No Si and Am

"I know you just got out of the car," our pet sitter said when we got home early this afternoon from a wedding in Richmond, "but how would you feel about giving me a ride home and meeting the kittens?"

"Who can say no to kittens!" I replied. She and her family had just adopted a pair of 10-week-old Siamese littermates from a rescue organization, and the friendly little purr balls did not disappoint.

As I was cuddling with one, the other trilled from Heidi's arms. "She's calling her sister to play!" Molly said, so we set them down, and they dashed over to their toys where they leapt and rolled and wrestled, knocking into things with abandon.

"Adorable!" I gushed. "Just don't show them Lady and the Tramp!"

Axial Tilt

The wood guy came by the other day. "I know it's still kinda warm," he said, "but we were in the neighborhood."

I had answered the door in shorts and a t-shirt, and we had some wood left from the spring. We probably wouldn't have a fire for a few more weeks, but the leaves in the woods across the way were tinged with rust and gold, and acorns blanketed the ground beneath the oak. He was there, and the season was changing. "Let's fill the rack up," I agreed.

This morning, the thermostat in the dining room read 63. It was a little chilly even in my flannel and slippers, but I was hesitant to turn the heat on; I knew it would involve switching the vents, closing all the windows, and changing the filter in the air handler. Still, we were going away for the night, and a sitter was staying with Lucy and the cats. We might have bundled up and slept under extra blankets for another night or two, but for her, I made the switch from summer settings to winter. She is coming, and the season is changing.

Why I Love the Shoe Repair Shop

 "Um," I started as I placed Heidi's trail runner on the shoe repair counter, "this..." I gestured at the dangling metal eyelet, "is broken."

"Oh!" the friendly repairman laughed. "The hooky thingy came off!"

"I knew there was a technical term for it!" I agreed.

"Boot hook," he told me, "but this one's shot." He showed me why it was unusable and went to fetch a few replacement options from the back.

Ten minutes and fifteen bucks later, a new hooky thingy was in place.

Orderly

I felt lucky that the math teacher I was subbing for yesterday had a planning period before her classes, because I needed it to review linear equations, particularly plotting parallel and perpendicular lines. But once I recalled how to determine the slope, I was feeling much more confident. It also reminded me of how fascinating I found the perpendicular rule when I first learned it —the whole notion of using the negative reciprocal of the slope for the new line just tickles my brain the right way. It also reminds me that there is an elegant order for so many things, if only we recognize the patterns. 

I had the same feeling last week in a sixth-grade science class when the teacher explained how the early periodic table was stumbled upon by Dmitri Mendeleev in the 1860s. Mendeleev was a chemist and card collector who designed a set of cards based on the known elements. He arranged his cards by atomic weight and then in columns by common properties. As he played with the arrangement, he saw gaps in his table, predicted they would be filled by elements yet to be discovered, and described the characteristics of those future elements. 

Mendeleev is widely considered a genius not for creating the order, but for recognizing it.

Every Day Can't Be the Best Day

"Didn't you retire?" an eighth grader asked me this afternoon in the middle of a particularly rowdy math class. And when I nodded, he added a salty little follow-up, "Then why are you back?"

"I was just asking myself the same question," I laughed.

To his credit, he looked abashed, but unfortunately, it didn't make him any more productive.

Weekly Bowling Report

 

The Pro Shop

I'm not sure what I expected a few weeks ago when I walked into the pro shop on a mission to purchase a bowling ball of my own. I did not enter the chore blindly; as a citizen of the 21st century, I YouTubed it first. There, I found a video of a kindly avuncular gentleman in a bowling shirt and cardigan guiding a young woman as she chose her first bowling ball. 

He asked her all sorts of questions about her game and experience before revealing that he had seen her bowl a few times. Then he offered her some suggestions, "Don't go too light," he had advised her, "that's a rookie mistake." In the end, she chose a flashy little 14-pounder, and they cut to her rolling it down the lane for a strike.

The next day, I pushed my way through the plate-glass door into the pro shop and stood uncertainly in the middle of the deserted showroom. As I scanned the three rows of bowling balls lining the wall to my right and the shoes displayed in the rear, an owlish man in a craftsman's apron hurried out from the back. "I'm the only one here!" he informed me, "I'll be with you in a minute." Then he disappeared.

I was looking more closely at the balls when he returned, wiping his hands on a bright orange cloth. "What do you need?" he asked.

"I'm here to buy a bowling ball," I said and paused, waiting for the guidance. 

Perhaps I expected him to say something like, "The ball chooses the bowler," or "Every ball here at Carmen-Don has a core of a powerful magical substance," but instead he gestured impatiently at the shelves and said, "Which one do you want?"

"To be honest," I confessed, "I have no idea. I'm a beginner. But I'm in a league, and they recommended I get my own ball."

He sighed impatiently. "What weight do you usually use at the bowling center?"

"Ten or eleven," I answered.

"I'd recommend at least a 12 then," he said. "Does it go straight or curve when you throw it?"

"I have a bit of a natural curve, I think," I told him.

"Pick one from the bottom row," he waved. "You should just choose one you like the looks of, you don't need anything specific," he shrugged. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I scanned the half dozen balls he had indicated. Most were garish swirls of neon colors, and I recognized the siblings of some of my fellow bowlers' balls. But there was one at the end that spoke to me. It was classic black with a single orange dot and a matching hammer. "I'll take this one," I told him when he returned.

He nodded thoughtfully. "That ball does have a little action in the core," he said. "It's not much at 12 pounds, but it will be something to work with." There was a grudging note of respect in his voice. "Let's measure your hand."

He led me over to the glass counter and pulled out a set of cylinders. "Hold out your hand," he directed. I splayed my fingers wide, and he took my wrist. "Interesting," he commented. "Have you ever broken your fingers?"

"No," I shook my head.

"They're crooked," he noted. "Bend your knuckles." I did. "Interesting," he said again. "Would you ever consider a finger tip grip? Your middle fingers bend at the first knuckle."

I laughed and shrugged. "Maybe for my next ball. For now? Let's go traditional."

He measured the distance between my fingers and thumb and then slid them into some of the cylinders and wrote the measurements on a small pad of paper. And it all did seem a little magical, especially when he withdrew into the back again, calling over his shoulder that he would be back shortly.

A few minutes later, he reappeared in a cloud of urethane and oil scent, bearing a simple black bowling ball. He draped my hand over its crown and fit my fingers and thumb gently into the still-warm holds. "How does it feel?" he asked, turning my hand palm up and releasing the weight to me.

I bent my wrist, feeling the heft of the ball. My thumb slid neatly in and out. "Nice," I nodded, as he stepped across the room.

"Roll it to me," he instructed.

I took a step and bent, releasing the ball in one smooth gesture. It rolled directly to him, and he clapped once. "Bravo!" Then he scooped up the ball, replaced it in its box, and stepped to the register.

It seemed my ball had found me.