Dear Family,
Riding my bike to work in the rain multiple times this week brought to mind a cherished childhood memory that I sometimes wonder whether my mother remembers the same way I do.
The distance from my childhood home in Moorestown, New Jersey, to the middle and high school I attended (the two schools’ properties are adjacent to each other) seemed like a really long ways when I was a kid, but a quick consult of Google Maps confirms that it was actually just under two miles.
Because anything under two miles was deemed too close to warrant school bus service, my best option was one of the many bicycles crammed into our family’s two-car garage (which seldom if ever had room for more than one car in it). This worked fine when the weather was nice, but when it rained, I would usually ask Mom for a ride. When the weather was particularly bad, she (or some other neighborhood parent) would drive me, but when it was just a little rainy, I like to think that her standard response to my request for a ride helped mold me into the hardcore urban cyclist I am today:
“Ride your bike,” she’d reply. “You’re waterproof.”
Today, my bike commute from Silver Spring, Maryland, across the length of the District of Columbia, to Arlington, Virginia — roughly 14 miles each way — might seems like a long ways to some people, but it doesn’t to me.
I do it in virtually every kind of weather (except when it’s icy — ice frightens me). Whenever it’s raining and I stride into the office, dripping and mud-splattered, to drop off some of my stuff prior to heading downstairs to the shower, someone inevitably asks, “You rode to work in this?”
“Of course,” I always reply. “I’m waterproof.”
I’m averaging three days a week in the office nowadays, which is more than most people where I work. And I honestly can’t remember the last time I got there any way other than by bicycle. I’d probably go into work less often if I had to drive. Driving makes me want to murder people. But cycling fills my soul with love for all mankind.
I even feel love for the motorists who honk and shout rude things at me. Such people are vanishingly rare around here. Most are quite courteous — far more so than I. My bicycle and I probably annoy them, but they don’t show it. I like to think that it’s love I feel for the angry people, but it might actually be pity. After all, I know how awful it feels to be trapped in a car.
So I’m grateful for a mother who taught me that it’s okay (preferable, even) to ride my bike to school in the rain.
“Wasn’t there some historical event called ‘Nine-Eleven’?”
A little over a month into her third year as a special education teacher at Ridgeview Middle School, Crystal characterizes her latest batch of sixth-graders (boys, mostly) with high functioning autism as “every bit as disabled” as previous cohorts but also “more socially adjusted.”
Her observation could just be the result of a small sample size and randomness, but Crystal hypothesizes/hopes that things will continue to improve as we get further away from the Covid era and the havoc those years wreaked on learning and social development — especially among students like hers, who already struggle mightily with social skills to begin with.
The social adjustment of the latest crop might also be the result of an extraordinary group of parents who have created their own little private support group. Throughout elementary school, they organized opportunities for their (mostly) boys to socialize with each other on weekends and other times outside of school. Now that their children are in middle school, these parents wasted no time at back-to-school night seeking out the parents of their children’s new classmates — kids from other elementary schools — and inviting them into the club.
Listening to Crystal talk about stuff like this makes me feel all happy inside.
But most of Crystal’s tales from the classroom make me laugh.
I don’t know any of her students’s real names, and so I’ve started identifying them by the characteristics I find most endearing:
For example, there’s “Wall Street Journal Boy” — the sixth grader who brings an actual paper copy of The Wall Street Journal with him to school each day and makes a show of reading from it. (For what it’s worth, I’ve been a Journal subscriber for the past 20 years and can’t remember the last time I touched a physical copy of the paper.)
Then there’s “Urban Planner Boy” — whose career ambition is to become an urban planner and loudly and publicly obsesses over the details of the subject in the same way Sheldon Cooper obsesses over trains (or in the same endearing way neurodivergent people often tend to obsess over whatever obscure topic happens to capture — and then fully consume — their interest and attention).
There’s also “Trump Supporter Boy” — who apparently hasn’t picked up on the all-important social cue that, when it comes to the former president, the only tolerated sentiments around here are: 1) fear, 2) disdain, 3) contempt, and 4) outrage. Other sentiments are sometimes permissible, but they may only be expressed ironically and after first having firmly established one’s bona fides as someone who actively loathes the guy. Otherwise you risk losing all your friends and dying alone. It isn’t that Trump has no supporters in Montgomery County (he somehow managed to garner 19 percent of the vote here in 2020). But no one knows who these voters are, apart from a few who don’t mind (and sometimes embrace) being social pariahs … plus a few innocent neurodivergent types who haven’t yet learned to conceal how they truly feel about touchy subjects.
