Dear Family,

You already know how scatterbrained I am, but just in case you needed a reminder, I’d like to share a story: I had a panic a few minutes ago when I looked at my watch and realized that it was the twenty-sixth, meaning that there were only two days left in February. Then, when I was creating this document, the panic doubled as I realized that I not only had completely skipped the month of January, but failed to even realize that January had ended. 

It took a good few seconds to remember that it is, in fact, still January. Now all we can do is hope that this will still be the case by the time this letter is finished.

Zoo

Guys, it is so hard for me to not touch animals. Like… okay, Grandma and Grandpa Kent took me to Hawaii in 2018, and all I could think about when snorkeling was how badly I wanted to touch the fish. But the fast, flitting creatures wouldn’t make that easy for me, so the temptation was easy to resist… until I saw the moray eel, with the front half of its body sticking out from a chunk of rock.  

I am not afraid of many animals — I like spiders and love snakes. Moray eels are pretty much the only creature on earth whose mere appearance can give me the heebie-jeebies. 

And yet, on the other hand, it was just… there. Watching. Waiting. Completely still. 

I wanted to touch it. So bad.

I’m suddenly realizing that I am presenting this story with far too much drama for far too little payoff. I did not touch the eel. I did not attempt to touch the eel, if only because I’ve read enough about those guys to know about their pharyngeal jaws. (Yeah, that’s right, they’ve got extra jaws in their throat. And those extra jaws extend forward so they can drag struggling prey down into their gullet. See, it’s not just the fact that they look unholy.) I’m not really sharing this as a tale of its own; it’s just an example that I’m using as context for the following statement:

Zoos are agonizing to visit. 

I love zoos. I love going to zoos. But standing next to a spoonbill that I am not allowed to touch fills me with a sense of deep, painful longing. I was forced to settle for friendly finger guns. 

Despite this, I had a wonderful time visiting the National Zoo with Grace and cousin Abby earlier this month. They’re both back at their respective schools, and I miss them already.

Work

So… some weather we’re having, huh? And while we’re at it, let’s discuss the latest on local sports, and I’ll tell you about the weird dream I had last night. 

Weak attempts at humor aside, the weather has been making my working hours somewhat atypical this month. Our first day of weather-related closure¹  was exciting, as it gave me more opportunity to spend time with Grace and walk Ceres in the snowy woods. It was also delightfully sparkly.

By the third unplanned day off in a row, it stopped being fun. 

Then came the cold — because, y’all, it has been cold. My coworkers and I spent much of this month entertaining antsy kids who had been cooped up inside all day when the outdoor temperatures were in single digits.

That’s Fahrenheit, mind you. My international friends give me grief for that, but, while I will gladly switch to 24-hour clocks and the metric system if my fellow Americans go that direction, you will need to pry Fahrenheit units from my 68-degree, dead fingers. 

“But Ari,” you cry, “Ari, it’s easier to remember the freezing and boiling points of water in—” Okay. So? It’s easier to remember the point at which atoms stop moving in kelvin. That means nothing when describing Earth’s weather. No one walks outside on a hot day and thinks, “Hm, how does this feel in relation to the boiling point of water?” 

I am not a water molecule. If I was, I’d use Celsius. But until that transfiguration occurs, I will stick to my trusty, superior base unit.

Ahem. Moving on:

In better news, the club I led this month, Abstract Art, has been going rather well! Every Tuesday and Thursday, I gave my group of kids a quick lesson about a different abstract artist, passed around printouts of some of their more well-known works, and helped them make their own creations inspired by that artist’s style. Each activity was well-received, and most were only a little chaotic. 

Year of the Silly

My 2024 resolutions were all centered around helping others and making the world a better place, and I, ever the rebel, actually stuck to them all year. I took a break from my regular volunteer work at Shepherd’s Table during summer camp, but I’m proud of my efforts during the rest of the year. According to Volunteer Hub, I spent 98.69 hours there in 2024. Each of my shifts was about two hours, so I can fairly confidently say that I blasted my twice-a-month goal out of the water. I cleaned up litter regularly, and I got in that third blood donation in December — right under the wire. 

I’m going to keep up with all of that, of course. But I’m also going to add some extra resolutions to the list, these unified under a new theme: Be a little more silly. 

1. Wear silly clothes. These can range from fun costumes to big hats to one of those classic tops that says “I flexed and the sleeves fell off” (except this one very clearly has long sleeves).
2. Do silly dances. I can’t dance, like, at all, and I’m kind of insecure about that. But I do find it very satisfying to dance around the house to upbeat music as I go about my tasks alone. I’m going to do that more. 
3. Dress up as a troll, post up under one of the bridges on the trail, and tell passers by that they may not cross until they have answered my riddles three. 

You can take that last one as a joke, if you want. If you manage to convince yourself that I don’t actually plan on doing it, you’ll at least have plausible deniability later.

Alright, I think that’s all. Looks like this one’s actually going up on time! It feels oddly short to me, but I guess that’s what happens when I stay on schedule and only have one month to cover. Probably for the best. 

Love,
Ari

1. Usually, when schools are closed due to inclement weather, KAH is open all day. However, the snow was bad enough that the county issued a “code red,” meaning no school, no work at county administrative offices, and no KAH.