Several years ago, I wrote about a week in which my children passed several important milestones in their growing-up process. This time, we have two such events in one day. Today is Ruth's twenty-first birthday, so she is now fully recognized as an adult by the laws of the land, even where the purchase of intoxicating spirits is concerned. And Ben is attending high school for the very last time; his final final exam is today. It's all over but the graduating, baby!
I went to my dentist yesterday morning for some repair work; a bit of enamel had flaked away from the edge of an onlay that was installed a few months ago. In the afternoon, I visited my optometrist for my annual eye exam (no major change in my vision since last year). And yesterday evening, I got a haircut.
It wasn't until later that I realized something. Yesterday was probably the first time in my life that I've sat in a dentist's chair, an optometrist's chair, and a barber chair in the space of a single day. And I'll probably never do it again.
A year or two ago, I noticed that virtually all of the paper mail addressed to me was junk, and I decided to find out what I could do about it. After researching my options at Junkbusters, I did two things:
Note: After I signed up for the Mail Preference Service, the DMA started charging a one-time fee of $1.00 for it. That's mildly annoying, but I wouldn't hesitate to pay it if I were signing up today.
When does a child become an adult? Our society doesn't have a simple answer to that question. We confer greater freedom and responsibility on our adolescents gradually, in bits and pieces, as they pass through their teens. Instead of a single rite of passage, we have lots of them at differing ages, from bar/bat mitzvah (age 12 for girls, 13 for boys) to the ability to buy alcoholic beverages (age 21). As a result, it's not possible to meaningfully say exactly when your children grow up. But when your family experiences several of these events in the space of a week, you can no longer deny that something momentous is going on.
My family has just experienced such a week:
Holy cow! I've been linked to before, but now Whomping Willow has blogrolled me, right between Frank J. and Mickey Kaus! So I'd damn well better post something.
(The following begins with a couple of paragraphs of medical technobabble, but don't let that scare you off. It rapidly veers into other areas.)
On March 4, I went back to Dr. Talluto for my follow-up appointment, one month after being diagnosed with glaucoma. As instructed, I had been putting the Xalatan drops in my left eye, while leaving my right eye alone. The result: The intraocular pressure (IOP) in my left eye had decreased from 23 to 12.5. Since the goal had been to reduce the IOP by a third, this was excellent! I was surprised to learn that the IOP in my right eye had decreased to 15, almost as much improvement as in the right eye. Dr. T. explained that Xalatan isn't just a topical medication -- it enters the bloodstream and ends up affecting both eyes, although the effect is greater when the medicine is delivered directly to the target.
So it seems that Xalatan is effective. Dr. T. gave me a prescription for it and told me to come back in six months so that we can verify that it's working. (She'll do that by comparing digital 3-D photos of my optic disk from now and six months in the future. If they're the same, that will mean the shape of the optic disk has stopped changing -- meaning that the optic nerve damage has been arrested). Putting drops in both eyes is now a permanent part of my bedtime routine.
When she wrote the prescription, Dr. T. asked me whether my health insurance had a copayment for prescription drugs. I told her yes, and she said she would write the prescription for three-month supply of Xalatan with one refill, instead of a one-month supply with five refills. That way I would only have to pay the copayment twice instead of six times. But it didn't work out that way. When I filled the prescription, the pharmacist informed me that Blue Cross/Blue Shield only allowed me to purchase a one-month supply. I called BCBS, and they confirmed this. There's a mail-order pharmacy that I can use instead, but the copayment for that increases for larger quantities, and ordering a three-month supply would cost me as much as three one-month supplies. So there's no real advantage to the mail-order option.
The actual expense is no burden. But I found this development thought-provoking for a different reason. I have always viewed prescription drugs as a temporary thing; I would get a prescription because I was sick or injured, and would take the medicine until it was all gone or I got better. Then I could forget all about it. But now, for the first time, I have a permanent medication. If I ever stop using it, I'll go blind. So I have to permanently change my habits, and the cost of the prescription will be a part of my family's budget indefinitely.
"So what?" you're asking. Millions of Americans, mostly older folks, have to take prescription medicines daily and allow for it in their budgets. That's true. But until March 4, I wasn't one of them. As I headed home from the pharmacy with the medicine in my hand, I found myself thinking that this was a significant transition in my life -- one of those lines we all cross on the journey from cradle to grave, but often don't notice until later. Exactly what this one meant was a little hard to articulate, but it made me think of the letter that (I'm told) everyone receives when they turn 50, inviting them to join the AARP. The Letter is only a wake-up call. It doesn't mean you have to retire or join the AARP, just that you've reached an age at which thinking about such things is no longer premature.