And finally, there’s ”9/11 Boy.” When she mentioned the date on September 11th (as she does every day) one boy responded, “Wait a minute — isn’t there some historical event called ‘nine-eleven’ or something?”
It’s strange to think how long it’s been. Kids listen to us talk about it in the same way I used to listen to Mom talk about where she was when President Kennedy was assassinated. (She was in her high school typing class.) To our kids, 9/11 is just another historical data point, not especially more or less important than any other. To us, it’s a benchmark event, indelibly printed in our memories.
I did not see the plane hit the Pentagon, but I saw the smoke pouring out of it from the window nearest my cubicle at the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development in Southwest D.C., just across the river. (Okay fine, I won’t recount it all here. For a glimpse into my 29-year-old self and how he dealt with being in downtown D.C. on the morning of the attacks, feel free to consult my September 2001 letter.)
These days, I work in Rosslyn (the downtown business district of Arlington) in an open-floor-plan office suite with sweeping views of virtually every major D.C. landmark … and also the Pentagon (which is technically an Arlington landmark). Each year, during the week of 9/11, all the big office buildings in Rosslyn hang giant American flags facing the Pentagon. I went up to the roof of our building on September 11th to get a picture of (some of) it. It’s a pretty cool thing, and it made me cry a little.
On Saturday, September 7th, I participated in the 22nd Annual Arlington 9/11 Memorial 5K (pushing my friend Della in a wheelchair for Athletes Serving Athletes, as I sometimes do, which makes any race about 10 times more fun).
The race course is one big loop around the Pentagon.
The woman pushing Della in these pictures is 30 years old. I asked her what she remembered about 9/11.
“Not much,” she replied, recalling that she was in 2nd or 3rd grade at the time. “I think they sent us home from school early.”
So yeah, kid in Crystal’s class, there is, in fact, “some historical thing called nine-eleven.” The motto most commonly associated with it is “Never Forget.” And for a lot of us, forgetting simply isn’t an option. It’s strange to think that we now have a generation of young adults with no memory of it at all. I guess that’s just how life and time work.
(Almost) Everybody’s Home!
This has been an especially enjoyable weekend because everyone, with the noteworthy exception of Sophie (and Luke), has been home with us. Hannah and Emma (sometimes referred to as “Hemma,” since one is seldom seen without the other) flew across the country to attend something called the “All Things Go” music festival at Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia, Maryland (18 miles north of here). As if further evidence were needed that I am old and out of touch, I have not heard of any of the more than a dozen bands playing there. But Hemma are fans of at least some of them, and we’re happy for the excuse it gave them to come stay with us for a few days.
Excited at the prospect of seeing her sister, Grace drove up from school for the weekend. There were not all that many hours when all six of us were in the same place (and awake) at the same time, but the few hours we had were nice.
This morning, we ventured through the back gate and into the woods behind our house to attempt a DIY family picture (using a phone, a timer, and a cheap tripod from Amazon). The jury’s still out on whether it actually worked. Our efforts were complicated by the woods’ being basically underwater from all the Helene-related and other rain we’ve had in the past week. I don’t know whether this means our local drought conditions are technically over, but I hope so. Not so much because I care whether we’re in a drought, but because I tire of The People Who Report On Weather and their collective inability to get through any forecast without mentioning how much we really need the rain. They it say in such a scolding way, as though the lack of rain is somehow my fault and there’s something I can actually do about it.
Anway, all of the “official” pictures from this morning are on Crystal’s phone, and it’s possible you’ll see one sometime around Christmas.
Meanwhile, here are a few candids I took of the experience.
While Hemma were at the music festival last night, Grace joined Ari, Crystal and me at one of the dozen or so Salvadoran pupuserias within a five-mile radius of our house. It’s possible I’ve been to most of them, but I probably haven’t. (Interestingly, if you were to draw a 5-mile circle around our house, I’m not sure whether you’d find more Salvadoran restaurants or Ethiopian restaurants. But you’d easily find 10 of each.) Last night was our first visit to “Pupuseria La Familiar” in Wheaton. It was good. Pupusas are fun. And this is truly a great and fascinating place to live.
Grace
Now a month into her sophomore year at Southern Virginia University, Grace has settled into her new apartment and continues to give every appearance of being happy there. After a brief stint with the altos in the SVU Chamber Singers, she is now back in the soprano section where she belongs.
