Between the four of us, we have filled about three garbage-sized cans and 20 tall brown bags with leaves since they began falling. For a while there, it seemed like the trees would never run out of leaves to drop on us. Finally, when I walk out back, the deck is remaining clear. A crisp, clean chill meets me when I open the door, and I find great satisfaction in the bare decking.
The front yard, however, has been needling me for a couple weeks now. I knew the second neighborhood leaf vacuuming was coming, and I didn’t want to waste my time bagging all those leaves when I could just rake them over the curb, so I ignored them. But not really. I’m a little too obsessive to really ignore them; they bothered me.
I arrived home from work today with about an hour to spare before I had to start dinner and then jump on a meeting, so I changed into comfy clothes, grabbed a rake, put in my ear buds and started my audiobook, and attacked the front yard (well, not really attacked – I do still have some lambs ear and asters I need to be mindful of).
All those leaves are now tucked up in a neat line along the curb, awaiting the goofy looking vacuum truck that will come lumbering down the street tomorrow with its insatiable appetite.
We went to City State Brewery this afternoon to celebrate the 50th birthday of our dear friend, Beth. She brought together friends from college, her previous job, her early Arlington days, and our group: the neighborhood friends who have raised children together over the past 14 years.
It feels good to be almost 50 (I’m only nine months behind). We 50ish people seem to be doing alright. We know who we are in the world, and we don’t hesitate to call a spade a spade. Cheers to 50!
We set up the Christmas tree last night. I used to scoff at those who began decorating before December as over-eager, feeling superior in my cool approach to the holidays.
Well, I don’t know if it’s because I’m hanging onto traditions with all my might as the kids approach young adulthood or if I’m just taking greater comfort in things I can control, but we’ve been putting up the tree earlier and earlier each year. We picked this one up at Whole Foods on Wednesday before the rush (I would fit right in in a Progressive insurance commercial). We set it in its stand and watered it, and left it to relax its branches for a couple days.
It’s become my job to string the lights around the tree, replacing old bulbs and affixing each light to the tree with the little clip beneath the bulb. My meticulousness has its limits: when the third strand didn’t light up, I searched in vain for a spare fuse and opted to switch out the strand with one that doesn’t match. But hey, it lights up!
I turned on the Christmas music, summoned the family, poured Chris and me the old trimming-the-tree bourbon on the rocks, and…my mother called. Edwin seized on the pause in festivities to grab his sister and run to the store for egg nog and cookies.
In 20 minutes we were back, and everyone was content with their refreshments. We admired all the old favorites among the ornaments we’ve collected and received over the years. Dominating the tree are the glass champagne buckets for every year we’ve been married that a family friend has been giving us since 2003.
Chris’s favorite is the frowny face snowman crocheted by his great aunt. I’m partial to the little brass band of angels that I arrange in a cluster on the tree (besides, of course, the faded preschool pictures of the kids in handmade frames). Edwin likes the shimmery red and white peppermint striped glass bulbs, and Maxine gets a kick out of the plastic Mr. Burns that Chris taped wings onto one year and used as the angel atop the tree – a cynical joke about the consumerism of Christmas. He enjoyed a few good years before I got tired of him glowering greedily from on high and relegated him to the lower branches.
We always have more ornaments than will reasonably fit on the tree, and I feel a little bad for those that remain in the box for a year, kind of like the Land of Misfit Toys.
As we turned off the lights in the living room and left the tree to cast its warm, cheerful glow around the room, the cats perched on the bookcase next to the tree, wide-eyed and waiting. Uh, oh, I thought. What do they have planned? Jessie had already knocked the handmade wrapped wool nativity scene figures from the West Bank off the buffet in her vigorous, overly affectionate nuzzling.
So far, so good. Only one fuzzy little mouse with a wedge of cheese has been pilfered. I picked him up off the floor, no harm done. As I placed him back on the tree, I noticed two green eyes on me. It won’t be long before I rescue the mouse again.
We were back together again after missing a year: Mom, Dad, my sister and her family, my niece and her family, and the four of us.
We had Mom’s stuffing and sweet potato fluff, though she has passed the actual cooking and baking along to us. She shows up these days with snacks and sides from Whole Foods. I guess she figures after cooking for five people for 30 years, she can outsource it. I get that.
We brought a salad of fresh-from-the-farm greens with dried cherries, pecans, apple slices and blue cheese; roasted winter root veggies (also from the farm); a cranberry tart; and tofurkey. There was also real turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, and other dishes to enjoy.
I skipped making the labor intensive rolls I have made every Thanksgiving for the past 15 or so years, and nobody noticed I hadn’t been kneading and punching dough in intervals over the past 24 hours until we arrived at my niece’s house in Manassas this afternoon.
