Hannah Rae's Blog, page 30

Three Cheers for Three Years!

Three years ago today, a litter of four Kerry Blue Terriers came into the world... and my baby girl Augusta was among them. I obviously didn't meet her on the day of her birth. I mean, that's not generally the case when it comes to puppy adoption, is it? Most pups are introduced to their new parents at around the age of eight weeks.

I met Augusta (known then as Wednesday) when she was six months old, and this is the story of how we were united:

Remember Covid? And the spring of 2020? Remember how everyone wanted to adopt a puppy and no one could find any? Well... I was puppy-crazed just like all those other Americans. "Why do you need another dog?" my mom asked multiple times. "Arlo's still so young."

"That's why I need another dog!" I assured her. "Because Arlo's still so young."

In truth, owning Arlo is the equivalent of owning a dozen dogs and I definitely didn't need to add another terrible terrier to the mix. A terrible terrier is what I ended up with, of course, but I wasn't dead set on a Kerry Blue. I toyed with the idea of a P.B.G.V. and got in touch with a breeder named Carol who lives in Pennsylvania. I talked to her on the phone several times, learning all about the breed's temperament and determining that they're not ideal for folks who like cats.

My dog-lady friend Carol did steer me in the direction of some other potential breeds, however. She put me in touch with a woman who breeds Otterhounds and another who breeds Spinoni Italiani. Unfortunately, neither one was going to have available puppies anytime soon.

As you are probably realizing by now, I like my dogs like I like my men: bearded.

Terriers generally have beards, and I grew up with terriers, so I returned to what I knew and considered a Soft-Coated Wheaten or a Kerry Blue. I researched more kennels and sent more emails. I was in touch with a lot of folks.

(Interestingly, the overall writing and grammar of people who breed terriers is, as a whole, better than the writing and grammar of people who breed hounds. That's obviously a realization I came to after a relatively small sampling of communication, but if anyone is looking for a thesis topic, that might be one worth considering.)

Like the Otterhounds and the Spinoni Italiani, no one seemed to have any Wheaten or Kerry Blue puppies. I had basically given up my search when I checked my email one Tuesday morning (May 26, to be exact) and saw that I'd received a message from Kathryn:

People often ask why I prefer to get my dogs from breeders rather than from the shelter. I mean, I am a HUGE advocate for the SPCA and donate to that organization on a fairly regular basis. At this point in time, every single one of my cats (there are four of them!) were adopted from the SPCA. But when it comes to dogs, I like my purebreds. Partly because I am a definite dog snob. There are so many interesting breeds in the world that I'd someday like to experience. But even more than that, I like knowing the history of the dog. Does it guarantee the dog will be perfect and easy? Of course not! But there have been so many instances in which I've contacted Kathryn about Augusta-related things... and I'm really thankful I've been able to do that.

Needless to say, I was on the phone with Kathryn within minutes of reading her email.

First, I called my mom to tell her about the email. Then I called Kathryn and asked when Arlo and I could visit. "How about later today?" she suggested, which was obviously fine with me!

On the ride to Westminster, I remember saying to Arlo, "I have been convinced from the get-go that you are Baxter reincarnated. [Baxter was my first Airedale; Just Whistle is actually dedicated to him.] From the way Kathryn described Wednesday in her email, she sounds like she might be Agatha. [Agatha was my second Airedale and she loved Baxter more than just about anything.] If I take you down there and the two of you hit it off right away, running off and adventuring together without the other dogs just like Baxter and Agatha did all those years ago, we'll know that Wednesday is Agatha. And if she likes me without being timid, that will be another clue. And if Kathryn tells us we can bring her home, we will -- no matter how much she costs. Deal?"

Arlo licked my ear, thus sealing the deal.

Well, Arlo and I made it to Westminster and got out of the car. We met Wednesday (now Augusta) and her mom Annie and sister Gretchen. Augusta warmed up to me instantly and Kathryn actually commented, "I haven't seen her become this comfortable this quickly before." I mean, she didn't even bark at me! And then Arlo demanded her attention and the two of them ran off to play with one another in the yard, abandoning Annie and Gretchen.

