Crabbin'

"Look! There's a little crab!" Emily pointed as we explored the dock of our vacation rental yesterday. We are in Kilmarnock, on the Northern Neck of Virginia, staying at the "beach house" on the property of a cidery. 

Everything has conspired so far to make this a nearly perfect vacation. The dogs can run free without fear of cars, and the house is newly renovated with a fabulous view. The weather has been uncharacteristically gorgeous for July in Virginia. We have SUPs and kayaks we can use to explore Dividing Creek, the Rappahannock River, and the Chesapeake Bay beyond. And then? There are those crabs.

When we were in our late teens and early twenties, my brother, sister, and I lived in Virginia Beach. Gary, an old friend of the family who lived there, too, taught us how to crab with a string, a sinker, a chicken neck, and a net. We spent many afternoons up to our waists in the back bay by the boat launch at Seashore State Park, tossing out chicken necks, waiting for a little tug on the line, gently pulling it in, and then scooping the crabs up with a net.

Today, after exploring the town, we bought ourselves some crab lines, chicken legs, and a net before heading back to the house. "Make sure you have a jar of peanut butter," laughed the property owner, "if you expect to feed yourselves on the crabs down there!"

But almost immediately after dropping the first baited line from the dock, I pulled up a little Sally, but she was way below the 5-inch limit. As we crabbed, the dogs were mesmerized: watching us tossing chicken into the water and retrieving these scuttling, prehistoric creatures with snapping claws seemed almost more than they could fathom. 

In the end? We caught three unfortunate six-inch jimmies, which I steamed with our shrimp dinner. It was a small catch, but we have more chicken legs and there's always tomorrow.

Slow Down

I didn't realize how much I had been dreading this day. 

The arrival of July 1, 2024, means I am officially retired from Arlington Public Schools. Colleagues who have retired before me warned that I would lose access to everything in my school drives and email, essentially my life's work, and I have taken time to copy and download anything I could. 

Still, when I got up this morning, I wondered what it would be like to try to log in and be rejected and excluded from an organization I had been part of for half my life. Even more than that, losing those documents, files, and correspondence seemed like an intellectual property issue, and I was considering approaching the union about it.

But it didn't happen! For now, I can still access my school email, my old Canvas courses, my Google Drive, and my PD portal. I have been removed from some functions and groups, so those privileges don't seem accidental. 

Everything about retirement so far has seemed like letting go of things, and as anxious as I am to start moving toward something new, it's really hard to give up so much so fast. Luckily? Fortune has pumped the brakes a little today.

LXII

This year, since the day falls between two summer trips, one to Buffalo and the next to Kilmarnock, VA, I'm spending a quiet birthday at home. Oh, I woke up to a shower of gifts from Heidi, each more thoughtful than the last, and I got that bread baked, too. Despite the oppressive heat, we made a trip to the farmers market for some peaches, blackberries, and humanely raised chicken for supper, and Treat and Nadika will be here to celebrate in just a little while. I also got a chance to catch up with my sister, and we're meeting my brother down on the Northern Neck tomorrow.

As I write, I've got my eye on the weather, hoping for a nice, big thunderstorm to break the drought and drench the garden. I think we're going to get it, too. One more gift on an already wonderful day.

Good Plan

"Do you have any plans for your birthday tomorrow?" asked a neighbor this morning.

"Not really," I shrugged. "I'm definitely going to bake off the bread I made today."

"Will that bring you joy?" she replied.

"Yep!" I answered without hesitation.

"There you go, then," she said.

It Fills Me Days, Luv

There was a short time back in the early 90s when I was between cooking jobs. Then, my days consisted of housekeeping, cooking, an occasional free-lance catering job, and reading British murder mystery novels while drinking tea. 

And would you suppose are the first two audiobooks we have cued up since my retirement? Well, a couple of clever, contemporary British murder mysteries: The Alperton Angels and How to Solve Your Own Murder.

Just lovely!

Conclusion? Jumped To!

I was frankly shocked yesterday when I received a reference request from a neighboring school district for a colleague of mine. 

What's all this?! I texted.

Receiving no reply, I clicked over to the form and thoughtfully composed my responses to questions such as:

What are the applicant's strengths? 
What are the applicant's areas for improvement?
Do you think the applicant is qualified for this job? Why or why not?
What is/was the applicant's reason for leaving the position?
Is there anything else you would like to add about the applicant?

Perhaps 30 minutes later, just as I finished the form, my friend texted back. Oh, it is subbing for my sister for summer school, I guess. lol.

I shook my head and sighed. 🤣 If you want to reply for any other jobs there, you're all set! I replied and hit submit.

Cues for Aging

"You know you might like to check out some acts from this century," laughed the spouse of a colleague when he heard that we had tickets for James Taylor's summer tour. I laughed too, because he was not wrong.

And, to be honest, there was a lot of white hair in the audience last night when we settled into our seats to wait for the show to begin. "He'll be on around 8," the usher had informed us. "He's taking a little nap right now," she finished, conspiratorially.

As we waited, I took the opportunity to people-watch, in particular, checking out my fellow concert-goers' outfit choices. I had gone with jeans, a black T-shirt, and flip-flops, a look I hoped was classic enough to be cool. There were a lot of faded concert shirts from other years or other bands. Many guys wore cargo shorts with polos and baseball caps, and lots of women had on capris and sleeveless tops. 

Almost everyone looked, well, old. I did see a couple who broke the mold a bit-- her brilliant white hair was in a flawless, long bob; she had funky glasses, wide-legged pants, and some cool sandals. He had wavy hair brushed back in almost a retro, 70s style, nice shorts, a stylish short-sleeved button-up shirt, and leather flip-flops. 

My fashionista observations were put on hold when the house lights dimmed, and the band took the stage. A montage of video clips from 1968 to recently of James Taylor singing "Something in the Way She Moves" played on the jumbotron. Then the lights came up, and there was the man himself, picking up the song live. His 76-year-old voice was not as robust as it once was, but his face was still youthful, and we could see his blue eyes twinkling from the 12th row.

But it was inescapable: JT, that long-haired hippie guy from my high school years, was dressed like somebody's grampa going out to lunch—he wore a golf shirt buttoned all the way up, baggy gray trousers, sport coat, and snap-brimmed hat. 

Maybe? I thought, Maybe that look could be his thing. Like me and my half-moon readers, or anyone who embraces early gray hair, perhaps he defies old age by taking those traditional emblems of it and making them, well, cool.