Month: May 2020

Today was day 1 of my paddle boarding adventure. Well, not day 1 of all paddle boarding I’ve ever done, but paddle boarding with my very own. I even hefted it onto the roof of the car myself and secured the straps like Chris taught me. He had to correct my form, for which I am very thankful; otherwise, there may have been a brand new paddle board sailing down the GW Parkway this afternoon.

I met my friend, Suzanne, and her sister at Columbia Island Marina, which shares a parking lot with Lady Bird Johnson Park -just a 10 minute drive (once you figure out the fastest and somewhat confusing route). I circled the lot a few times, looking for the ideal spot to stage the lowering of the board. The most challenging part of this whole experience is getting the board from home to water.

Once I had freed the board from the roof rack and gently set her down, I gathered my leash, paddle, water bottle, and life vest and made the trek to the boat ramp with Suzanne, where her sister was waiting. She had wisely checked the tides, something that really matters if you don’t relish being stranded in the mud.

I forgot to turn on the workout app on my Apple watch (dang it), so I don’t know exactly how far we paddled, but we covered a good distance. We paddled north up the Boundary Channel and passed underneath Washington Blvd, the GW Parkway, and the Esplanade (which is the bridge that comes out of Arlington Cemetery). Just as we were about to pass under Route 50, I heard, “Suzanne! Joanne!” I looked up and saw a couple friends from our neighborhood riding by above us on bikes. It was good to see we were all seizing the day.

The last bridge to paddle under was the GW Parkway for a second time, right before we emerged on the edge of the Potomac. Theodore Roosevelt Island was off to our left, and the Lincoln Memorial was straight across the river. We sat and floated around for a little before turning around and heading back to the marina.

We spent the last bit of our outing paddling around the wide bowl of the Boundary Channel at the marina and enjoying the sun and sky (picture below). My first adventure was a success! Where to next??

This pandemic has brought all sorts of unique experiences with it, and today brought two more.

We’ve had food trucks visiting our neighborhood for the past few Saturdays, which I’ve seen posted in the neighborhood listserv, but I hadn’t checked them out until today. Maxine’s basketball team decided to rendezvous at The Cheese Truck for grilled cheeses at 6:00. It was the strangest thing walking through the neighborhood and coming upon a food truck in the middle of a block surrounded by houses. Once we got our food, we sauntered down the hill to the park, where we could properly spread out and catch up with each other.

The second new experience today was Edwin’s adventure. He and five other boys headed out on their bikes to a huge underground parking garage in Crystal City for a nerf gun war. They raced through several nearly empty levels as they hid and ducked from one another. This never could have happened during normal times. I’m beginning to wonder what normal is these days.

It’s getting to be that time of year when the eighth graders at our school would normally go to King’s Dominion for the day. I went seven years in a row before making the move to sixth grade. I have yet to visit KD and pass on the roller coasters. I have always loved them.

My earliest memory of King’s Dominion was when my family went there for my older sister’s birthday. Lara must have been turning 10 – or thereabouts -and she brought her best friend, Beth. We had great fun on the log flume, the swings, and the old fashioned cars. The Rebel Yell was still very young, with a bright white coat of paint and an offensive name that didn’t even make us flinch at the time (it has since been changed to Racer 75).

We were saving the best for last: the King Kobra. The King Kobra was a green demon that did an actual upside down loop by the lake, something very new and exciting for the late 1970’s. I could barely contain myself all day in anticipation of going on my first upside down roller coaster.

My mom and little sister split off to go on some kiddie rides while my dad, Lara, Beth, and I finally made our way over the King. You had to be as tall as the painted wooden animal in order to be allowed to ride. From a few people back, I got a look at the smiling wooden monkey holding a measuring stick. He looked taller than I had expected. He’s not taller than me. Nah, couldn’t’ be. Could he? As I stepped closer to him, he started to resemble the monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. Could this little beast dash my hopes and condemn me to the kiddie rides next door? As I stepped up and got a good look at him, I swear his eye twinkled with wicked glee.

“Sorry, miss. You’re not tall enough.” I looked incredulously at my dad as my eyes filled with tears. Lara and Beth were already making their way up to the platform, shrieking with delight.

“Come on, Jo, let’s go rider the paratroopers.” By the time we had boarded the tame birds, tears were falling freely. When we disembarked, my dad led me back over to the King Kobra and asked the guy if I could please ride the coaster – after all, I had only come in about an inch shy. Miraculously, the guy shrugged and nodded, and invited me to pass on through with my dad. I gave that mean monkey a smirk as I skipped up the platform.