Obviously, I knew.

So did Kathryn. After a while, she said, "This seems like a good fit. If you want her--"

"I do!"

"You can take her today. I think it will be easier to say goodbye now rather than later."

So I returned to Gettysburg with a six-month-old Kerry Blue named Augusta Wednesday, brought her into the house, and called my mom. "Did you talk to the breeder? When are you and Arlo going down to meet her?" she wanted to know.

"Oh, we already did," I informed her. "She's in the kitchen right now."

"You brought the puppy home?! Oh my gosh. I'm coming over."

Augusta's been a part of the family ever since. And don't get me wrong: she's a lot of work. We're still working on her behavior regarding the cats (she just loves them a little too much...), and she's fearful about meeting new people (to the point that she has bitten before), and she can be really high strung when someone comes to the house (especially when that person is delivering a package), but I love her. She is definitely worth all the time and money I've put into her over these past two and a half years.

With any luck, though, maybe she'll begin to chill just a smidge now that she's reached her third year.

Happy birthday, Augusta Wednesday! You are a loved little terror!

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Trivia Recap: 11/17

The Players: Hannah (English teacher), Mary (English teacher), Kristin (English teacher), Alex (coffee shop owner), Brock (marketing/animation/computer things), Darren (math professor), Ben (social studies teacher)

Hint of the Day: Knife being sharpened

Opening Category: Herman's Hermits

Round One:

We pretty much killed it. Kristin and I listened to Herman's Hermits all day and so we had this one even before the audio portion of the clue was provided. Ben knew his Suez Canal stuff, but he mixed up Ever Given with Evergreen. Admittedly, he was only off by two letters. If Darren had sloppy handwriting, we probably would've gotten the bonus points, but unfortunately Darren has very nice handwriting. We figured out that Ryan Gosling might have been a Backstreet Boy, which earned us five points, but we missed Jim Beam... mistaking it for Jack Daniels. They're distant cousins, right? It was only one point. And then Clifford the Big Red Dog was a Famous Canine we knew --- Mary even knew the name of his owner! Emily Elizabeth! That earned us two bonus points.

Round Two:

Ben and Darren figured out Stevie Ray Vaughan, which was awesome, and that earned us nine points PLUS two bonus points on the audio clue. Our math genius Darren also knows his triangles (so did I, though, if I'm being honest) and we therefore got seven points PLUS five bonus points for the category of Math Class. MLB Teams is just a dumb category (I have grown to detest all things sports-related at trivia) but we got the answer (Guardians) and the bonus (Progressive) and that worked out well. Broadway Musicals was tricky, but Darren and Kristin figured it out. There may have been some help from some others, but in my mind, the credit goes to Darren and Kristin. The answer was Billy Elliot. And the next category, Repeat After Me, was about oaths, the first being "Hippocratic" and the second being "Florence Nightingale." I said "Florence Nightingale" right off the bat and three people (Ben, Darren, and Kristin) sort of chuckled at me. But then Mary substantiated my answer and thankfully we went with that because it was right!

Halftime:

On the top, we had to identify famous architecture (like, houses and mansions and shit) and on the bottom we had to come up with top teams in the NHL. (Again with the sports! Ugh...) There was a word bank on the top, but the bottom was just using your own brain. Ben and Darren did pretty well overall; I think we missed two on the bottom and two on the top. I felt bad for Adam the DJ because this was a hard halftime sheet to grade. I mean, it wasn't just looking at matching. It was actually grading something. Kind of like what I do in class, only mine is worse because I'm grading essays and that takes longer because of poor grammar and a lack of capitalization and just the fact that sometimes the sentences don't make any sense at all.

