Dear Family,
At the end of 11 blissful days in North Idaho and Central Washington, where I don’t think it rained even once and the dew point hung out mostly in in the very comfortable mid-40s,1 Crystal and I were making our way to bag claim at Washington Dulles International Airport when I received a disconcerting message forwarded by my brother Grant, who may not have known we were traveling and probably assumed we were home:
Grant and I live less than 5 miles apart, and it was raining unusually hard at his house. But the red panic zone in the alert covered my house, not his, and I gather he mostly just wanted to make sure we were alive.
In contrast, the skies at Dulles, some 25 miles away, were perfectly clear when we landed. The images of atmospheric carnage in the alert surprised us and made me think we were looking at old news. A few taps confirmed that we were not, and I called Grace at home to ask whether the house was still intact. She initially seemed perplexed by the question. Strong thunderstorms are a common afternoon occurrence around here (it’s a rare week that passes without one — a phenomenon related to dew points regularly hanging out in the oppressive 70s). She said it had rained hard but no big deal.
Ours is the very last house at the end of a street near the bottom of a hill. Our yard backs onto parkland through which flows a stream called the Northwest Branch. (Since you asked, the Northwest Branch flows into Sligo Creek, which flows into the Northeast Branch, which flows into the Anacostia River, which flows into the Potomac down by Nationals Park, about 11 miles south of here. The most scenic way to get to the ballpark from our house is via the trails that line these waterways — trails you can access by walking through our backyard gate. We’ve never actually gotten to the ballpark this way, but it’s fun to think we could.)
You’d think the placement of our house would make it prone to flooding, but in the 25 years we’ve lived in it, we have not experienced that (knock, knock). This may have something to do with the righteousness of certain people who live in our house (since nothing bad ever befalls the righteous). But a more likely hypothesis stems from 1) the fact that you have to scamper down a 30-foot hill to get from our backyard to the Northwest Branch; and 2) a helpful dip that our street takes a block from our house before climbing the final tenth of a mile up to our driveway. (Consequently, and counterintuitively, our house sits both at the bottom of a hill and atop a small perch — something I don’t recall noticing until I took up running.)
This short rise up to our house sometimes appears to have the unfortunate side-effect of deterring the snowplows from venturing all the way up to our little cul-de-sac. But the dip also traps a lot of water that would otherwise presumably be destined for my basement — as evidenced by these photos posted to the neighborhood listserv by people who live in the dip.
Of the three major airports serving Washington, D.C., Dulles is the furthest from us. But if you step on it and the planets align just right, you can get there in 35 minutes. Our trip home two Saturdays ago took well over an hour, as lanes of the Capital Beltway were completely submerged in places. The thought of being electrocuted inside our Uber driver’s Tesla actually crossed my mind.
But we made it — tipped the driver a little more than usual — and it was nice to be home. I went for a short run an hour or two later. “To start reacclimating to the humidity,” was the reason I gave myself for the rare nighttime run around the neighborhood. But no one really ever acclimates to this. Some people tolerate it better than others. Some people just complain less. (Most people complain less about everything than I do.) But I don’t think anyone truly acclimates.
Anyway, our trip out west (just Crystal and me) was ultimately pleasant — even if it began (like it ended) with a momentary sense of panic.
The panic hit me as our Uber was approaching the airport and I realized that I didn’t have my physical driver’s license with me.
I wasn’t carrying my physical driver’s license because I literally never carry my driver’s license. I also never carry cash or credit cards. Like a growing number of people, I never carry a wallet. Everything — literally, everything — is on my phone now.
The Church’s adoption of digital, mobile temple recommends,2, combined with Maryland’s adoption of digital drivers licenses in 2021 and the simple, brutal fact that if you’re a merchant who does not take Apple Pay, you don’t get my business, means that I seldom leave the house with anything other than my phone.
Still, digital IDs remain a foreign concept to most non-Maryland places, and I tend to carry my physical driver’s license when I travel.
Except when I forget.
I didn’t think I had time to go home and get my ID, and so I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the airport gods (and the people who work for them).
