This week

The Princess is being held prisoner in her residence by a massive work assignment that just will not let go. She is also trying to locate someone who is agreeable to fixing her faithful 14-year-old Honda's many issues in exchange for a reasonable fee, say, a plate or two of chocolate chip cookies. The search for such an individual continues, and so will the blog. Eventually.

The longest day

Yesterday, in case you missed it, was what is known as the summer solstice. In layperson's terms, this is when the sun is in the sky longer than on any other day of the year, except for during Joshua's time in the Old Testament when the sun stood still for an entire day, causing most of the Israelites to rejoice.*


What this means is that from now until the end of the year, the number of hours of daylight is going to start shrinking, shrinking, a little bit every day, until sometime in December when we will have approximately 4 1/2 minutes of daylight (6 1/5 if you are close to the equator). Not to be the harbinger of doom or anything, but we might as well bring these painful facts out into the open.


At our house the summer solstice passed fairly quietly. Surrounded as we are by hills and trees, the sun seems to set several minutes earlier than it does just a mile or two away. We can leave our house in almost darkness on a late-evening errand, and arrive at Target several minutes later in broad daylight. (We can arrive at Target, but it is more likely, if we are going out late on a summer evening, that we will arrive at an establishment that sells ice cream.)


From longstanding tradition, the summer solstice signals the beginning of summer, which seems like it would mean the days will be longer now rather than shorter. This confusion is due to a mishap by an astronomy graduate student in 8672 B.C., who never could get all those solstices and equinoxes straight. 


Daylight extends much longer into the evening in some parts of the world than others. We suspect it has something to do with the relative strength of various power company unions, but have never been able to substantiate this. 


In some places, like Hawaii, the sun sets very early on summer evenings, plunging the islands into darkness at about 6:30 in the evening. This explains a lot of things, such as why there are luaus. The tourists need something to do in the evenings. Unfortunately for those same tourists, the sun rudely awakens them at about 4:23 the next morning. The power company there obviously needs to settle whatever long-standing dispute it has with the union.


In northern climates, of course, there is an abundance of daylight during the summer, as much as 26 hours per day. This is to make up for the winters in those areas, a time when the sun hardly shines at all and residents become very SAD. Coincidentally, this is also a time when much poetry is written.


This post must be short, as today is shorter than yesterday (.002 hours). By December, there will be hardly anything left to rea


*The others said, "Enough with the sun already! This heat is miserable."

The moment most of us have been waiting for (even if we didn't know it)

After several years of deprivation, the long-awaited grand opening of Wegmans Extremely Large Why-Would-You-Want-to-Shop-Anywhere-Else Supermarket (and No, There Is No Apostrophe In Our Name) was finally held in our area this past weekend, although we haven't actually been there yet. Apparently we and a few neighbors are the ONLY people within a 350-mile radius who haven't been there yet ("In local news, four persons from the Baltimore area were conspicuously absent today from the grand opening of Wegmans...").


We know only what we have heard from other sources, namely, that the new Wegmans is "gigantical." It has a designated parking garage, with two levels, to accommodate eager shoppers. For those of us who may harbor an abhorrence of parking garages, at present there are no alternative  arrangements, other than something involving llamas and a primitive type of snowshoe. (Wegmans is apologetic that it cannot be responsible for the llamas letting off customers at some great distance from the store entrance.)


If you have never been to a Wegmans, or indeed have never heard of it, it is properly referred to as "an experience." Popular activities include eating in the cafe from one of the many prepared food stations, strolling around with coffee in hand and drooling over the baked goods in the bakery, getting lost and being forced to eat both breakfast AND lunch there, etc. I believe, based solely on rumors, that you can also buy groceries there, although this has not been independently confirmed. You may need some special type of permit or something.


The Hero was inclined to go on opening day, which I figured would be somewhat like visiting it when an important dignitary was scheduled to make an appearance ("The Pope will now bless the Rosemary Foccacia just coming out of the ovens"). I'm sure the employees have been preparing for this day for months by attending special classes ("Embracing chaos," "How to salvage icing from a trodden-down cake display," "Judo in the application of crowd control"). 