Round Three:

Ben got the question about College Football (another sports question!!! boooo!!!!), but not the bonus. That's okay. Darren and I got Mark Twain right away thanks to the clue about his weird story "Pudd'nhead Wilson." Happy Birthday, Scorsese was fine. I mean, we got those answers right, and then we knew that the answer to You'll Find Me in the Kitchen was "knife sharpening" because of the clue of the day... and also because we just would have known it. Asian Geography was difficult, but Ben drew this nice map that will someday go in the coffee table book of trivia maps that I intend to publish.

6 -4- 2:

The answer was Piranha, which is a word I always struggle to spell. We got it for four points.

Round Four:

Music of the 2000s should have been a win for us. Ben right away said the answer was "Usher" and that the hit song was "Yeah." (This turned into a funny thing that won't be funny in this blog, but know that we laughed as a team.) Unfortunately, Mary and some others believed the answer to be "Eminem" and "Slim Shady" and so that's what we went with. And we were wrong. Seven points down the drain. We did fine with Vote Yes on These "Props," and equally fine on Let's Check the Temperature, but Modern Video Games sucked. None of us play video games; we are too busy living productive lives, you know?

Final Category:

"Pope"pourri was the category, which sounded like a whole lot of no-fun. And guess what? It was no fun. We got it wrong. Ben thought the answer was "Julien" and Darren thought the answer was "Gregorian" and the answer was "Gregorian," but Darren didn't tell us he thought "Gregorian" was the answer until after he turned in our answer slip with the word "Julien" on it. So we lost twelve points. Whatever. It is what it is. I didn't even pay attention to next week's opening category; I'll have to read the Pour House Trivia blog at some point in order to find out.

My big takeaway from tonight is this: No one but Phil understands the magical nature of a mouth-on-ear friend. Kristin thinks the concept is just repulsive because she doesn't like to think about things touching her ear canal, and Ben thinks a better name would be "Whisper Friend." But... I'm sorry. "Whisper Friend?" That's not funny at all! Mouth-on-ear friend is not only humorous, but also unique, and that is what my concert husband Phil is to me: humorous and unique.

The other takeaway from tonight is that The Educated Friends are awesome. I think the whole team is going to be at my book signing! How wonderful is that? Three of them (Brock, Kristin, and Phil) are going to be bartenders, my marketing manager Mary is going to help with sales and selfies, Alex is behind the entire operation since she owns the establishment, and Darren and Ben are coming for moral support. Isn't that wonderful? My friends are such cool humans and I love them and even when we don't place (like tonight) it doesn't even matter because The Educated Friends are the BEST teammates a girl could ask for.

New Art at Eighty-Two!

This has been, like, the busiest week! I've been trying to squeeze in some writing for NaNoWriMo (I'm still insanely far behind the word count where I should be... sorry, Poseidon Jr.) and I've also had something to do every day after school. Last night I went for Breakfast at Erin's to talk about Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote. It was a lovely evening; Erin made the best damn waffles I've ever had! I said to her, "You know who I'm going to compare you to right now, don't you?"

Erin guessed a logical name, which was "Nancy?" (That's my mom and she's a PHENOMENAL cook.)

"Nope," I said, "even though my mom does make a good waffle. No, I was going to compare you to Sebastian Porter."

Bas Porter, my favorite character of all time, is known for his Belgian waffles. Obviously, only a handful of you are aware of this since only a handful of you have had the privilege of reading Kick It One More Time, Running Through the Words, and Come and Go So Quickly. He makes waffles in every single one of those novels. Someday the masses will have access to them.

Actually, the masses will begin having access to Running Through the Words in January 2023.

Anyway. Back to what this blog is meant to be about!

Today I spent the afternoon at Eighty-Two (soon to be Bantam Coffee Roasters) hanging new art. If I'm being totally honest, most of the art isn't completely new... it's just been hanging out in my studio for the past year or two. Now it's on the wall at Eighty-Two/Bantam Coffee Roasters and I'm hoping it sells this weekend. We'll see!

I meant to take a picture of all the art once I hung it, but I forgot. So here is a picture of the beautiful latte Margo(t?) made while I was there hanging art.

Okay. That's today's blog. Sorry I didn't post one yesterday. Now I need to get to trivia. Wish me luck!

