Dear Family,
First, a coda to the final eighteen paragraphs of last month’s letter. I probably got more email in response to those paragraphs than in response to anything I have ever written. (This is not an especially high bar, but it’s a bar.) I responded to almost none of these emails, not because I did not appreciate them or lacked the time but because I did not know quite what to say. Please know that I am deeply grateful for the supportive and affirming thoughts each of you shared with me.
I remain a little embarrassed (but not mortified) by some of the sentiments I confessed to in those eighteen paragraphs. But I’m okay with that. One reason I think I write these letters is to create an honest accounting of how I feel about things over time, even if it does not cast me in the most favorable light. If genuine somehow finds its way into the list of adjectives my future eulogist uses to describe me, then you can be reasonably certain that, wherever I am in the great beyond, I’ll be smiling.
The universe somehow arranged for me to listen to last weekend’s episode of This American Life, even though it was a rerun from nearly a quarter-century ago. The episode featured stories about kids at summer camp. During the final story (Act Six: Color Days) one girl expresses disappointment at not having been chosen as a Color Days “captain” and (if you skip ahead to 45:30 of the recording) proceeds to question her self-worth in essentially the same way I did last month.
I don’t know what it was about this that made me so happy. Was it was the sudden realization that, after all these years, I have finally reached the emotional maturity level of a teenage girl? Maybe. More likely, it just helped me frame things in their proper perspective. After all, in the grand scheme, getting selected for this or that church position in Silver Spring, Maryland, in 2022 has about as much cosmic significance as getting selected to be Color Days captain at a Michigan summer camp in 1998.
North Idaho
The single stupidest thing I did in preparation for attending this month’s Kent family reunion in the greater Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, metropolitan area was rent a car at the Spokane airport. I always seem to forget that Roland and Marci own like a thousand cars and are generous about letting people borrow them. I did not get to drive their Tesla, but I did get to ride in both of their Porsches, one of which is electric, which is probably good enough to check the Tesla column.
The single smartest thing I did was get a second covid booster (my fourth covid shot overall) a month in advance of the reunion. I don’t remember what the final tally was but the gathering quickly evolved into a full-blown super-spreader. Within a week more than a dozen people (out of maybe 30?) had tested positive. Crystal and Ari were among the lucky winners. Grace and I were among the few who dodged it.
The reunion, which was held primarily at Roland and Marci’s idyllic estate on Hayden Lake and at their recently acquired ranch property a half-hour north of there, was occasioned by the imminent departure of Crystal’s sister Liz (who we believe to have been patient zero in our little covid outbreak) and Liz’s husband Joe to Nicaragua for some indeterminate period of at least two years. (Liz has taken a teaching job in Managua.)
The gathering took place over the July 4th weekend and it was fun to take in the local festivities. Coeur d’Alene’s “American Heroes Parade” featured veteran and civic organizations, local politicians, marching bands, indigenous tribes, at least two groups of dancing old ladies, multiple car dealerships, and various other local businesses. Temperatures were in the 50s, unseasonably chilly even for North Idaho, and intermittent rain showers made things downright cold. I couldn’t think of another time when my teeth chattered on the Fourth of July, but they did this year. We finally decided to bail when the rain evolved into a steady downpour — just as a large contingent of red-hatted Trump 2024 flag bearers proudly marched past us on the parade route. (Their float would have benefitted from a few ketchup stains, but maybe the rain washed them away.)
That night we took both of Roland and Marci’s boats (Crystal explained to me that you need one boat for waterskiing and a different one for wakeboarding and wakesurfing) out to watch the fireworks over the lake, which was pretty awesome.
Indeed, one of the many fun things about visiting Crystal’s family in North Idaho is learning about new and innovative ways of being towed behind a boat. This year I was introduced to the concept of something called a hydrofoil. As best I can tell, a hydrofoil is similar to a wake surfboard in that it allows a person who knows what they’re doing — someone not like me — to be propelled forward by the boat’s wake as opposed to by the boat itself — i.e., you don’t need a rope once you’ve gotten started. The hydrofoil takes this a step further by elevating the wake surfer about a foot above the water — again, all without a tow rope. The physics of all this remain a mystery to me, but to watch Roland do it is mesmerizing.
Coronavirus aside, it was great seeing everybody. Crystal really does have a lovely family. Not a jerk among them — except me, but everyone out there attributes my abrasiveness to my East Coast upbringing, so they give me a pass. We had a very nice time.
Palmyra
Two weeks after returning from Idaho, Crystal, Grace, and I crammed into three buses alongside 125 or so other kids and leaders for a two-day stake youth conference excursion. This year’s youth conference went to Palmyra, the obscure upstate New York backwater that functions as a destination for countless Latter-day Saint pilgrimages while managing to remain virtually unknown to literally the entire rest of humanity.
Crystal and I were assigned to chaperone a group of eleven youth, eight of whom actually managed to get to the stake center in time for the 6 a.m. departure and perhaps four of whom could be counted on to reliably follow directions. I’m finding that the older I get, the less patient I am with other peoples’ kids. I have not yet reached full-fledged, fist-shaking “Get Off My Lawn!” status, but I can’t be more than five to seven years away.
We rode up Friday morning. It began to dawn on me that we might have done a better job prepping some of these kids for the experience when someone on the bus asked me when we were going to see the Statue of Liberty. He was a sweet kid and I didn’t want to make him feel bad. But I was tired and the least snarky answer I could muster was, “If we were going to that part of New York, we’d have been there by now.”
