Managing Expectations

"The parking lot is clear," I noted as Heidi and I pulled up to Gunston on our way home from Whole Foods. "The sidewalks look good, too."

"Let's check Oakridge," she suggested. Just up the hill, the neighborhood roads were a little slushy, but the school parking lot and bus lane were wet pavement. "Damn!" she shook her head. "It looks like I'm going to school tomorrow."

"Let's swing by Jefferson and check out those neighborhoods," I said, but I wasn't hopeful. 

A little while later, we looked down side streets and checked out sidewalks as we drove down 2nd Street South. "That street looks bad," Heidi noted.

"And the sidewalks are awful," I added.

"But do the sidewalks really matter?" Heidi asked in return. "The school system has no control over them."

At Jefferson, the rec center was open, and all the outdoor parking lots were plowed. The conditions in the neighborhood on the way home were sketchy, though, and those sidewalks? Terrible. 

But on down the road, Randolph was cleared, and then Abingdon was, too.

It all comes down to the neighborhoods, we agreed; surely there would be at least a delay? Back at home, Heidi prepared to go to work: she posted her final announcement, chose her outfit, and showered. Periodically, we checked our notifications, and when the adjoining county announced they were closed, we grew slightly optimistic. 

Around 5:45 p.m., the "closed" notice for today flipped to a "normal operation" notice, and we lost hope. "Not even a delay?" Heidi asked in dismay. "I knew it!" she continued and added a few choice words for the officials in charge of such a decision. Then she texted her colleague.

A few minutes later, she received word that an operation announcement would be posted at 6:30. "Does she know what it is?" I asked, but there was no further information as the minutes ticked away. 

Heidi's phone buzzed. "Closed!" she rejoiced. "Phew! They had me worried."

90 and Snow

You might think that a snow day would be less of a big deal to me now that I'm retired and would be staying home whether the weather was wintery or not. And until today, I might have agreed with you in theory, but I was still a little giddy when the world turned white overnight. 

Of course, the fact that Heidi didn't have to go to work was the first bonus of the day, but we both still set our alarms last night: she to walk with Lucy and their friends in the morning, and I to start the newest 40-day meditation with my yoga guru. But 7 a.m. found me right back in bed, and soon Lucy and Heidi were snoozing, too, and not a one of us got up again until after 10.

The rest of the morning was taken up with coffee and breakfast as snowflakes fluttered from the sky by the trillions, piling up into several inches on the ground. A little after noon we headed out to brush off the car and shovel a bit. As is usually the case around here, we were joined in the parking lot by several neighbors, and working together, we made light work of clearing the snow that had already fallen.

Next on our agenda was snowshoeing. Some years, we toss our snowshoes in the car when we head up to Buffalo for Christmas, but most winters they languish in their bag in the attic, waiting, as we do, for a snow deep enough for them. Today, the conditions were perfect. We tromped up and down in fresh powder,  around and behind the buildings in our neighboring communities, and then back into our own, where we scaled hills and snow banks to make it home.

A fire, a phone call to my siblings, and my father's favorite dinner filled the final hours of daylight and evening. He would have been 90 today, and I couldn't help thinking that this was the kind of day he might have enjoyed, too.

Sunday Lunch

Since today was Victor's last day in town, I thought it would be fun for the six of us to go to brunch before he flies out tonight. 

"I was thinking of making reservations at the Carlyle," I mentioned to Treat the other day. Our family has been going for brunch there since both Treat and Victor were born, usually with one of their grandparents when they were living.

He got a bit of a dreamy smile and a faraway look in his eye. "I haven't been there in ages," he said nostalgically.

I texted the rest of the group a little while later to see if  11 a.m. was a good time. "The restaurant of brunch!" Emily replied, using the name the boys did when they were small.

Our party was in good spirits as we climbed the grand staircase to be seated. "Are you going to have the Squibnocket scramble?" Emily asked. "With the smoked trout?"

"Maybe they'll give us our usual table," I joked, and sure enough, the hostess led us to a round table by the windows, where we had eaten many times. But when we examined the menus that she gave us, we were confused. There was no brunch listed.

When the server approached our table, we had questions. "No, we don't serve brunch," she told us, and the expression on her face suggested that they hadn't for quite some time. "We do have some brunch specials," she added, "steak and eggs benedict or salmon with eggs, but that's all for brunch."

"Not even any beignets?" Emily inquired wistfully, but our waiter shook her head firmly and asked for our drink order.

The meal was very good; the company and the conversation were great, and we had a nice time. In the end, we agreed that we had nothing to complain about.

