fudgy. The second muffin had good flavor and a fine crumb, but it was a little dry. I re-examined the recipes. The gluten-free were baked with almond flour and coconut oil, the regular had eggs and vegetable oil. I knew the first one was the gluten-free version, and it was frankly a much better muffin.
The students asked each of us to make our guesses as they tallied our predictions on the chalkboard. I went first. "I think the muffin on the left was gluten free," I said. "It was also delicious!"
"No way!" another kid said. "That one was definitely regular." His classmates nodded.
I could tell by the tickled smiles on the bakers' faces that I was right and that they were enjoying fooling their friends. "I think they just like to disagree with you," one of them said to me, and we laughed because all year long, they were a very contrary group who never had a problem taking me on.
Even though they had never won a debate with me, the class doubled down on this one, and all but one voted the opposite way.
When it came time for the big reveal, the class moaned in defeat. "She's a former chef!" said the student who voted with me. "And she never loses an argument!"