#HermansHermits

Delicious... and Unhealthy

I've had a busy, busy, busy day. Nevertheless, here is a quick blog entry that incorporates a scrumptious recipe:

My Favorite Quiche!

Ingredients

1 pie shell (I don't usually make this from scratch, but every now and again I do... However, I'm not providing a recipe for the crust so you'll just have to figure that out on your own -- sorry!)

4 eggs

1 1/4 cup half-and-half (today I added some heavy cream left over from my Guinness cheesecake!)

1/2 teaspoon salt

5 dashes cayenne

1 - 2 cups shredded Swiss

1/2 cup cheddar

1/2 cup mozzarella

3/4 cup cottage cheese

Instructions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Crack eggs into a bowl and "Beat It" like Michael Jackson. Add half-and-half and seasonings, beating those as well. Add all the cheeses and keep mixing things together. Pour the eggy, cheesy concoction into the pie shell. Bake 50 minutes, then let stand at least ten minutes before serving.

Sometimes I add mushrooms and broccoli. Tonight when I made it, I only added mushrooms. I chopped them up into really fine bits because they will make the texture of the quiche a little bit meaty, if you will.

Side note: "Meaty" is not my favorite word. I once read a book for my book club and it was called The Infinities. One thousand percent, I DO NOT recommend it. The story was all about this guy who wore pajamas that were stained and too small, and the main character then tried to fix a radio at the kitchen table, but his hands were meaty and he couldn't manipulate the little pieces (screws and gears and whatnot) as a result. (If my friend Siri is reading this, she'll argue that this was not the gist of the story, but it's pretty much all I remember about that horrid, horrid book.)

Side note #2: I made a quiche tonight because my book club meets tomorrow and we are having breakfast for dinner because we read Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. Fun idea, right? It was all Erin.

I'm going to bed now. Here's what the quiche looks like:

(My advice is to serve it with a salad. That'll counteract some of the calories, I think.)

Short & Sweet

I have a student whom I will refer to as Quick Question. Nearly every single day, Quick Question raises his hand, calls me over to his seat, and says in the most nonchalant manner possible, "Yeah. Ms. Meeson. I have a quick question." He never makes eye contact when he says this, but instead looks at a book lying open on his desk... or at the screen of his laptop, where there's an assignment he's meant to be working on. And then, as I squat down or bend over to see what's proving to be problematic for him, he'll point to a random paragraph and say so incredibly smoothly, "So, how is your day?"

"My day's going pretty well," I'll usually respond. "How is your day?"

"Oh, my day's good."

And that's his question. Every time, that is his question.

I love it! Even though I know it's coming, it cracks me up each time he asks me.

Quick Question didn't ask me about my day today... which means I'm going to have to give him a hard time tomorrow. Or, as I do every once in a blue moon, beat him to the punch!

Book Blogging

My marketing manager Mary and I spent some time at Eighty-Two (soon to be Bantam Coffee Roasters) today! We each had two lattes (vanilla for Mary, plain for me) and contacted a total of thirty-five book bloggers.

THIRTY-FIVE!

So far I've heard back from exactly zero of them, but a couple of them have followed my Instagram page. And, I mean, it's still early. So... fingers crossed.

I need to get some reviews, you know? And when I say "reviews," I do mean for all the things. Have you read The Way Back? If so, please post a review on Amazon or Goodreads! Have you read Just Whistle? If so, please post a review on Amazon or Goodreads! Have you read Like A Flip Turn? If so, please post a review on Amazon or Goodreads! Seriously, for an author, reviews matter a LOT.

In fact, I dare say they matter the MOST.

I met a really nice lady at Eighty-Two today and she was telling me all about this challenge she's doing. She came over to greet Augusta. (I took my Kerry Blue along for part of the brainstorming session, but then had to take her home when another dog visited the coffee shop. The other dog was quiet and well-behaved; Augie was overly barky.) Anyway... back to the really nice lady. She is in the process of reading one hundred books written by obscure British writers. All of them are women and all of them are from the 1930s, I believe. Interesting, eh? She sometimes reads modern things, though, and is going to look up my books. I gave her a business card. She might even come to my book signing on December 2!