First stop was baggage check-in. They always ask to see ID, but they don’t really care. I showed the guy a picture of my physical drivers license I happened to have on my phone. He looked at it, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, whatever. That works for me, but good luck at TSA.”
I was actually less concerned about TSA because I knew from experience that they have the equipment to handle digital IDs. Literally every TSA checkpoint I’ve gone through in the past 3 years, right next to the slot where they sometimes have you insert your driver’s license, has a place where you can tap your phone. (Look for it the next time you go through TSA. You’ll see it.) And if you’re fortunate enough to live in a forward-thinking state like Maryland that issues digital IDs, the TSA device will read the driver’s license from your phone the same way Apple Pay lets a merchant charge your credit card (however that works — I have no idea — but it works the same way — you tap your phone, look at the FaceID and the magic happens).
Trouble is, based on my experience, precisely zero percent of TSA agents have been trained on this new technology (even though they all have it).
I get to the TSA agent, explain that I forgot my license at home, but that I have a digital ID that I think will work if he’d bear with me for a moment.
“We don’t accept those in Virginia,” the TSA agent replied, as if that were somehow relevant.
Because my objective was to make my flight and not to get thrown in jail, I did not say the first thing that popped into my head, which was, “Yes, I know. Virginia sucks. That’s why I live in Maryland.” I also did not say the second thing that popped into my head, which was, “Do you really not understand that you’re a federal agent working for the United States of America and Virginia’s backwardness has no bearing here?”
Instead of those things, I remained uncharacteristically calm and asked, “Would you just let me try this? I think you’ll find that it works.”
He looked at me like he didn’t know what to say, while I tapped my phone on his device.
I couldn’t see what he was seeing, but I could tell by his facial expression that it had worked.3 But the agent remained skeptical and called his supervisor over. The agent showed his supervisor his screen and they had a brief conversation. The supervisor then turned to me.
TSA Supervisor: You don’t have an actual physical driver’s license?
Me: I’m sorry, I forgot it at home.
The supervisor then had me do the phone tap thing again. The two men looked at the screen, perplexed. After a few moments, the supervisor finally said, “Well, it says you’re good, so I guess you can go ahead.”
I smiled, gave the agents the same casual two-finger salute that I give people all the time — must be a nervous tic or something — made my way through security, and found Crystal on the other side. I’m not sure how long she’d been waiting
After two delayed flights (in hindsight, it turns out I would have had plenty of time to go home and retrieve my physical driver’s license) we finally made it to Spokane, Washington, and, after a 45-minute drive, arrived at Roland and Marci’s sprawling lakeside estate in Hayden, Idaho, sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. (Pacific Time).
We spent the next several days in and around Coeur d’Alene with Roland and Marci, their daughter Kaisa, Crystal’s sister Liz (who lives in Nicaragua, in case you’ve forgotten my letter about our visit there last year), Crystal’s step-sister Darcy (briefly), and Crystal’s dad and his wife Karel.
We did a bunch of things I’d never done before, including dinner in a floating restaurant on Lake Coeur d’Alene (courtesy of Dad and Karel) lunch at Fisherman’s Market & Grill (courtesy of Marci because their credit card tech was down and Marci was the only person with cash), and an exhilarating, high-speed excursion through the North Idaho backcountry on Roland and Marci’s side-by-sides, which included some nice views of Lake Pend Oreille.
Crystal, Marci, and Liz also spent some time on the boat without me, partially because I had work to do and partially because 31-plus years as a Kent in-law have taught me quite definitively that I’m really not a boat guy.
Marci also informed me upon arriving that my Saturday in town happened to correspond with the Hayden Triathlon.
So of course I had to do that.
Not having known about the event beforehand, I had not packed for a triathlon. (If you’ve ever done a triathlon, you already know it involves an absurd amount of packing.) Fortunately, I’m pretty sure Roland has more racing bikes than cars (an impressive feat given the prodigious number of cars he has) and happily lent me one and even let me squeeze into one of his tri suits. (It might never fit him again.)