Middle age contains a lot of these reminders. Like the first fallen leaf of autumn, they tell you that a transition is under way, whether you're ready for it or not. You don't have to make any concessions to it right away, but you can no longer ignore it. Some of the signs of middle age are gradual things, or happen earlier to some people and later (or not at all) to others: pattern baldness or gray hair, having your youngest child become a teenager, seeing your first wrinkle in the mirror, and so forth. But The Letter is a discrete event that divides your life into two parts: one day you're not eligible to join AARP, and the next day you are.
Filling my first prescription for Xalatan felt like that. Before March 4, I wasn't taking any prescription medicines; the next day I was, and would be for the rest of my life. The message seemed clear: You're not young anymore.
I can live with that.
The new dryer arrived, was installed, and actually works.
The ailing computer came home from the shop, but the problem wasn't solved. It continued to crash frequently for no apparent reason. I took it back to the shop and got a second opinion from a different technician. The motherboard is damaged and will have to be replaced. There's nothing wrong with the CPU or memory modules, so we could theoretically just move them to another motherboard -- except that no motherboard that could use them is being made anymore. We could buy an old one on eBay, but what would be the point? No, this means we have to buy a new motherboard and CPU and memory, and build a new computer in the case of the old one. This is probably a good idea anyway, as the computer in question is increasingly unstable. For example, inserting the FlashPath adapter for my digital camera into the floppy drive causes the machine to reboot. So does opening the little plastic door that covers the front-panel USB port.
Last night, I tried to order the replacement components from TigerDirect, but I couldn't remember the password for my account there. When I tried to use the "I Forgot My Password" feature to have the password e-mailed to me, it didn't work. Nothing came. This morning, I phoned TigerDirect customer service, waited on hold, and eventually spoke to a live human being. He investigated and told me that their e-mail servers are currently suffering from some kind of major problem caused by large amounts of spam. He recommended that I create a new account using an alternate e-mail address, and use that to place the order. I did.
Two MP3 players I ordered for Ben and Ruth arrived. They don't work.
And Marie went to her dentist to have a toothache diagnosed. Result: she needs a root canal and a crown, which will cost over a thousand dollars.
Over the last month or so, I decided to stop procrastinating and get some broken things fixed. I took apart a leaking toilet, replaced all the non-porcelain parts, and put it back together. I had the broken driver's sun visor in my car replaced. I replaced several flaky light fixtures. I took a nonfunctional VCR to the repair shop. I sent the older of our two TiVos to Texas to have its ailing modem repaired and its hard drive and memory upgraded. I bought refill kits for our laser and inkjet printers, both of which were running low. I purchased replacements for Ben's dead Palm and the dead video adapter that he had been using to play computer games. And I had the broken fuel door on our minivan replaced.
The various mechanical devices in my household took notice of what I was doing, and realized that if I wasn't stopped, they would all have to work at the same time. Unthinkable! They decided to retaliate. The toilet started leaking again. One of the new light fixtures developed exactly the same problem as the one it replaced. The new video adapter caused the computer to crash every half hour or so. Our dryer started making loud squeaking noises, and then stopped working completely on February 9. The color inkjet cartridge didn't work even after it was refilled. (I ordered a replacement.)
Today, the repair technician came to look at our dryer and pronounced it dead. (I bought a new one, to be delivered Wednesday.) The replacement color inkjet cartridge arrived in the mail -- and also didn't work. (Apparently the printer is busted.) The replacement sun visor in my car broke in exactly the same way as the original one.
I should just give up, but I'm too stubborn to let a bunch of stupid machines defeat me. The crashing computer is now in the shop, and the TiVo arrived in Corpus Christi today for its overhaul. I bought replacement water hoses for our clothes washer (even though the original ones weren't even broken yet!) and installed them today. I'll have another go at fixing the leaky toilet sometime this week, probably buy a new inkjet printer as well. After the new dryer arrives and the computer and TiVo return home, they'll undoubtedly meet with the new printer, the washer, the toilet, and the light fixtures to plan their next move.