The opening of Wegmans has likely caused some consternation among the other local grocery stores, all of which pale in comparison to it but which nevertheless have their charms. I'm sure these charms will become clear at some point.


I will definitely have more to say about Wegmans, and some eyewitness facts to pass along, as soon as I have a chance to go. I just have to locate a llama and some snowshoes.

No-parking zone

We have a new local library, which is very large and impressive, particularly as it sports a large copper frog in front of the main entrance. I wager not many community libraries can say this. The frog is reading a book, which is not identified but which could possibly be Froggy Went a-Courtin'. 


It could also be The Amphibian's Guide to Health and Wellness, given county planners' evident concern that patrons, at least adult patrons, who read are in danger of getting too little exercise. This concern is evident in much of the library's design. All the adult fiction and nonfiction books reside on the second level, which is reached by an enormously tall set of stairs. (Of course there are elevators as well, but unless one has an obvious physical impairment, one is strongly discouraged from taking the elevator by the disapproving glare of the closest librarian.)


It would not be surprising to see a staff member posted at the top of the stairs, monitoring each person's heart rate when they reached the top. To those who are out of breath after the climb, this individual would say sternly, "You cannot sit and read a book until you're in better shape. Now go run 10 laps outside."


Another clever plot to encourage patron exercise is the parking lot. Yes, there are ample spaces. And yes, many are even quite close to the door. But the average person is not allowed to park in these spaces. Upon close inspection, you quickly see that most of these spaces are reserved for "special populations." These special populations include not only the disabled, which of course is proper and lawful, but also carpools/vans, compact cars, and "low-emissions hybrids."


The low-emissions hybrid spaces are prime parking spots, and there are so many that non-low-emissions hybrid cars are forced to park in the Home Depot lot, roughly two miles away, and walk to the library. Evidently library planners also felt that, along with being lazy, the county population in general is far too pollution-causing, and that we must be punished for this by being made to park farther away from the building.


Walking is all well and good, but it is doubtful as to whether that many low-emissions hybrid cars exist in the entire county, and certainly we cannot expect that they will all show up at the library at the same time.


What the council should be paying attention to is re-education of some patrons as to what, exactly, constitutes a low-emissions hybrid vehicle. "Wow," I said to the Hero one day, looking over the cars parked in the low-emissions hybrid spaces. "I didn't know a Suburban was a hybrid. Let's get one!"


I imagine it was not easy for the council to determine which populations would merit reserved parking spaces... 


"Well," one council member says, "I think we should designate spaces for carpools and vans. That way people would be encouraged to share rides and not pollute so much."


"Yeah, Larry, like how you came by yourself to the meeting tonight, and didn't want to ride with Louella and me?" another member points out.


But another member quickly supports Larry's suggestion, while being careful not to support Larry's alleged personal carpooling practices, and a motion is made and carried to designate 30 spaces for carpools and vans. 


"As long as we're concerning ourselves with the environment, I think we ought to consider setting aside spaces for green cars," says another member.


This causes some temporary confusion among two or three other members, who believe that cars of other colors are being unfairly discriminated against. This misunderstanding finally settled, the decision is made to provide numerous spaces for low-emission vehicles.


"How about we set aside spaces for council members?" one suggests.


"Shame on you, Mort!" the chairman says sternly. "Trying to use your influence to sway such an important decision n your favor. You oughtta be ashamed of yourself."


And, indeed, Mort is ashamed and slinks out of the meeting. Once he is gone, the chairman says, "Okay, that's one less council member parking spot we'll have to provide."


Next there are suggestions for providing parking for the biggest donor to the library project, as well as an "employee of the month space," a "patron of the month" space, a "patron with no fines this month" space, a "patron with the most books read in a month space," etc.


This leaves only three and a half spaces in the entire parking lot. These the council designates spaces for "average people who have no special reason to park here but who deserve a break too."


