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Did Someone Say Fudge?

Did Someone Say Fudge?

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It’s the last day of school in Fairfax County, which means little to me now except less traffic in the morning. It was our first year in 20 to be rid of elementary, middle or high school dates and deadlines.

But today is still special. It’s the day that for years we celebrated with matinees, lunches out, shaving cream fights at the bus stop — and a peculiar ritual: watching “The Music Man” and making fudge.

The tradition started more than a decade ago, when we popped in a video of this musical to watch in the evening after an afternoon at the pool. There’s a scene where Marian and her mother make fudge. And so we started making fudge, too. It’s a delicious summer pastime anyway, fudge being the most boardwalk of candies.  But even if it wasn’t, we’re conditioned now: Hum the first few bars of “76 Trombones” or “Till There Was You” and we’ll start to salivate.

So tonight, Celia and Claire will gather at the house and we will measure out the sugar and the cocoa powder and the milk. We’ll set the pan on the stove and tend it till it bubbles and boils. We’ll test it (often) and finally take it off the flame, beat it to glossiness and pour it onto a plate. If it all works according to plan we will be on a sugar high before it’s dark.

School’s out for summer! Who needs champagne?

In Memoriam

In Memoriam

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What you remember is the precision, even in death: straight lines, markers in rows. Such even rows that it’s hard to tell if there are hundreds of graves or thousands. Of course there are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands when you add them all up.  The final resting place of those who served.

There are 131 national veteran’s cemeteries in this country and many more state and local ones. My dad lies in the Camp Nelson National Cemetery, only miles from the Kentucky River. It has a history of its own — a civil war camp where the wounded were treated and African American soldiers enlisted.

It’s a sunny, placid place with a roll to the land and a few big trees along the borders. I visited in April, got a better view of what I couldn’t quite take in before. It’s proper and dignified, the grounds meticulously maintained.

It’s amazing the pull the place has on me now. I wish I was there today.



(This photograph is of Arlington.)

Anniversary

Anniversary

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This day, the curve of its numbers, its 2 and its 4, the late Mayness of it, all of its features and character will always and only mean one thing to me: my parents’ wedding day.

This is the first day in 62 years they have not celebrated it together. Here’s what I wrote about them two years ago, on their 60th wedding anniversary:

What started 60 years ago was not just a marriage; it was a family, a way
of life. It was jumping in an old Chevy and driving across the country.
Finally running away to California to start all over again — then
realizing that Kentucky was where they wanted to be all along. … There has always been a certain jauntiness, a sense that you didn’t have
to be what circumstances dictated. Dreaming was encouraged. …

And in fact, they kept on dreaming, right to the end of Dad’s life.

Bending the Knee

Bending the Knee

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Attending two college graduations within a week has made me think about endings and beginnings, about markers. There are the organic ones — births, deaths, birthdays. And there are the ones that celebrate a decision or an achievement — marriages, graduations, retirements.

Two nights ago, at Claire’s graduation, we also saw the hooding of  Ph.D. candidates. For some reason, the professors doing the hooding were always shorter than the newly minted doctors of philosophy being hooded. So the latter were often bending their knees, lowering themselves to make it easier to slip on the doctoral hoods.

It was an odd ritual, vaguely feudal in feel, akin to kissing the pope’s ring. Though it had a practical explanation, it felt like a sign of homage, almost a genuflection to the educational powers bestowing the degree.

Since there is little anymore that is held in high esteem, I found this ceremony both comforting and inspiring. It’s a good way to begin a new enterprise, with a sense of awe and respect. With a pause, a salute, a nod to all who have gone before.

Happy Graduation!

Happy Graduation!

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Tonight my daughter Claire graduates from George Mason University.

I’m pausing a moment to let that fact sink in.

Not that it doesn’t seem possible. I know by now how quickly it goes. But still, a momentous occasion. A marker. A passage. A time for parental pride.

Claire has studied hard, worked at least one job throughout college, helped conduct experiments in labs and written a thesis. She graduates with honors and will start a masters in social work program in the fall.