We spent Friday afternoon unwinding at the Palmyra stake center, visiting the Smith farm, and walking through the Sacred Grove before doing baptisms at the Palmyra Temple.
Friday night was dinner, volleyball, and kickball back at the stake center. (The stake center is perhaps 400 meters from the temple and it might be another 400 meters from the temple to the Sacred Grove1 Some adults characterized this as “a lot of walking.”) There were also some service projects going on that I was vaguely aware of and sometimes pretended to help with.
By 10 p.m., we had more or less returned the stake center to the state we found it in, and we boarded the buses for the Comfort Inn & Suites in nearby Farmington. The front desk manager did a better job than I would have done concealing her contempt for this huge and unruly group of loud teenagers invading her otherwise quiet lobby in the middle of the night. I have no idea how Andrew (my brother) got all the keys to all the right people. Andrew, who is also our stake young men president, found himself shouldering more of the burden than he expected to because the stake young women president tested positive for covid early that morning and had to bug out two hours before the buses rolled out of Silver Spring.
I imagine there were some shenanigans that night, but Crystal and I had our own room and I slept fine.
We hit the rest of the restoration sites on Saturday: Cumorah (where Joseph got the plates), Grandin’s print shop (where the first edition of The Book of Mormon was published), and the Whitmer Farm (in Fayette) (where the Church of Christ was formally organized in 1830 with six members).
And that’s pretty much all there is to do and see in and near Palmyra. We got back on the buses and by Saturday night we were home. I don’t think we left anyone behind, and so I’m calling it a win.
Work, etc.
We are well and truly into the dog days of summer, but no one is finding it difficult to stay busy.
Ari
Ari’s bout with covid at the beginning of the month and more recently with something that sounds like bronchitis (but technically isn’t) has forced them to miss more work than they would like. And they really do like it. The junior adventures camp counselor job seems tailor-made for Ari. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were still doing it when they’re 60.
Grace
Grace has the good fortune of working at a place where she like to hang out even when she’s not working (the pool). She’s there all the time and presumably getting paid for at least some of those hours.
Crystal
Crystal has been occupied with various orientations and trainings in advance of her new job as a special ed teacher, which begins in earnest next month. I still have no idea how she is going to balance this with her coursework at Hopkins, which keeps her pretty busy all by itself. But I expect she’ll figure it out.
Loyal Democrats will be happy to learn that Crystal has dutifully transferred her membership from the Service Employees International Union Local 500 (which represents para-educators) to the Montgomery County Education Association (which represents teachers). She was assisted in joining the MCEA by two tenacious union reps who stopped by the house on multiple occasions (according to data from our Ring doorbell) before eventually finding her at home. I only wish FedEx drivers were so persistent when attempting to delivers packages that require a direct signature.
Me
As for me, I am gradually going into the office more often, in part because they feed us lunch (our boss is employing the carrot, rather than stick, approach for enticing us back) but also because it’s hard to deny that I’m just more productive there.
I continue to get there almost exclusively on my bike. I recently started riding in with my friend Ira when our schedules mesh. Ira, you may recall but probably don’t, is one of my running friends and plays bass in the National Symphony Orchestra. He recently started getting into cycling (which means he’ll soon be better than me at that, too, if he isn’t already). Our workplaces are close to one another (the NSO rehearses at the Kennedy Center, which my office window overlooks from across the river) and Ira was curious about my commuting route.
I should probably take something away from the fact that I did not feel comfortable taking Ira on my usual route, which involves playing dodge ’em with the cars on Colesville Road, Beach Drive, and Rock Creek Parkway.2 After all, when I get hit by a car and break my arm (as happens sometimes) it’s merely an inconvenience. But Ira’s hands are his livelihood. And I couldn’t in good conscience subject him to that.
And so I led him on a route that relied more heavily on paths. The fact that I would rather get hit by a car should give some idea of how I have historically felt about these paths. But in riding them this past week with Ira for the first time in years, I was pleasant surprised to discover how improved they are! I can no longer say I hate them, and for me that’s something. I’ve even started riding on them without Ira. I can’t go quite as fast as I can on the road but it only adds a few extra minutes to the commute. So thank Ira for me when you see him. He may have lengthened my life.
Incidentally, if you are going to get hit by a car, I strongly suggest getting hit by someone insured by GEICO. I am not a GEICO policyholder (we are perfectly content with USAA). But the most recent person to run me over (back in March) is one, and it feels like GEICO has spent the last four months looking for new reasons to send me more money. I am not an investment adviser and it’s probably hard to find one who would recommend “getting hit by a car” as a prudent portfolio strategy, but this time it worked out that way.
It’s nice when things work out and I hope they are working out for you
Love,
Tim
Managing Editor of The Famlet Monthly
- As we left the baptistry, one of the temple workers showed us a clear window that allowed us to view the Sacred Grove from inside the temple. It had not occurred to me (until she pointed it out) that temples don’t typically have clear windows. Every other window in the Palmyra temple is stained glass depicting, fittingly enough, groves of trees. All except for this one that overlooks the grove where the whole thing started. It’s a little breathtaking, actually.
- For the record, I’ve never been hit on any of those roads and I suspect riding with the flow of traffic on busy roads is a lot less dangerous than people who don’t do it think it is. It’s at intersections that inattentive motorists kill cyclists and virtually every kind of road (that you can bike on) has intersections. Beach and Rock Creek are generally free flowing with very few intersections, which makes these roads safer for cycling than they may appear.