Month: August 2021

Well, I may be getting ahead of myself. However, I have new skills I can add to my wheelhouse as of this weekend. By the way, do you know how many of our common sayings come from sailing lingo? Get on board, no go, three sheets to the wind, sailing close to the wind, on the right tack, and so many more. Yeah, that’s right: it’s “on the right tack,” not “track,” but I don’t want to be a dork and start correcting people.

I know how to tie five different kinds of knots, dock a very small sailboat (a Flying Scot), circle back to pick up a “man overboard,” tack, jibe, hoist a jib and a main sail, and lower a centerboard to name a few.

All of this is, of course, under the direction and supervision of our fearless instructor, a young, former APS student who can read the wind like a favorite book. I quickly realized this is the name of the game: the wind. It’s all about the wind. How strong is it? From which direction is it blowing? When will it change? What if it dies?

Apparently, the wind in the DC area is very fickle and changes direction frequently. Just like driving in the DC area, if you can learn to sail around here, you can do it anywhere.

I am a number of hours of practice away from feeling confident sailing without supervision, but it’s a start. I’m sailing!

Edwin has recently taken an interest in records – the real thing – the vinyl slices of heaven I coveted in the late ‘70’s and throughout most of the 80’s.

He and Maxine have casually perused our record collection in the basement, but in the past few weeks, Edwin has become hooked in earnest. Once that boy gets a bee in his bonnet, I’ll tell you what.

He was all set to buy some crummy plastic record player from Amazon. He read one good review and was sold. Fortunately, Chris was able to school him a little on customer reviews, and within a minute, he was reading reviews like, “Worst record player ever” and “This piece of crap isn’t worth the box it came in.”

We convinced him to spend his money on a decent pair of speakers and offered to move the record player into his room. Two days later, he’s all hooked up, has pilfered his favorite records from our stash, and has ordered a slew of his own.

He called me into his room last night to show me his collection, which includes Amy Winehouse, Fleetwood Mac, Olivia Rodrigo, Billie Holiday, David Bowie, Prince, and two of my oldest records: the Grease soundtrack (missing one record because I, tragically, sat on it when I was around eight years old), and one my dad bought that I later claimed as my own: Olivia Newton-John’s If You Love Me Let Me Know album, circa 1974.

A particular feature he is especially intrigued by is the record liner for Olivia Rodrigo’s album, where she has her hand-written lyrics printed for every song. Of course, I can’t help but make an inference about “kids these days.” They crave authenticity, soul, something they can hold in their hands that doesn’t require a charge.

As I wrap this up, I hear Billie Holiday’s papery, mesmerizing voice floating down the stairs. I wonder what Maxine will say when she gets back into town. Are we going to need a second record player?

I have decided that Wolfeboro, NH is a very strong contender on my list of possible retirement areas. What’s not to love:

Wooded trails to walk, run and bike on

Quaint but gently bustling town

Clear, natural lakes

Delicious locally brewed beer

Snowy winters (for the time being)

Lobster rolls

Friendly but no-nonsense people

Under two hours from a major city

Memories of childhood vacations

Who doesn’t love a good motel? It’s a true slice of Americana. I appreciate our own private entrance and no common lobby or elevators to contend with.

Some may say motels tend to be rundown and dirty. Not this little gem. The rooms at Lake Wentworth are very clean with fresh linens and a sparkling bathroom. There’s a little kitchen nook with a hot plate, microwave, dishes, a small round table and two chairs, and a fridge- and not like a college fridge, but a real fridge.

A short walk down the dirt road at the end of the parking lot will take you to the shores of Lake Wentworth, a cool, clear, natural lake. A trail winds through the pine trees on its way to town a mile or so away.

Okay, so the air conditioning unit is a little noisy and a faint odor of cigarette smoke lingers from a rule-breaking previous patron, but it really is cute.

I’m packing for my first trip via airplane in two years. The trips we’ve taken over the past year and and a half have included variations of the following: paddle boards, kayaks, bicycles, boogie boards, dog, kittens, camp chairs, coolers, groceries, etc.

This time, it’s just me with my carry-on and personal items: some clothes, toiletries limited to 3-oz bottles that can fit in a quart-size ziplock, a couple of books, and a few pairs of shoes. Oh, and a few masks, since we’re back to that.

