Month: March 2021

Here we are, the last day of March. This means the potential end of two things: the daily core workout I committed to with a group of friends, and the Slice of Life. I’m not sure either should end, though.

The core workout has made me stronger, and though someone has proposed we focus on arm strength for April, I don’t think ditching the core workout is a good idea.

I don’t think ending the daily post is the right choice for me, either. Sure, there have been nights when I was about to head to bed only to stop in my tracks and say, “Darn it! I need to post.” I had no idea what to write about and was so tired. I’ve enjoyed the community, though, and I love that I can jump back into any day in March and be reminded of what was special or noteworthy about that particular day.

Inspired by a fellow writer (looking at you, T.S.), I kept it up past March last year, but I posted nowhere near daily. April looked pretty darn good, though; I only missed three days. May wasn’t shabby, either, where I only see four white squares on the calendar. Then you have months like October, when I posted once, and November, with two darkened squares. Things picked up in December, only to fall off again until March came roaring in, with every single square darkened. I like the looks of that. I think I’ll keep going.

And I think I’ll continue with the sit-ups and burpees.

Our Spring.Break mountainside cabin getaway is a five-minute, steep 4WD climb from the banks of the north fork of the Shenandoah River, specifically in the area of the seven bends. When you look at the map, it looks like someone was bored and took a blue pen and squiggled across it.

You can see several bends of the river from the cabin, and it had been beckoning us since we arrived Monday afternoon.

The kids were far from disappointed when we told them we were going kayaking without them. They felt strongly that they had earned an afternoon off after a two-hour hike that begins with a very steep .75 mile climb out the back of the cabin. They were about an hour into one of the Captain America movies when we hopped in the truck and rolled down the hill.

The icy water washed over my toes as I slid my kayak into the water. I carefully lowered myself into the seat as two girls with fishing nets smiled shyly and observed our little production. I paddled into the rushing current and waited for Chris to catch up after securing his seat and poles on his fishing kayak.

We paddled hard against the current to get around the first set of mini rapids, and then made our way around the first few bends. We spotted bigger rapids in the distance and had a feeling we were nearing our turn-around point.

I decided to give it a go. I plunged ahead and dug in hard against the current. I was slowly, but surely making progress until I ended up smack in the middle of the rapids. Knowing when to admit defeat is wise.

Chris surveyed the banks, looking for a path to carry our kayaks and put in the other side of the rapids. I reminded him I was barefooted. After a few seconds, he, too, saw the wisdom in admitting defeat.

We turned around and let the current carry us back around a bend before I anchored (yes, Chris has an anchor for the kayak- he’s a gear man). As he paddled around and fished, I lay back in the sun, gently rocked by the river instead of fighting it. It’s so much more peaceful when you know who’s boss.

We arrived at our Spring Break getaway this afternoon right at check-in time at 3:00. The reviews on Airbnb had all been overwhelmingly positive, and the photos were all very flattering. I had been taking it all with a grain of salt since I booked it way back in December, but let me tell you: we have not been disappointed.

The owner stresses very clearly that 4WD is a must for getting up to the cabin, as does every reviewer. It was no joke, and a reward awaited us at the end of a very steep climb.

This charming, snug little nest has a view of the Shenandoah Valley and backs up to the GW National Forest, complete with a screened-in sun porch and a deck that runs along the side facing the valley. The hot tub and s’mores kit seal the deal.

Thou perpetually hungry feline

Thou pumpkin-colored baby with pot-belly swinging

What shiny, white teeth you display

As you chew on my curtain cords

Dangling so tantalizingly in the sun

Will I be so fortunate as to catch a glance from you?

Perhaps even a rub against a leg?

What crumb of affection? What acknowledgement of my existence?

Ah, bold, hungry house tiger!

Deposing the more docile sibling from the throne

To claim it as your own as you rest your belly

And survey your kingdom

O whisker-face! Aloof puddy tat! with stubby tail

Borne of a mutation ages ago on the Isle of Man;

Thou art too cute for words and will forever suffer

The indignities of being held, squeezed, and kissed

Forever hear the words, “Who’s a good kitty? Who’s a precious little baby??”

We had my parents over for dinner this evening, inside and without masks for the first time since all of this began. They received their second shot a week and a half ago, so we figured it’s pretty safe by now.

When I saw them pull up in their shiny blue VW Beetle, Mom at the wheel these days, I rushed out to help my dad. 2020 was a rough year for him; about a month before COVID hit, he suffered a stroke that left him struggling to recall words and often challenged to follow the conversation flowing around him. He is still himself and has his sense of humor, thankfully, but he has aged rapidly over the past year. He has grown a beard for the first time in his life, and he looks pretty cool. Every time I tell him this, he replies, “Honestly? Do you really think so?”

I relished giving them both long hugs, and as I embraced my mom, I almost lost it, but pulled myself back from the edge. I guess I figured if I started crying, there would be no telling when I would stop.

Right away, Edwin swooped in on his Nana and caught her up with everything he’s been up to lately, like the spaceships he’s crafted online and having 3-D printed and the Marvel movies he’s been plowing through. After Maxine changed clothes about three times before being satisfied with her look, she breezed into the kitchen and spread all of her rings out for Nana to see. Edwin, slightly miffed, but acknowledging it was her turn for Nana’s attention, relinquished the floor.