It was everything I had hoped for. As I sat, snugly pinned into my seat and trembling with excitement, a sinister voice rolled out over us: “Are you ready for the King Kobra to strike?” And POW! Off we hurtled toward the loop. The parked turned upside down as I screamed with terrified joy. It was all over in about 20 seconds, but those 20 seconds were unforgettable and the beginning of my long love affair with the biggest coasters in the park.

King Kobra at Kings Dominion on the left; Rebel Yell on the right, circa 1980.

When I was 12, I so desperately wanted a perm. I wanted big, soft, Brooke Shields curls to go with my Dr. Pepper lip gloss. My older sister and I spent many an evening rolling our hair up into foam and plastic pink curlers with green Dippity-do setting gel, but I never really achieved the look I wanted. I needed something more…permanent.

Our family went to Snips at the shopping center behind our housing development to get our hair cut. I had $20 from babysitting burning a hole in my pocket, so off I went to Snips, telling my parents I was going to get a hair cut.

I walked right up to the receptionist and declared that I would like a perm. She asked if I had an appointment. Uh, no. She furrowed her eyebrows and whispered to the hair stylist who usually cut my hair. She walked over and winked at me and whispered, “Okay, this is a sneak perm.” I guess they weren’t supposed to give perms on the fly. She was nice, but it was uncomfortable being a covert client.

About two hours later, I had wavy hair. I still didn’t resemble Brooke Shields, but I had curls! Permanent curls! I walked confidently to the register to pay my bill. “That’ll be $60.” Excuse me? But I had only a twenty in my pocket. “Um, could I use your phone, please?”

My parents were not happy and referred to my hair-do as “the 60 dollar perm” for a while. I did learn a valuable lesson, though: make an appointment and check the price ahead of time.

I am so thankful for the giant black gum tree that drapes over our house like a beautiful guardian. It’s at least 50 years old – maybe more – and protects us from the elements. It allows us to wait longer after the change of seasons to turn on the air conditioning and heating. Yes, it makes for a lot of yard work, but it’s worth it. Looking out the windows of our bedroom is like living in a treehouse. It’s home to scores of birds; just the other morning, two avid bird watchers were out front with binoculars peering up into our tree for at least an hour. Chris joked that they were trying to catch a glimpse of him. I dared him to go out and say that, but he declined. They said they had spotted warblers and another type of bird (I can’t remember what), which I guess is pretty special.

I initially named this tree Betty, after the woman who lived here before us. The house is over 100 years old, and we’re only the third owners. We moved in in 2001, and the woman we bought it from lived here for only five years. Before that, it was Betty the whole time. I’ve since found out that Betty wasn’t really all that nice, so I sort of stopped using the name, but I do love this tree. She’s every bit as part of this house as the walls themselves.

A friend of mine posted in Facebook Friday afternoon that she and her teenage boys had a wonderful morning picking strawberries at a farm in Waldorf. They never saw more than five other families in the field at once, and they came home with a flat of juicy, bright berries. Strawberry jam would be forthcoming.

So, what did we do this morning? I packed a lunch for us, Chris filled a couple camelbacks and researched where we could hike after strawberry picking, and away we went. Yes, it was a holiday weekend, and yes, people were itching to get out, but the sky was gray and the air was cool.

I started to sense we were in trouble when we took the final turn of the drive with seven cars ahead of us and eight following us. Well, maybe most of these cars would be turning off before the farm. As we passed the “no outlet sign” without losing a single car, and the field came into view, I knew it would be a quick visit. The lot was filling up quickly, and little groups dotted the field. We stopped the car in front of the shop, and I donned my mask and headed toward the nearly empty space.

“Will you be picking today?” asked the friendly masked lady as I approached the doorway.

“No, thank you.” Well, I did do some picking: I picked out two quarts of strawberries and a jar of honey. I jumped back in the car, and we headed upstream against the wave of cars entering the property. See ya on a grayer, rainier weekday (or not).

Fortunately, Cedarville State Forest did not emit the same siren’s call as strawberry picking, and we had a lovely, nearly solitary hike through the woods. Most importantly, Edwin will still get to make his strawberry sorbet.

I mean S.U.P., not ‘sup, like “What’s up?” I am soon to be the proud owner of a stand up paddle board! I’ve wanted one for several years. Chris got me kayak for my birthday a few years ago so we could kayak together. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy kayaking, I really do. I’ve had some great times in the kayak and look forward to many more… but…Chris likes kayaking way more than I do. His ideal day is paddling around and fishing from his kayak for hours on end. Me? I’d rather paddle board. I love the freedom of my whole body being in the sun and open air, surveying the water before me.