Okay. I've done enough marketing and promotional stuff for one day and what I'd like to do right now is spend some time with Bas, Bert, and Lucy. So... I'm off to work on some NaNoWriMo stuff. Poseidon Jr. will be proud because he asks me every day how many words I'm up to and the answer has been a pretty stagnant "three thousand eight hundred and eight," which is 17,859 words behind where I'm supposed to be. But who's counting, right?

The answer? Poseidon Jr.

Therefore, I'm off to do some writing.

Just Whistle just got a facelift!

The story's the same, but the cover is different!

The new-and-improved version of Just Whistle is now available on Amazon, but here's something else that might interest you: I'm going to be selling a limited number of book boxes at a book signing in December! In addition to a brand-spankin' new copy of my novel (signed), you'll also receive a bunch of goodies!

I won't go into specifics because I don't want to ruin the surprise, but know that everything inside the box ties back to the novel... and it's well worth the extra money.

Each box sells for $35 and it's first come, first serve. I only have 20 boxes to sell and four of them have already been spoken for, so if you're interested, send me an email and I'll hook you up!

Anything that doesn't sell at the book signing will be posted on Etsy, but the price will be a bit higher. Plus, you'll need to pay shipping. Sorry about that!

Assuming you'd like to make an appearance at my book signing, here are the details:

When: Friday, December 2, 2022 from about 5:00 - 8:00PM

Where: Bantam Coffee Roasting (formerly Eighty-Two) located at 82 Steinwehr Ave. in Gettysburg

Bonus Info: I'll be selling my art for 10% off that night as well!

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You might be wondering why it's so important for you to hurry up and read Just Whistle, right? I mean, it has been out since 2015 or so... But here's what you maybe don't know: I'll be releasing it's sequel in January! The plan is to post weekly chapters on my website (much like I did for The Way Back) so you'll FINALLY be able to truly meet my three favorite characters: Sebastian Porter, Bert Robinson, and Lucy Campbell.

Here's the gist of Just Whistle's plot for those of you who are unfamiliar with it:

At one point in time, Charley Lane ran barefoot in the orchards surrounding her grandfather’s old farmhouse. She picked berries that stained her fingertips purple and lay on her back among the hops, marveling at the vines reaching heavenward and wondering about the giant who might live in the clouds. Many afternoons had been spent tending the hops with Gramps and brewing beer in the barn. Now, ten years later, 519 Copper Drive looks nearly identical to that image she carries with her from childhood, but one thing is missing as she returns as an adult: Gramps.

Her intent is to sell the farmhouse, but as Charley spends time in the home, surrounding herself with memories, she finds herself unable to part with the magical structure… for the farmhouse is magical. Its floor plan, unlike other architecture, isn’t static. Rooms come and go; its layout is constantly changing.

It doesn’t take long for the farmhouse to charm Charley and change her plans. She realizes she wants to honor both her grandfather and the memories of her childhood by turning the farmhouse into a brewery. Charley recruits the help of Juli Singer, Lake Caywood’s musical handyman, and Addy Birch, a troubled teen, to manifest her vision for the farmhouse. As she grows closer to Juli and restores her relationship with Addy, her old fears start creeping back. Although Charley doesn’t want to hurt anyone again, such an outcome is inevitable.

And here's the first chapter in case you want to get started right now:

1. Charley

If reincarnation is real, and if my soul or my energy or whatever it is that makes me me can return for another shot at life, then I hope to return as a cardinal. Afternoons spent in the treetops, flitting from branch to branch, whistling chipper tunes with songbird friends… It’s about as satisfying an existence as I can imagine. Worries such as health and heartbreak would be imponderable, and my most pressing concern would become the neighborhood cat’s tendency to stalk furred and feathered things. I exhale an envious sigh, pull my gaze away from the crimson bird perched atop the traffic light, and press gently on the accelerator as red changes to green.