Actually, I suspect that those devices are just the foot soldiers in this war; I'll bet it's really my computers that are doing all the planning and giving the orders. Even this one, the computer I'm typing on right now, is in on the plot. I know this because I discovered, as I logged onto Blogger, that the Tab key on its keyboard has stopped working. You're all part of the conspiracy, aren't you? Yes, dishwasher, I'm talking to you. Your drying cycle has never worked right. And you, microwave oven! I don't trust you any more that your predecessor, the one that committed suicide by setting a potato on fire! I know you're all out to get me! But I'm ready for you! I'll --
Ben recently posted about the "science project" he and I did to dispose of a bunch of old batteries. He provided some great photos, but didn't go into much detail about what we actually did. I'd like to describe the procedure we used.
First of all, let me explain how this project happened in the first place. Disposing of used batteries is a bit complicated for most people. First you have to do some research to find out where and when you can turn them in for recycling (at your local waste management authority's household hazardous waste collection, or a business near you that accepts used batteries for the Rechargeable Battery Recycling Corporation). Then you have to pack up all your dead batteries and make a special trip to drop them off. But if you work at IBM, getting rid of your used batteries is much simpler, because IBM sites have special receptacles for batteries in employee break areas, right next to the recycling bins for aluminum cans and plastic bottles. So you just have to take your batteries to work with you.
Last summer, while visiting Marie's family in Charleston, I noticed that they had a gallon pickle jar in their garage that was completely full of batteries. Marie's brother Harold explained that he had been collecting them for some time (because he knew that they shouldn't be put into the trash), but he wasn't sure how to actually dispose of them. I told him about the receptacles where I work and said I would take care of them, and we brought the jar home with us.
But those IBM receptacles have a label warning that leaking batteries are not accepted. It was obvious that some of the batteries in Harold's jar had leaked, and the stuff that leaked out of them had gotten all over the rest of the batteries. Most, if not all, of the batteries in the jar were probably fine for recycling, but they would have to be cleaned first. And that task was daunting enough that I put it off for several months, while the jar sat on our kitchen table.
Finally, I decided it was time to deal with the problem. But cleaning these batteries would involve more than just washing them off. I would have to chemically neutralize the leaked material. And not all of that was the same, because the batteries were of different types.
So the first step was to sort them out. This involved putting on a pair of latex gloves, unscrewing the lid of the jar, pulling out batteries one at a time, and sorting them into two plastic dishpans: one for alkaline batteries and the other for acid batteries. When I finished, there was a small amount of liquid in the bottom of the jar. Since the vast majority of the batteries had been alkaline, I concluded that the liquid was alkaline as well. I diluted it with a cup or two of water and then poured in some vinegar (a mild acid). This caused the liquid to begin fizzing -- a chemical reaction was taking place, producing bubbles of gas -- which meant that I had been right. It was alkaline. I kept adding vinegar and mixing until the fizzing stopped, indicating that the alkaline stuff had been neutralized. I diluted it with a lot more water and then poured it down the drain.
Now to deal with the batteries themselves. I took the dishpan containing the alkaline batteries, added enough water to cover them, and then added some vinegar. More fizzing. Ben continued adding vinegar while I stirred up the batteries with my gloved hands, until the fizzing stopped. I poured off the neutralized liquid, refilled the dishpan with warm soapy water, and washed the remaining crud off the batteries. Pulling out a few at a time, I rinsed them clean and handed them to Ben for drying; he put them into a cardboard box.
When all the alkaline batteries were clean and dry, we repeated the process with the acid batteries, using baking soda (a mild alkaline) instead of vinegar. Then I washed out the pickle jar with soap and water. The result was a clean jar and a cardboard box full of clean batteries. I inspected the batteries and found that none of them seemed to be leaking now. A few (like the 9-volt one that Ben took several photos of) had enough surface corrosion that I thought the IBM collection program probably wouldn't want them. I set these aside for disposal at the Wake County collection site. The pickle jar went into our recycling bin with the rest of our glass jars, plastic bottles, and empty cans.
I could theoretically have taken the whole box of batteries to work at once, but it was really heavy. So I decided to spread them out over several days. I filled four quart-size Ziploc storage bags with batteries and took one of them to work with me each day until they were all gone. After three days of this, the receptacle in our first-floor break room was too full to take any more, but fortunately our building has another break room on the third floor. The receptacle there was almost empty, so I dumped the last bag of batteries in. The labels on these receptacles include a phone number to call when one is full; I called and reported that the first-floor one needed to be emptied.