“Where are Meme’s yeast rolls?” Edwin asked. He was flabbergasted when I said I just didn’t feel like it this year. He was mightily disappointed, and I vowed to make them for Christmas.
After a cozy post-dinner family hangout, it was time to head home. Eyes were glazing over and Chris was hoping to watch the Bills game.
It sure does feel good to resume our traditions (even if I did skip the rolls). Onward to Christmas!
I was just finishing dinner and contemplating whether we should watch a movie when I got a text from a friend: “Hot tub?”
“Sure! Want to get in soon?” Within 20 minutes, we were soaking in the tub. I’m glad she texted- it turned into a fun, easy evening with her and her husband.
About mid-week last week, around the same time, I received a similar text from another friend: “Have you hot tubbed yet? Want company?”
“No and yes! I’m going in around 7:30.” And there she was, wrapped in an robe with a towel in hand, right on time.
My father-in-law must think I’m out to get him. He does not like spicy food, but I somehow managed to spice him out twice this weekend.
We got take out from Peter Chang, and I made sure to order my favorite, the “hot and numbing flounder.” I mentioned it in the car and again at home when everyone was within ear shot, but darn it if Grandpa didn’t go in for a healthy scoop of it.
After a few deep breaths and a glass of water, he cooled down. I guess it really lived up to its name.
The next day I made chili for dinner. I only diced up one jalapeño instead of two and added only one shake of cayenne, but I got him again. Chris’s mom tasted it and warned him he’d need a couple scoops of sour cream to cool it down. Even so, he was a bit uncomfortable.
I’ve been swimming six times since I got my pool pass, all on Sunday morning at opening time at 8:00AM. My friend and I actually arrive a few minutes before 8:00 because we want to be sure to get a lane to share before they begin to fill up. So far, we’ve had to share a lane with one other person, which means the three of us swim in a loop. It’s quite manageable; it definitely should be, since the lanes are 50 meters long on Sunday mornings. The bulkheads are usually set to mark 25 meter lanes, but we prefer the 50 meter. Maybe it seems faster since we have to turn less frequently.
Some sensations from this morning:
-The cool water streaming across me as I kicked off for my first lap.
-Orange and brown tree tops against a bright blue sky every time I come up for air on the window side.
-The sounds of ACDC, Fleetwood Mac, and Led Zeppelin floating out of the speakers when I reach the end of the pool and take a brief rest.
-The black line dipping down the pool bottom, like a road leading into a valley.
-Older ladies walking in the slow lane.
-A grumpy man with a kickboard who admonishes a nice man for not asking before joining his lane.
-The nice man offering a cheerful greeting of “good morning.”
-Life guards standing up in their chairs, talking to each other across the pool, their words swallowed by the water as I kicked off the wall for another lap.
-Catching up with my friend as we sit against the industrial strength jets in the hot tub.
Chris’s parents visited from Florida for the first time since before COVID.
We spent so much time with them when the kids were babies and before Chris had a job with regular hours. Over the years, as their grandchildren increased in number and our lives became busier, we’ve spent less time together, just us and them.
It’s been so nice have them back. We’ve played games after dinner, gone on a hike, visited a brewery, and watched a movie. More fun is in store for us tomorrow, and then they’ll hop on an early flight home Monday morning. Short and sweet and well overdue.
I had been looking forward to my hot tub soak all evening. After work I stopped at the store, came home and made dinner, paid the piano tuner (which was way more expensive than I had assumed- ouch), and graded tests.
The hot tub had been beckoning in the back of my mind whole time. Just as I was about to head out, I heard raindrops on the skylights. I contemplated going out with an umbrella. Then I pictured myself sitting in the hot tub under an umbrella as my towel and robe got rained on.
“Get a hold yourself,” I admonished. I glanced at the bath tub, which has become solely a place to hang out wet suits.
“Well, I guess you’ll have to do.” I’ve already turned the water off three times to listen for the absence of rain drops. Nope, still there.
I was out late last night with a whole bunch of people around my age. There we were, a few hundred 40 and 50-somethings, swaying, tapping and head bobbing to Dinosaur Jr. Just like back in the day, nobody had a seat. This was a real rock show, for crying out loud.
As I looked around at my peers, I had to wonder what their lives were like. How many of these people have children at home? Or more likely, who have children who have already left the nest? Who are members of the PTA, the neighborhood civic association? Who has to get up the next morning before 6am like me?
Times have changed quite a bit for these music fans since the band was at its peak in the late 80’s and early 90’s, but the music sounded just as good.
My Corner of the Village 