For those of us who don't make it into one of those three and half spaces, there is the Home Depot lot. But it's not so bad. At lunchtime, Home Depot sells hot dogs and chips. And no one will be measuring your heart rate there.

We will now take off (we think)

Every year the organization where I work holds two conferences for educators, one in a fun place like Orlando, Florida, and the other in a place like [name withheld to avoid possible recriminations by offended citizens, but think Indiana]. I have just returned from the June conference, which did NOT take place in a locale fitting the first description, but which nevertheless was enjoyable and enlightening, particularly because it stayed light outside until much later than where I live. This allowed us staff members, every evening, to exclaim to each other, "Can you believe how LATE it stays light out??"


This year we kicked off the conference even before we left for [think Indiana]. The kickoff consisted of a series of mechanical malfunctions on the various planes on which we were heading to the conference. On my plane, we passengers sat at the gate for quite some time with no explanation for why we were not moving. I passed the time with productive thoughts such as these:


10 minutes past takeoff time: We're late. Why are we late?


20 minutes past takeoff time: We're really late. Maybe something's wrong.


30 minutes past takeoff time: This is way too late. The pilot is afraid to tell us something's wrong. What's wrong? SOMETHING'S WRONG!


The wing flaps, of which I had an excellent view, began opening, closing, opening, not closing, not opening, opening a little bit, etc. This confirmed my suspicion that something was very wrong, and that if we took off, we would crash, and I would never make it to [think Indiana], and my garden flowers would all die without me, and...


Finally the pilot announced that the plane had a fluid leak, but that we should be on our way momentarily. This seemed rather hasty. What sort of fluid leak could be fixed in moments? Surely it would be much better to get off the plane, get on another one that did not have a fluid leak and would take us promptly to [think Indiana], and take their time repairing the first plane. That way, if the leak was not properly fixed, then someone ELSE could be the guinea pig.


But soon we were preparing to take off, and the flight proceeded smoothly, at least until the pilot announced that we were likely to experience some turbulence upon the descent to our destination, due to "a bit of wind."


Now, U.S. pilots are all schooled in British terms when they have to make potentially frightening predictions regarding weather, plane malfunctions, disruptive passengers, a dearth of bottled water, etc. This is because if emergency information was delivered with typical American forthrightness -- "We are probably going to drop 7000 feet due to this turbulence and will likely not come out of this alive" -- all manner of panic would ensue, including but not limited to a hijacking of the beverage cart. Pilots therefore learn instead to use classic British understatements, such as "Well, we might hit a spot of wind up here. Nothing to worry about, of course. Ed, where did you say that eject button was?"


So when our plane hit that "bit of wind" I began to pray earnestly that it would not last long and that we would land quickly. I then realized that the quickest way down would be to nosedive, and hastily amended my request to "quickly land in the normal way." Just in case there was any confusion about the preferred outcome.


We did land in the normal manner, rather quickly, something for which the person next to me should be grateful. If we had not done so, his arm and probably the rest of his person would have been covered in bruises for several days thereafter.


Other colleagues had a "bit more" trouble on their flights, such as the one whose plane took off, came back to the airport because of a "slight mechanical failure," took off again, and returned again.


At one point the pilot emerged from the cockpit to ask how much alcohol was on board. This is not an inquiry that inspires confidence in passengers. It also raises several questions. Had the pilot run out of alcohol, up there in the cockpit? Was "mechanical failure" code for "we need more"? And why weren't the passengers getting any of this alcohol?


At some point my colleague abandoned the plane and returned the following day for a flight on which, it was hoped, the only mechanical failure would involve opening her bag of peanuts.


In the end we all arrived safely in [think Indiana]. We had four stimulating days during which to immerse ourselves in the current topics of education, and in our free time, during those long summer evenings, to contemplate our return flights home.

Where is the Princess?

The Princess is presently away at a conference for work and will return to the blog shortly. The Hero is counting down the days until she returns home, and is also counting the number of hours he has to tidy up the house before she arrives.