Thus ends the saga of the Giant Jar of Batteries.
I donated blood again on September 19. On the 30th, the Red Cross office in Charlotte sent me a letter that said, "When we tested your blood, we obtained some inconclusive results. These results indicate that you may be infected with human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), the virus that causes AIDS. In almost all cases, individuals with these inconclusive results are found later to not have the infection at all, but rarely individuals are found to be in the early stages of infection." The letter went on to urge me to see my physician about this and have further testing done.
Me, infected with HIV? It didn't seem possible. I've never engaged in any risky sexual activity, never used intravenous drugs, never received a blood transfusion. I've had no contact with other people's blood or accidental needle sticks. What other methods of infection are there? I couldn't think of any. It had to be a mistake.
I won't keep you in suspense. I visited my doctor on October 7 to have blood drawn for HIV testing, and I got the results today. All the tests were negative. I'm not infected. Which is what I was expecting, but this is not the sort of thing about which you want to have any doubt.
So I can breathe a sigh of relief and forget all about this, right? Yes, except for one thing. The Red Cross's letter included this statement: "For the safety of blood recipients, the American Red Cross cannot accept blood from donors who have inconclusive test results for any infectious disease. This means that you are no longer eligible to donate blood." The Red Cross has no choice about this. They are bound by the FDA's policies concerning the blood supply, which are very clear: "Although the need for donors is great, it is in the best interests of the recipients of such donations to err on the side of safety. Unfortunately, once an indeterminate or inconclusive result is obtained, the donor should be indefinitely deferred."
I've been through this before. In 1993, one of my blood donations showed elevated levels of alanine aminotransferase (ALT). This liver enzyme is an indicator for possible hepatitis C virus (HCV) infection. At the time it was the best test available to the Red Cross for screening out HCV-infected blood, so they sent me a letter informing me of the test results and telling me that I couldn't donate anymore.
But elevated ALT levels can be caused by a number of things other than HCV, including obesity (which was a plausible explanation in my case, back in 1993). This led the Red Cross to indefinitely defer a lot of donors who didn't have HCV, which made chronic blood shortages even worse. As more accurate screening methods became available, the ALT test's value declined. In January 1995, the National Institutes of Health recommended that the use of ALT for HCV screening be abandoned. In August, the FDA concurred. The Red Cross revised its donor policies, and I received letter telling me that I was welcome to resume donating.
So "indefinitely" doesn't necessarily mean forever. In a couple of years, I may get another letter from the Red Cross begging me to come back. If not, I suppose that after 24 years and over five gallons donated, I'm entitled to retire. But I'll miss the free cookies and Diet Coke.
I guess I can't maintain my state of denial anymore -- autumn is here, and there's no pretending otherwise. I've been obstinately putting on lightweight short-sleeved shirts every morning in the hope that this would cause the warm weather to continue, but when I walked outside this morning it was chilly enough that I had to scurry back inside and root around in the closet for a light jacket. (When I say "chilly," I mean a temperature of about fifty degrees. Jen is undoubtedly laughing as she reads this, since what I'm describing is a heat wave by Minnesota standards. She probably has icicles hanging from her mailbox already.)
This was the first time I've put on a jacket since last winter -- and when I got to work, I realized that I had no idea whether I had anywhere to hang it. I've only been working in this office since May, so I've never brought a jacket here before. Fortunately, there turns out to be a hook on the back of the door.
The Wake County schools are closed again today, so Ruth and Ben get a four-day weekend. It's back to work for me and Marie, however.
Driving to work this morning, I didn't notice any damaged structures, or even road hazards caused by fallen tree limbs. (I'm sure there were some, but they had been cleared before I tried to use those roads.) I did encounter a couple of nonfunctional traffic lights. And the parking lot of my office building is carpeted with fallen leaves. That's not unusual this time of year, except that these are green leaves.
So Isabel seems to have been no big deal as far as Raleigh is concerned. It was hazardous, but no more so than a major thunderstorm. Was the danger exaggerated by the news media? Gregg Easterbrook thinks so. Personally, I don't regret any of the preparations our family made; even if they weren't necessary for this particular storm, the exercise was a useful practice run for the next Hurricane Fran or Floyd. But Easterbrook has a point. If every tropical storm is heralded by the media as the end of the world, eventually people will stop paying attention. And when the next Fran or Floyd does come along, most of us won't heed the warnings.