Except it wasn't brunch.

Containing Multitudes

I took it as a compliment the other night when we were playing Spot the Intro, a fun but flawed game that challenges teams to identify a song from some decade between the 60s and the 10s within 15 seconds, and Emily said, "Wow, you can really tell Tracey is a writing and reading person. She knows a lot of the words to these songs." I also reacted with a moment of sonder when I realized that not everyone interacts with music that way.

But it was definitely that tendency that got me through the movie A Complete Unknown today. Clocking in at 2 hours and 20 minutes, the film depicts the life of Bob Dylan from his 1961 arrival in NYC to his performance at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. And that would have been a long time to spend with that asshole, except that the movie gave me the opportunity to revisit the lyrics of songs I have taken for granted all my life. 

Somehow, watching the creation of such songs as "Don't Think Twice," "Blowin in the Wind," and "The Times They Are a Changin" allowed me to really listen to the words, and I was dazzled (yes, dazzled) by the craftsmanship. Dylan's songs are genius: simple but profound, effectively using metaphor, repetition, and word choice to convey messages that are both timeless and timely. 

I totally get the Nobel Laureate thing now. (But I still think he's a jerk.)

Avoiding Labels

"This is a hot sauce I made," I announced as we sat down for New Year's dinner. 

"What's this?" my brother pointed to a nearly identical bottle.

"That is also hot sauce I made," I answered.

"What's the difference?" he asked. "Is it that this one is hot, and that one is too?" he continued dryly.

"I made them on different days?" I shrugged. "They do taste a little bit different."

In retrospect, of course, a label or two would have been handy, but when caught up in creating such condiments, it just seems impossible I'll ever forget what I put in them, even if I'm using whatever happened to be ripe and/or plentiful that day. 

With spice mixes, I'm a little better, and by that, I mean I put the name of whatever it is on the jar, and once last summer, I even listed the ingredients in a chili powder I made, but that was an anomaly. I guess I also just figure it will be me using, and then eating, these products, and I usually season by taste rather than measurement or recipe. In that case, if it tastes good, who cares what's in it?

On New Year's Day, people just tasted the sauces and then picked one or mixed them together, but it might have been nice to know what the comparison was. Tonight, though, I was annoyed at myself when I added a couple cubes of unidentified frozen pesto to my tomato sauce and discovered (by tasting) that in addition to basil, they also contained cilantro and mint. It wasn't exactly the flavor profile I planned for our tomato tart, and I was a little disappointed. 

Not enough to label the rest of though, because really? I'm sure I'll remember what it is next time.

Yes, And

How was your Christmas season?  a friend texted today.

I considered my reply a moment before typing, Christmas was good. I think being retired really allowed me to slow down and enjoy the season.

Later, I was still thinking about the exchange. "I really had a good Christmas this year," I told Heidi.

She raised an eyebrow. "You mean you're choosing to ignore all the bad parts?" she asked skeptically.

I knew what she was saying. The holiday was not perfect: we missed my sister's family, and Heidi's mom and brother are going through some tough times, too. 

"They were impossible to ignore," I answered, "but there was so much more."

Burning Up

"I only want to do 500-piece puzzles!" Heidi told me after we finished one in just a couple of hours. 

"They are fast and fun," I agreed and went to the bookshelf. "How about this one?" I held up a puzzle of Christmas cats.

"Where did that come from?" Heidi asked.

"We've had it over here for years," I shrugged. "I probably bought it on clearance or something."

As we emptied the bag and started turning over the pieces, Heidi sighed in dismay. "They are all the same!" she pointed to the box. 

I'd never noticed, but the puzzle had identical images of five different cats randomly scattered across it. Plus, there was a lot of white space. 

"I don't think I'm going to like this one," Heidi shook her head.

Even so, we persisted. It was a little challenging, but we put the second-to-last piece in just after midnight on the first day of the new year. "Where's the last piece?" I wondered out loud. 

We had somehow lost a piece of the puzzle in the eight hours it had been on the table, and despite searching thoroughly, it has not turned up. Added to that irritation is the fact that this is the second puzzle of the last three we have completed, where one of the pieces has gone inexplicably missing. The first was our advent puzzle, which we burned in the fireplace once we came to terms with the reality that it would NEVER be complete.

I'm afraid those cute cats may meet a similar fate because, as we are unfortunately well aware,  no one wants to do a puzzle with missing pieces. In fact, I'm kind of skeptical about doing any puzzles at all for a while.

Take that, Universe.