I may not carry a physical driver’s license with me, but, fortunately, it turns out that I keep my USA Triathlon membership card safely tucked into my backpack at all times. (Because you never know when you might need that. If I’d remembered at the time, I might have tried to use it to get through security at Dulles.)
Having the card ended up saving me whatever the cost of a one-day membership is at registration.
The start line was just a few miles around the lake from where Roland and Marci live. And so I could ride my bike (Roland’s bike) to the start line. It’s hard to explain why, but there’s something oddly satisfying about being able to get to the starting line of a race without having to use a car.
The triathlon was fun, but fun alone never stops me from resorting to my battery of excuses. (I didn’t have my wetsuit, which slowed me a little in the swim; the bike wasn’t mine; and I hadn’t packed my racing shoes, so I had to run in trainers.) I mention all this in lame justification for finishing fourth in the age group.
(I’m not sure why I’m making excuses for AG-4. That’s not a bad finish for me. I finish fourth frustratingly often in triathlons. I occasionally sneak onto an age group podium, but not nearly as often as I finish fourth.)
Anyway, after the race, I biked back to Roland and Marci’s, jumped into their hot tub, and enjoyed the view:
On Sunday, we went to church with Roland and Marci and then borrowed their Mercedes (we wouldn’t have felt comfortable taking one of the Porsches) for the 200-mile drive from Hayden to Wenatchee, Washington, where Crystal’s mother, Carolyn, and her husband Pat live.
I hadn’t been to Wenatchee in forever, something Carolyn was not shy to point out in her good natured way. It’s a lovely little city on the Columbia River (if Washington makes you think of apples, that’s largely because of Wenatchee) and Carolyn and Pat took very good care us (even though we were ostensibly there so Crystal could help take care of them while they work through various orthopedic challenges).
Wenatchee is not the most accessible place in the world. (I sometimes point out, without hyperbole, that from where we live, it’s easier and faster (and sometimes cheaper) to get to Europe than it is to get to Wenatchee.) But it’s a great little town with everything I could ever need.
It’s got a Costco.
It’s got a public 50-meter(!) pool that only costs $3.25 for non-senior, non-residents to use. Crystal and her mom swam every day we were there (I think). I tagged along twice. Carolyn paid for us because they only take cash (and checks — seriously, checks).
It’s got a bunch of restaurants — Carolyn and Pat took us to at least two of them.
They also took us to a great gelato place. I would have offered to pay, but…
Carolyn and Pat live a block away from the high school track, which I made liberal use of.
That formation in the upper-left corner of the photo is called Saddle Rock. It’s basically in Carolyn and Pat’s backyard (more accurately, a thousand feet above their backyard). I ran to the top of it on our last morning in town to catch the sunrise. (I ran part of the way. At some point, it got too steep for me and I had to walk. But I beat the sun!)
A highlight of our Wenatchee trip was when Carolyn and Pat took us to a production of The Sound of Music at an outdoor amphitheater in nearby Leavenworth. (I can’t think of a better place to watch The Sound of Music than halfway up a mountain. The hills were alive…) A musical set in Austria is also a good fit for Leavenworth — a small town where all the architecture — from the McDonald’s to the post office, to the bike shop, to the Howard Johnsons — is designed to make you feel like you’re in a Bavarian village. I have never been to an actual Bavarian village, so I couldn’t tell you how realistic it is. But I have been to Busch Gardens a bunch of times, and Leavenworth looks a lot like that. So they probably nailed it.
Anyway, I really enjoyed the time visiting Crystal’s family. I’m always the dumbest person in the room, but no one ever tries to make me feel that way. They are all very kind and accepting of me and have been for many, many years.
(I’ll point out here that my TSA journey at Spokane International Airport was identical to my experience at Dulles.)
Me: I forgot my physical ID at home (in Maryland) but I have a digital ID.
TSA Agent: We don’t accept those here in Washington
Me: …[don’t say it out loud; don’t say it out loud]
Me: Can I just try it? (taps phone)
[TSA Agent looks at screen, brings supervisor over]
TSA Supervisor: You don’t have a physical driver’s license?