Today is Jen's birthday. I hope she won't be annoyed if I mention her actual age, but since she announced it herself a year ago, I think the risk is minimal. She's 31, which is cool, because it's a prime number. Jen may not think this is a big deal, because it's only been two years since the last time her age was a prime (29). But this will only happen once more in the next decade, when she's 37. (As it happens, my age is also a prime at the moment: 43. Just thought I would mention that.)
This is a game that I always play on my own birthday: what's the mathematical significance of my new age, and how rare is it? Prime-number ages are interesting, but relatively frequent; if you look at this list, you'll see that your age will be prime twenty times if you live to 71, and thirty times if you make all the way to 113. But there are other distinctions. Next year, Jen's age will be 32, which is a power of two. That's really rare -- now that I've passed 32, this will only happen to me one more time, when I'm 64. (Medical science will have to make some impressive advances if I'm going to live to be 128. I'm not betting on it.)
And then there are perfect squares. Jen's last one was 25, but she'll be square again in five years, when she turns 36. And the year after that, she can use her age as an excuse to quote Monty Python and the Holy Grail: "I'm 37! I'm not old!" Well, she can if she's as much of geek as I was. Of course, that means that when you turn 42, you have to point out to everyone that your age is the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
Actually, I suppose you have to be a geek to play this game at all, don't you?
My new IBM office is in a building near the intersection of Six Forks Road and Millbrook Avenue in northern Raleigh. Unlike the other IBM sites where I've worked, this one has no cafeteria -- but that's not really a problem, because there are plenty of restaurants and fast-food places nearby. In fact, some are within walking distance. A shopping center at this intersection includes a KFC/Taco Bell hybrid, a Subway, a Chinese place, and a restaurant called the Bull and Bear. (What kind of restaurant is it? A dismal one, apparently.)
Although it's not far away, the shopping center is diagonally opposite the IBM site, requiring me to cross both streets in order to get there. Both crosswalks are equipped with WALK/DON'T WALK signal lights and push-to-walk buttons. After having made use of these crosswalks several times, I have learned something interesting: the signal light for crossing Six Forks Road always says DON'T WALK. I'm not exaggerating -- you can stand there as long as you like, but WALK never appears. (Needless to say, pressing the P-T-W button has no effect.) The simplest explanation is that the crossing signal is broken, but I have another theory. I believe that the city's traffic engineers studied the intersection and concluded that it is never safe to cross Six Forks on foot, so they installed a signal that won't let you try it.
Of course I don't let that stop me. Six Forks may be too dangerous for ordinary pedestrians, but I went to the University of South Carolina, where you either learn to dodge cars or you don't live to graduate. USC's main campus is located in the middle of downtown Columbia, and a major thoroughfare (Greene Street) runs right through the middle of the campus. This is by design, I'm sure -- the university's founders believed that natural selection should be a part of the curriculum. That also explains the Horseshoe, a large grassy rectangle dotted with trees and crisscrossed by brick walkways. There is no vehicular traffic on the Shoe, but on most days there are multiple impact sprinklers in operation. To traverse one of those brick walkways without getting wet, you must observe the timing of the sprinklers and then carefully choose the correct walking speed and moment of departure. It's kind of like a live-action version of Pac-Man, and it helps you develop the skills you need to cross Greene Street.
The Horseshoe has a large squirrel population, which provides the opportunity for another entertaining pastime: Squirrel Bingo. The entire Shoe is your Bingo card, divided into triangular spaces by the walkways. The squirrels are your counters. If you can find a contiguous series of spaces, each containing at least one squirrel, that crosses the Horseshoe from side to side, you win. I lived on the Shoe for a year, and by the end of it, I could play Dodge The Sprinklers and Squirrel Bingo simultaneously. Compared to that, crossing Six Forks Road isn't even a mild challenge.
UPDATE: Marie reminds me that Greene Street had gates that were used to close it to vehicular traffic and save students from being run over. True, but the gates were only closed during the daytime on weekdays; on evenings and weekends, it was back to Pedestrian Roulette. And in any case, the gates only protected a couple of blocks of Greene, from Sumter Street to College Street. If you wanted to walk to class from Sims (where Marie lived), or from the Presbyterian Student Center (where I lived during my senior year), you still had to dodge cars.
Marie also denies any knowledge of Squirrel Bingo, even though she worked on the Horseshoe at the South Caroliniana Library. That just proves that she was spending too much time on her job, and not enough time gazing out the window.