Every time we go to Florida to visit Chris’s parents, who live very close to the beach (Gulf-side), his sister generously shares her paddle board with us. I love getting far enough from the beach so that it’s peaceful, just me and the gentle waves and the fish, but not so far that I can’t get back quickly. The last time we were there, the wind was so warm and pleasant that it took me a while to realize far out it had pushed me. By the time I came out of my daze, people had become specks on the beach. Though faint images of sharks and rogue currents (I don’t think that’s an actual term) began circling in the back of my mind, I was a bit reluctant to turn back toward the shore; it was just so peaceful and free.

A couple weeks ago, I was walking past a friend’s house who was heading out in her minivan. She had just picked up her new paddle board from REI, and she and her sister were going to put in at Lady Bird Johnson Park on the inlet by the Potomac. I was more than a little intrigued. I began researching SUPs (the acronym was already rolling off my tongue) and was somewhat taken aback by the cost. However, there will be no pool membership to pay for this summer and no Europe trip. Chris jumped in to help me shop, and I finally settled on one this morning that looks like the right size for me. It will be ready for pick-up next Friday.

I gleefully texted my paddle boarding friend a picture of it, and we have plans with her sister to head out on the water next weekend, maybe Occoquan, maybe Lady Bird, maybe Anacostia…my new adventure awaits!

There are certain things I have hung onto my whole life, like my grandmother’s ring and photo albums from my childhood, but I wish I had known to keep hold of a few other gems, like my bright turquoise parachute pants. They had about 30 zippers and could light the way through a dark tunnel. I tried my best to learn a few breakdancing moves when the boys in the corner house would drag out the giant piece of cardboard. I had the utmost faith in these pants and their ability to turn me into a star. I think I sort of learned to moonwalk, and you could at least identify that I was attempting the worm when I writhed around on my stomach. Needless to say, my breakdancing career never really got off the ground – ha ha – literally. But those pants were so cool.

My home away from home. For a stretch of about four years, this was THE place to spend a Saturday night and an occasional Sunday afternoon. I still remember the hours: Saturday nights: 7pm-11pm, Sundays: 11am-5pm. If we went, we stayed the entire time. My older sister and I, and a handful of friends on our block, were regulars. Once we lined up a drop-off and pick-up, we were golden. We’d jamb ourselves into a Ford Pinto or Buick wagon, skates tucked under the seats, as excitement buzzed in the air for the 25-minute drive from Burke to Franconia.

We’d spill out of the car, pay our admission and hurry to lace up our skates in time to catch the end of whatever song was playing. The light-up sign on the far wall indicated the format for each song: all-skate, couples, trio, backwards, reverse, and special. I loved all of them, except for couples skate, which always made me nervous. In my early years, I would hold hands with someone as we trudged around the rink like it was a job. When I was a few years older and had learned to skate backwards, my partner and I more closely resembled a couple enjoying ourselves (but I was faking it – way too awkward). I have couples-skated to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” roughly 50 times.

The best was trio skate. If you could nab two fast partners (not to toot my own horn, but I was FAAAAAST – toot toot!), you ruled the rink. We’d hook our pointer fingers into the back belt loop of each other’s Jordache and weave through slower clusters at warp speed to songs like “Super Freak” and “Celebration.”

In the early 80’s, Wheel-a-While was untamed. Dark corners were plentiful, so you couldn’t throw a Twizzler without hitting a teenage couple making out. Dudes in leather jackets took frequent smoke breaks in the parking lot, and you ran the risk of choking on a mixture of Aqua Net and Marlboro in the girls’ bathroom.

Franconia Wheel-a-While closed it doors for the last time in early 2006, but it hadn’t been its old self in years. I stopped going once I hit high school, and I was back there for a kid’s birthday party a few years before it closed for good. It was not the rink I knew. Gone were the dim lighting, the hidden corners, the dudes in leather jackets, the smoke breaks. It was all bright colors, young children, and wholesome family fun. But – and I did a double-take – the same skate patrol still faithfully cruised the rink. I couldn’t believe it! He must have been there 25 years! I suppose he was thankful for the change; I imagine one grows weary of chasing unruly teens out of dark corners.

The teachers’ lounge at my elementary school was a place of mystery. It was located on a short hallway that connected a main corridor to the gym entrance. Whenever we passed it, the door was invariably shut…except the rare instance we would catch the last split-second before it closed. I swear the light was a dim orange and cigarette smoke billowed out around the edges of the door. In our imagination, teachers were up to no good in there. We knew some of them were smoking. Were they drinking, too? Were any of them dating?! And why was the light so dim? We couldn’t imagine a transgression more serious than entering the inner sanctum.

They certainly don’t make ’em like that anymore. The teachers’ lounge of today is bright, smoke-free, and often through a perpetually open door. I’ve even seen students in the teachers’ lounge at my school on numerous occasions. Students have no fear of the teachers’ lounge. How have we let it come to this?