I had prepared a spring dinner in celebration of the reunion: roasted beet, goat cheese, orange, and arugula salad; fresh tagliatelle in a cashew cream sauce with asparagus, peas, walnuts, fresh herbs, and lemon zest; and a lemon meringue pie. Conversation flowed every which way around the table, and I often paused to catch my dad up when a confused look passed over his face. Every now and then, he’d slip in a wise crack.

As 8:00 approached, my parents prepared to say goodbye. Edwin quickly pulled up clips of Marvel movies to show Nana, and Maxine played Pop a few piano pieces. When they finally were able to extract themselves, I carefully walked my dad to the car, hugged them both goodbye, and made plans to see them again soon, without masks and definitely with more hugs.

I made plans to have dinner this evening with two close friends and our three 16-year-old sons. By the time we were all able to extract ourselves from home, school, and work responsibilities, it was closing in on 7:00. I was grateful when the accommodating owner of a restaurant in Old Town, Alexandria worked his magic and sat the six of us at an outside table, no small feat on a beautiful spring Friday evening.

Usually, when we all get together, the adults and kids scatter to separate corners of someone’s backyard, the teens often on their screens playing a game together or doing whatever else they do (do I sound old?). After a few hours, we say our goodbyes, summon the kids, and go home.

This evening was different. We were one group, sharing food and chatting about college visits, movies to see, and driving. No phones made an appearance for an entire hour. I could get used to this.

Edwin has gardening club every Thursday after school at Wakefield, and since he’s working on his 45 required driving hours in order to get his license, he drives everywhere he needs to go.

As he pulled out of the driveway and headed to the end of the block, I sensed something was different. Where was the knot in my stomach? Why wasn’t I pressing on my imaginary brake? Could it be? Am I more relaxed now? More importantly, is he becoming a better driver?

I can’t stop myself from rapidly waving my hand to the left whenever he drives down side streets, indicating he’s too close to the parked cars on my right. Sometimes I overdo it. “Mom, if I move over any farther, I’ll be crossing the yellow line. They say never cross the yellow line.”

I had to put him in his place when he got a little snarky after I suggested he brake sooner when approaching stopped cars. I every-so-calmly reminded him that I am the coach in this situation and that he is still inexperienced. Well, maybe not so calmly; I guess you could say it was more like a mama bear smacking down her cub.

I’m happy to report that he sailed smoothly into the parking lot at Wakefield and that the ride home was uneventful, with a noticeable tone of respect for the coach.

As I was wrapping up for the day, I heard a knock at my door. I quickly put on my mask and walked over to open it. Four smiling faces greeted me, faces I saw five days a week for six months before March 13, 2020. We all kind of shrieked and air-hugged.

“I missed you all SO much when we shut down,” I told them.

“We missed you, too!”

They had all grown taller, and perhaps their faces had thinned slightly, but they seemed much the same as they did a little over a year ago. They were so happy to be back, declaring they could focus better and get work done. Two of them were pleased to have almost every class together for the two days they are back in the building.

Though a year has passed, I feel like these students are really still my students. I mean, I’ve developed a rapport with this years’ kids, but the SY19-20 students were snatched away from us and never returned. I still have their reader’s notebooks stacked in a bin. Rosters of their names are attached to a clipboard behind my desk. I actually didn’t know I still had them until the other day. As I read through the names, some materialized instantly in my mind, while I had to pause a second or two for others to come into focus.

Once I could picture each kid, I went to unclip the papers to recycle them, reconsidered, and tucked the clipboard back where I found it. I’m not quite ready to let them go.

Though we’ve had huge barriers between us and the kids this past year, we’ve done so much more writing back and forth with one another. We have conversations through Canvas inbox, on Canvas document submissions, and in Teams chats.

Sometimes the kids sound quite mature and other times somewhat helpless (Miss, how can I higher my grade? What am I missing? Where can I find that?). And other times? They sound exactly like the sixth graders they are. Here’s one email exchange that made me laugh out loud:

Me: Are you able to access the book without any trouble?

Student: Yes.

Me: Great! You have the weekend to catch up. Don’t forget to use the code I sent you. I’m reading the book now, and I can’t wait for the bully to get what he deserves (I’m crossing my fingers!).

Student: Noice.

Chris just came in to show me the almost empty pie dish. He was incredulous that only one slice remained. Come on, do you know where you are? Pies last about 1.5 days around here, so that’s about right.

I made two pumpkin pies yesterday, one for a friend whose family loves my pumpkin pie and was in need of a little pick-me-up, and one for my own family. Maxine is the biggest fan of this particular pie, but we all enjoy it. I think she had a couple slices last night, but since went to bed before everyone else, I can’t be certain.

Edwin, in disbelief, displayed the half-empty pie dish this afternoon, with much the same look as his dad gave me a few minutes ago. Maxine, overhearing him, swore, “I’ve only had one so far!”

I’ve had a few, too, but it just doesn’t add up. Somebody must have done some sleepwalking last night.