Wanted: A scapegoat

A curious thing has been happening at our home. Despite our best efforts to have a "place for everything, and everything in its place," our possessions are not cooperating with that "everything in its place" part.


Instead, they prefer to wander about the house, maybe alighting on a table or bookshelf, or maybe disappearing someplace and never coming back. The kitchen table is one of those places where all kinds of items like to gather, a hangout, a place they can all be together. Sometimes, when they have taken over the whole table and we are wanting to eat dinner, we ask politely if they could share some space.


"Get lost," they say.


We have tried remedial education to get our things to stay in some sort of order. "This is not where you belong," we say. "You go HERE, in the drawer. Not on the table. See, this nice little drawer is just your size. HERE. Not THERE. Repeat after me..."  


I grew up in a household where the same thing happened often. Dishes and glasses would escape the kitchen and multiply in other rooms. Something that my mother had "put right here" would be gone a short time later. We blamed everything on one of my sisters, who continually protested her innocence. After she moved out, and objects kept disappearing or moving, we were forced to admit that possibly we had been wrong all those years. But we never found another explanation.


The Hero and I are likewise mystified when such things occur. Recently our all-purpose scissors, with blue handles, went missing without warning for several days. They reappeared with no explanation of where they had been. I suspected that they were secretly meeting a pair of garden shears at one of the neighbors' houses. Do our scissors, perhaps, have a hidden family somewhere, with baby shears who are the spitting image of our scissors? Or did they just get tired of their close quarters in the drawer and went looking for adventure?


"Oh," said the Hero when I remarked on the scissors' sudden reappearance in the drawer. "I found them with my tools downstairs. Sorry."


My imaginings of secret meetings with the neighbors' garden shears started to vanish. Or maybe...


"Hmmm,"  I said, "you'd better check to see if there's a tiny pair of wire snippers with a blue handle in there, too."

Reminiscences

With my father's funeral over, and all of us returning to an altered everyday life, my mother is adjusting to living alone for the first time. She is not entirely sure she likes it.


"It's so quiet," she said on the phone one day. "I always thought I would like a little quiet. But this is a lot."


When we were there during the last month, she had refused to let us do much for her, insisting that she could do everything on her own. But now she was saying a little wistfully, "I liked it when you and your sister were here and did everything for me."


"We didn't do too much," I said. "You like to be independent."


"Oh, I do," she said. "But that was when everyone was trying to keep me from being independent. Now I have to be."


Dozens of little things crop up to remind her of her new, necessary independence. She finds it particularly annoying that she has no way of reaching things on the top shelf in the kitchen or the closet. "Your dad was very helpful for those types of things," she said, then added, "I'm glad you have Joe."


"Yeah, he comes in kinda handy," I agreed, looking at the back of the Hero's head as he sat at his computer. 


"Darn tootin' I do," the Hero said, suspecting he was being talked about. (Note: The Hero does not normally use phrases such as "darn tootin'," but it seemed appropriate to the occasion, the occasion being my conversing with a person who likely did use "darn tootin'" at some point in her life.) 


Later he expressed some dismay that his value was calculated mainly as it related to his ability to reach things in high places. 


"She meant she was glad I have you for companionship, too," I assured him.


My mother mentioned that nearly everyone from her senior complex came to the visitation or the funeral.


"Even Mr. Silent in the other wing?" I asked.


"Oh, not him," she said. "He never goes anywhere or says anything to people here. But, he used to be a funeral director. Maybe he's just used to being quiet."


She said he at least says hello to her, which is a new occurrence. One day he even nodded toward a window in the activities room and remarked, "The wind is picking up out there."


"I think that's the most words he's ever said at one time to me," she said.


"You must be wearing him down," I said.


We returned to the topic of her asking for help when she needs it, which is difficult, as she comes from a long line of "I don't want to bother anyone" self-survivors. "Everyone is so busy," she sighed. "I really don't want to bother them. But, I will try," she said, to make me feel better. "Someone probably won't mind helping me out once in a while."


"Darn tootin' they won't," I said.