UPDATE: Bob reminisces about life on the Shoe.
Dear Jen:
It's just after midnight, so perhaps if I type fast, I can be the first to wish you happy birthday. And do make it a happy one, because I think this is going to be the best year of your life so far. Take it from me: turning thirty is cause for celebration.
Believe it or not, great things are beginning to happen for you. You may think that the emotional roller coaster you've been experiencing is a sign that your life is slowly-yet-surely falling apart, but you're wrong. All of the disillusionment, soul-searching, and confusion is part of a process that's hard to recognize while you're going through it, but becomes clear when you look back later: you're growing up.
Wait, don't hit me! I know that statement sounds condescending, but that's only because our society equates growing up with adolescence, and considers the process complete at 21, when we're legally adults. Well, the physiological and legal transition may be over at that point, but the emotional change is a lot more gradual, and continues throughout the twenties for most of us. Letting go of the remnants of childhood and adolescence is a slow process, and one that our culture is largely unaware of.
But you can almost always tell when the transition is complete. You know you've reached that point when you decide to consciously reject those vestiges of your past because they're interfering with your ability to go forward. You realize that you've been clinging to those things because they made you happy when you were younger -- but they don't make you happy anymore. You're a different person now. And so you put away childish things and get on with your new life.
For me, this happened in 1985 and '86, and it took the form of deciding to stop trying to be a college student forever. After being terribly lonely and unhappy in high school, I was fortunate to end up in 1978 at the University of South Carolina (which I loved from the moment I laid eyes on it) and find a social setting at the Presbyterian Student Center where, for the first time in my life, I felt at home. I not only made friends there, but also got involved in activities that I enjoyed (dance classes, puppet shows, study groups, Dungeons & Dragons games) and even served on several committees and eventually on the PSC council, getting elected treasurer twice and being selected my senior year as one of two live-in house managers. The stresses of term papers and exams were there, of course, but I was happier than I had ever been before because I fit in. I didn't want it to end.
But of course it had to. By 1981, most of my friends had graduated. I made new ones, but the group that had made me feel so welcome was disintegrating. After I graduated and got married in 1983, I decided to continue into graduate school at USC in part because I wasn't ready to leave. I continued to be active at the Presbyterian Student Center, but by 1984 virtually all of my original circle of friends was gone. And something else was happening that I wouldn't have believed possible: I was growing tired of being a college student. The routine of classes and tests and papers was getting old. I was even becoming sick of the USC campus; I felt that I could walk from dorm to class to student center with my eyes closed, and it was just no fun anymore.
In 1978 the university had seemed like paradise to me; I had thought I could be happy there forever, but now it was time to leave. Marie and I moved off campus, I dropped out of graduate school, and I started looking for a real job. We gradually quit going to PSC activities. By the time Marie got pregnant in late '85, I was ready to let go of the student lifestyle. In June of 1986, I was a father and a full-time technical writer, but the real transition to adulthood had taken place the year before, when I stopped trying to hang onto my past and began to embrace the future.
I see the same thing happening to you now. You've rejected your previous habit of trying to change your life with cross-country moves. You're questioning your previously cherished romantic notions about being a writer. You're facing the fact that you can't eat like a teenager anymore. And you've realized that living with your parents and siblings is no longer comforting; it's stifling. You're ready to move on.
This process may be traumatic, but trust me, it's worth it. Letting go of the leftovers of childhood is hard to do, but it's also liberating. Forget the over-the-hill jokes you're hearing -- the thirties are a golden age of independence, personal growth, and empowerment. You've been testing your wings; now you're ready to take flight and soar. Your best days are ahead of you, and you now have the freedom to fully explore your capabilities as you never have before. You'll be amazed at what you learn about yourself in the years to come.
Happy birthday, Jen. And welcome to adulthood. You're going to love it.
All the best,
Pat
What a difference a three-day weekend makes. This afternoon, I stepped out of my office and saw, framed in the window at the far end of the hallway, a riot of color that wasn't there on Thursday. Someone has parked a couple of extra chairs in front of that window to be moved to storage, and those chairs were silhouetted against a cloud of pink flowers: a tree in full bloom.
Later, as I walked out to the parking lot at the end of the day, I encountered daffodils blooming beside the walkway, and trees laden with white flowers among the parked cars.
Did all this happen over the weekend? Or have I just not been paying attention?