But the most exciting news (in my opinion) is that Grace landed a job at Chick-fil-A! I think she likes it.
I don’t think she does any actual cooking at Chick-fil-A (she does pretty much everything in the front of the house — order taking, bag filling, shake making, being one of those people who greets you with an iPad in the drive-thru, etc.) but I was delighted to learn that she had brought my tradition of Sunday-afternoon crepe-making to her apartment and roommates!
Church-wise, she is taking her assigned role as “Assistant Ward Prayer Coordinator” (you may need to have lived on a church school campus to know what that means) far more seriously than I would, which is a tribute to her and probably tells you all you need to know about me. Sadly, she is no longer the ward organist, having been replaced by a pianist. A pianist! This does not seem to annoy Grace nearly as much as it would annoy me. I love the piano, but the only circumstances under which the piano is an even remotely acceptable instrument for accompanying a worship service is when no organ (or organist) is available. At the risk of (possibly) overstating things, accompanying a congregation on piano in a room where a functional organ and serviceable organist sit idle is an affront to all that is good and decent and should be banned.
Hymnerdery
Speaking of church music, I’ve had occasion this month to think about my dear old friend Marilyn Fox (and her late husband Bill). We were fellow congregants for two decades before they moved to Utah some years ago, as people do. Marilyn often went out of her way to compliment my organ playing, while Bill sometimes suggested that it might be better if I played a little more quietly. (He was usually right, but, as anyone familiar with the setup of the pipe organ at 500 Randolph Road can tell you, dialing in just the right volume is harder than it seems.)
Marilyn used to refer to me as a “hymn nerd.” (We would sometimes debate the spelling — I don’t recall whether we ultimately landed on “hymn nerd” or “hymnerd.” Either way, she meant it endearingly as she also considered herself to be one. It also happens to be 100 percent accurate, and I have only become more of one in the years since she moved away.
I am something of a musical omnivore — I like almost anything with a discernible melody. But lately, I think hymns have become my favorite musical genre. Earlier this month, when I got the email announcing that the latest batch of new hymns had dropped, I literally left work early to go home and play with them. (I felt no particular misgivings about leaving the office early since, as mentioned above, many of colleagues barely ever go into the office at all.)
Amazing Grace, of course, was the headliner of the “new” additions. Amazing Grace is a wonderful hymn, and, naturally, our congregation sang it the first Sunday after it dropped. But it isn’t my favorite of the new additions. That distinguished honor goes to Behold the Wounds in Jesus’ Hands, which our congregation sang as the sacrament hymn this morning.
It made me cry, but what doesn’t?
You may (but probably don’t) recall hearing this BYU choir sing it at General Conference in October 2021:
Such a hymnerd am I that I have started incorporating hymns from other churches into my organ prelude and postlude. I doubt many people notice this. I imagine 95 percent of worshippers don’t pay any attention at all to what I’m doing up there. And most of the remaining 5 percent probably assume that the unfamiliar melodies are taken from the new stuff in our hymnal. Some of it is, but not all of it. Don’t tell anyone.
To my great delight, Crystal joined me in the Washington D.C. Temple Choir this month! We don’t sit anywhere near each other at rehearsals (the baritones and altos sit on opposite sides of the room, and I can only see her during the handful of pieces when I’m sitting at the piano). But we do get to sit together in the car for the 25-mile drive to and from Annandale, Virginia, every Thursday evening.
The journey to Annandale during rush hour takes anywhere from 40 to 90 minutes and enables me to catch up on Crystal’s latest classroom adventures with Wall Street Journal Boy, Urban Planner Boy, Trump Supporter Boy, 9/11 Boy and the others. The stories are usually entertaining enough to divert my attention away from its default setting of wishing all the other drivers on the Beltway were dead.
The fairly predictable 30-minute drive home (at 10 p.m.) is just enough time to complain about everything that happened during choir practice. Which is strange since I typically enjoy 80-90 percent of any given rehearsal. But dwelling on what I enjoyed is far less fun than complaining about what I didn’t, so that’s how I roll.
Our Visitors’ Center Christmas concerts are on Saturday, December 14th (at 5:30 and 7:00 p.m.) in case you’d like to come. (And you should!) We’re also performing in Frederick the next evening.
Strange to think we’re already talking about Christmas concerts, but here we are.
Hoping you’re well.
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly
I love hearing from you and all about the family.
I love hearing from you and all about the family.