Me: No, I’m sorry. I forgot it at home (in Maryland)
TSA Supervisor: How about a passport?
Me: No sir, I’m sorry. Not with me.
TSA Supervisor: Well, it says here that you’re good, so I guess you can go ahead…
Someday we’ll all tell our grandkids about how we used to trust people to drive cars manually, and how we all had to carry around these stupid little cards to prove who we were …
Before I go…
Mostly so I don’t forget, I wanted to make sure I wrote about how much I enjoyed July 4th this year. There was nothing monumental about it — it was just pleasant.
It started with our ward’s annual pancake breakfast. We were joined there by Mom, Dad, and Pete. I don’t remember any details or what we talked about. I just remember feeling unusually content.
After breakfast, Ari, Grace and I walked the three-plus miles home from church along the aforementioned Northwest Branch trail. (Again, that the most direct path from our house to the church is a three-mile trail through the woods is one of the things I love most about living here. It almost makes the humidity worth it. Almost.)
We foraged for wineberries along the way, which turned into unexpected, unplanned, unstructured fun time with two of my young adult children. It’s hard to explain why. It just made me happy.
We spent the afternoon at the annual pool potluck and then joined my freshman roommate (originally from Torrance, Calif., who, by some cosmic coincidence, now works the same Washington D.C. Temple shift as me and works in the same Arlington, Virginia, office building as me) and his wife to watch the fireworks over the National Mall4 from a conference room in his office. We also could have watched them from my office, I suppose, but he’s on the 19th floor (one below the roof) and I’m down on 12. So, his view of the Mall & monuments is marginally better. Plus his office has better free snacks. (Ours our pretty good, too, but they have ice cream.)
And one other thing
Before I forget, because it was such a nice thing…
Our friends and neighbors the Krikavas had a very nice digital piano they weren’t using. They asked Grace whether she knew anyone who could use it. Grace, thinking they were looking to sell it, replied that anyone in her program would love to have it, explaining how being able to practice at home is a million times easier than finding a practice room on campus.
But the Krikavas were not looking to sell their piano.
The next day, they hauled the piano down the hill to our house and presented it to Grace as a gift. She couldn’t believe it. She still tears up sometimes thinking about it. “I can’t believe they just gave me their piano!”
It now lives in her bedroom, which means (until Grace takes it down to school with her next month) we now have pianos on all three levels of our house.
There are worse things.
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly
- meanwhile, the dew point at home in Maryland was stuck in the mid-70s. If you’ve ever tried running (or otherwise exerting yourself) when the dew point is in the mid-70s (as it often is here) it’s a little like trying to run with a wet washcloth shoved in your mouth.
- PSA from your friendly neighborhood temple worker: A picture of your old-school paper temple recommend is not a digital temple recommend, and showing up with just that will likely delay your entry. You may have noticed that the QR code on your (actual) digital temple recommend changes every three minutes, and when you scan it at the temple, your picture appears on a screen for the temple worker. The photo associated with my digital recommend is my LinkedIn profile picture — itself at least 15 years old, back from when I had hair. Not to worry, assuming the temple worker at the desk was paying attention during training, they will know to make no comments whatsoever about the photo. The instruction is clear as day: You glance at the picture, look at the patron, smile, and say “Welcome to the Temple.”
- I recognized the expression because I have seen it on at least a half-dozen other TSA agents with whom I’ve had similar interactions. My favorite was the TSA agent at the Salt Lake airport back in 2023. She asked to see my ID. I smiled and asked if I could show her something. She said sure. “Watch this,” I said as I tapped my phone. Her eyes lit up as she looked at her screen and said with all the enthusiasm of a Temple Square missionary, “That is so cool! I’ve never seen that before!” I smiled back and just said, “That’s how we do it in Maryland.”
- I don’t care what you think about your fireworks. D.C. Fourth of July fireworks are the best Fourth of July fireworks!