It’s freeing to be traveling so light, but I’m sure I’ll miss my paddle board when I catch sight of Lake Winnipesauke. Oh well, this is a trip to get Dad back out in the world and a chance for him to visit with his sisters. Live free or die!

Edwin has been traipsing around town lately with small groups of friends. Saturday it was museums on the Mall, yesterday evening was sushi in City Center, and today it was fresh pasta and cold brew kombucha at Union Market. He and Maxine are planning an outing for Wednesday with two sisters their ages who are in town briefly before they head to their dad’s next State Department assignment in Tokyo.

“Maxine, do you think we should go to Georgetown, Union Market, or the National Art Gallery for affogato?” That’s a scoop of gelato in espresso or coffee for the uninitiated (I silently wondered whether they planned to look at any art).

“I don’t know, Edwin, but all of that sounds expensive.”

Needless to say, these outings are putting a strain on his bank account, but I don’t really mind because we transfer the bulk of his paychecks from his checking to his untouchable savings account. Though my budget at his age could only handle an occasional Pizza Hut personal pan pizza or a Roy Rogers roast beef sandwich and fries, I love that he knows his way around the city and is enjoying his hard-earned cash.

I expressed envy at his flurry of excursions and vowed to make the most of these last few days of freedom.

“Yeah, we’re trying to get out more before school starts and get used to being around more people again,” he explained.

How wise, I thought. And what better way to ease back into the hustle and bustle of the masses than with an affogato or a cold brew kombucha in hand?

I took Maxine to Misha’s new coffee shop location in Old Town, Alexandria today. Their original shop is more spacious and art-filled, and is often blooming with the rich aroma of roasting coffee beans, but this new shop (too small for a roaster) on Prince Street has a pretty unbeatable location.

We found a parking space several blocks up from the popular waterfront area and strolled down the leafy blocks and past the classy townhomes with colorful window boxes. As we turned onto Prince Street, Misha’s familiar orange sign beckoned from down the block. The inside is pretty small, but they also have a second floor open to coffee patrons until it serves as a bar in the evening.

After we got our lattes and strawberry rhubarb pie, we headed upstairs to find a modest wooden bar and a several tables opening up on a patio to the left. We settled into a small round table with a clear view of the Potomac. A jazz band played in Waterfront Park only two blocks away, and water taxies passed each other on the river.

About halfway through our drinks, Maxine began sharing everything that’s been going on with her. I was already familiar with some of the challenges she’s faced over the past year and half, some brought on or exacerbated by the pandemic, and others that come with being a teenager or just who you are. She didn’t hold back, and I kept reminding myself to just listen. She wasn’t asking me to offer solutions or my perspective; she just wanted me to hear her and understand what she’s been going through.

As I watch her and her brother grow into young adults and become increasingly independent, I often wonder what is truly going on behind those eyes – really the only part of them that looks the same as when they toddled around on chubby little legs. I am incredibly thankful that I’m privy to at least some of it. Thank you, Misha’s, for greasing the wheels.

I’ve been listening to a steady stream of books on Audible lately as I water plants, knead dough, fold laundry, and paint my toe nails (Pompeii Purple for the fourth time this summer).

I just started Alice Waters’s We Are What We Eat this morning. I’m a big fan of her Chez Panisse cookbook, and as I scrolled through nonfiction “must-reads” on my phone, I came across her new book and started listening. When I began, it took me about 10 seconds to decide to turn up the speed to 1.3, which is laughably contradictory to one of the pillars of her philosophy for preparing food: take your time and savor every step of the process. I am totally on board with that, but I’m not trying to spend all day on the first few chapters. Forgive me, Alice.

I’m not very far into the book, and so far, her words have rung true, particularly what she has to say about convenience, that it is “…all destination and no journey.” The meal itself is arguably less important than the journey you take to get there: selecting the ripe tomatoes, crushing and mincing the garlic cloves, cutting the fresh basil into ribbons as the smell of summer floats through the kitchen.

I immediately made a connection to teaching and learning. It’s the journey that matters. It’s the process of reading, re-reading, writing, revising, starting over, learning how to listen to each other, how to empathize with one another, developing the skills and the confidence to participate in meaningful discussions.

Sometimes I feel the final project is, indeed, merely a gesture; the journey is the heart of it all. And, of course, the last word I would use to describe shepherding a roomful of middle schoolers through the journey is “convenient.”