When she graduated from high school I could find Claire by spotting her hot pink sandals. Tonight when Pomp and Circumstance begins to play I’ll strain to see if I can pick her out again. She’ll be wearing green and gold this time, not maroon. And she’ll be older, wiser and more mature than when she went in (of course). But she’ll still have that killer smile. And she and I — and the whole family — will know all that went into this. 

Happy Graduation, Claire. You did it!

Commencement

Commencement

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Two college graduations in a week. One for my daughter, one for my brother. The latter happened yesterday. It was a special one, long delayed.

Not many of us go back to school for an engineering degree in midlife. But Phillip did. He solved problems, wrote papers, took ever-more-difficult classes. And life being life, he also worked, took his parents to doctor’s appointments, and, just a few weeks ago, said goodbye to his father.

That’s what I thought about most as “Pomp and Circumstance” swelled and the students students processed in. I kept thinking of one of my last visits with Dad. “If I’m alive,” he said, “I’m going to see your brother get his diploma.”

He almost made it — but not quite. So the rest of us were there for him. That’s how it works, I guess.

Derby Day

Derby Day

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I’ve spent more time in Kentucky this year than any time since I lived there decades ago. So it’s ironic that I’ve been less on top of Derby hopefuls than usual.

But maybe not. The Derby is Kentucky as metaphor. I’ve had Kentucky as anything but. The state has been so real for me that I don’t have to pine away for it.

Still, when the thoroughbreds strut in the post parade and “My Old Kentucky Home” begins to play, I’ll have white fences on my mind — and tissues at the ready.

Cherry Blossoms!

Cherry Blossoms!

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It was the end of a long day, a long week — and it was a long walk, too. But I left the office yesterday a little before 5, cruised through Judiciary Square, the Penn Quarter and onto the Mall. By that point the mood was decidedly celebratory.

And even though I said I wouldn’t do it again, I walked all the way around the pink-petal-rimmed Tidal Basin, joining the throngs on one of the first warm days in the nation’s capital.

It’s worth noting that unless you want to rent a paddle boat, strolling is the only way to see the cherry trees in their glory.

So I did. As did everyone else.  Babies in prams, bikers in spandex, bureaucrats in blazers — we were
all ambling for one purpose: to see the cherries in peak bloom and welcome the
spring.

It has been such a hard winter … but now it’s over.

Hallelujah!

Big Blue

Big Blue

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This is not a sports blog, of course, but I must say a few words about the University of Kentucky men’s basketball team. They lost last night 54-60 to the University of Connecticut Huskies in the NCAA final.

The team’s energy felt different right from the opening buzzer. Key players seemed off, were in and out of the game. Free throws missed as often as they hit. The Cats had finally met a team that closed as strong as they do. Stronger, in fact.

If this was a decade ago, we’d be shaking our heads at what they could do next year, this young, freshmen team. But this group is a one-year wonder. Most of them will be gone next year, in the NBA, most probably.

It’s hard to say that “one and done” is a failure when this team made it to the finals. But it’s not the kind of basketball I grew up with.

Still, I have to say it one more time: Go, Big Blue!


(A UK dormitory building snapped from the UK Library.)

The Power of Play

The Power of Play

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Last night I stayed up late to watch one of the craziest, most fast-paced and ultimately satisfying basketball games I’ve seen in years. (Of course, I seldom watch more than half a dozen games a season!)

It was the University of Kentucky Wildcats (Go, Big Blue!) versus the University of Louisville Cardinals in the “Sweet Sixteen” round of the NCAA basketball tourney.

As you might expect with teams that are 80 miles apart and a coach who left one team and ended up at the other, the rivalry is intense.

At first, the UK starters, all freshman (Kentucky Coach Calipari having no problem with “one and done”), seemed nervous, out-of-sync. But by halftime the Cats had closed to within a few points of the Cards. From then on, they were on Louisville’s tail, trailing by a point or three but seeming like  thoroughbreds patiently biding their time on the rail so they can let it all out in the home stretch.

Kentucky led for less than two minutes, but they were the right two minutes. When the buzzer sounded it was 74-69, UK.

The last time I watched the Wildcats beat U of L was December 28. That night I watched with Dad. Last night I watched for him.

(No basketball photos but here’s a street scene from downtown Lexington, where there is much jubilation today.)