It’s been a long time since my last visit to the tiny Pennsylvania town of Lake Caywood. The streets themselves look the same as they did a decade ago: there’s the post office and the bank, and Doc Delaney’s Tavern that seems always to be flooded with light and laughter, each in exactly the same location as it was ten years ago. But something feels different now. Unfamiliar. Like that piece of the town that once belonged to me no longer does, and I no longer belong to it. We were intimate for eighteen years, but time and distance have turned us into complete strangers.

Being in this place that no longer knows me… it causes me to question how well I truly know myself. Anymore, at least. And whether or not I actually do.

Remnants of Christmas linger on Main Street. Wreaths with red bows adorn every lamppost, twinkling icicles of lights hang from rooflines, and window displays consist of snowmen and scarves and wool stockings stuffed with thick peppermint sticks. They’ll come down tomorrow, or maybe the next day, once the world has officially stepped into January. A shiver runs through me, but it isn’t the anticipation of a new year that has me feeling jittery. It’s the dread that sits like a dead weight in the pit of my stomach. Sensing this elevation of nerves, Rhett hangs his head over my shoulder and affectionately nuzzles my cheek. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, reaching up to scratch the soft spot behind his ear. “I love you, too, but I’m driving right now. You’ve gotta sit down, pup. Rhett. Sit.”

He does, but not until administering a final sniff that sprays the right side of my face with dampness. Dog snot. I wipe it away with my sleeve and drum my thumbs against the steering wheel. I should make two stops, but only intend to make one, so at the intersection of Copper and Main I turn left instead of right.

It’s a tree-lined road, and for three seasons out of every year a canopy of leaves shades the pavement below, but for now the limbs are bare. Overhead, skeleton branches form webs of wood, barely moving in the still afternoon. The sky is that murky shade of grey that only makes an appearance in nature’s palette during the coldest months. Sunlight filters down in the same manner that it would through clouded pond water and I instinctively gulp in air, suddenly fearful of drowning, making my lungs tight with oxygen.

I pull the Jeep onto the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath its tires, and grip the steering wheel with white knuckles, my foot pressed heavily on the brake. Rhett’s nose finds its way to my ear and fills it with a loud sniff. “Okay,” I say out loud, to him and to me and to no one. “Okay. So… okay. We’re doing this.” I glance down at the scrap of paper curled into my cup holder, triple-checking the address that’s scrawled there, even though I know it by heart. I could probably navigate the rest of the trip with my eyes closed.

I know this road.

I know this land.

I ran barefoot through the orchards here, climbing squat apple trees to reach sun-kissed fruit that hung from the highest branches. I reached into lush bushes, braving brambles and thorns to fill buckets with plump berries that stained my fingers the color of calligraphy ink. I lay flat on my back, grass tickling my exposed skin, and stared up at those vines of hops that stretched into oblivion, imagining the giant I’d find if I climbed to the top. On August mornings I played house in the cornfield, and when it got too hot to bear the breezeless rooms, I sat on the banks of the pond, serenaded by chirping frogs, catching catfish and then tossing them back with a splash.

I know this land because I grew up here.

The road is deserted, but I use my left turn signal anyway. “Five-nineteen Copper Drive,” I say, sounding stronger than I feel. “We’re really doing this.”

---

At one point in time the roof shone like new pennies, sunlight glinting off of it; now its coloring is more of a sea-foam green. Dormant chimneys stand at opposite ends of the farmhouse, terracotta bricks contrasting with the blueness of the sky, and embraced between them is what I for so many years referred to as “home.” My gaze slides from left to right, just as it would over the pages of a book, but it isn’t a book that I’m reading. It’s my past.

Once brilliantly white, the structure is now chipped and peeling. Ribbons of paint curl away from the siding, revealing wood that’s been forced to weather the elements, and the porch railing looks as though it could have used a fresh coat at least four or five years ago. On the second floor, a shutter hangs slightly askew.

The sight hurts my stomach and my heart.

What have I been doing for all these years? I silently ask myself. Because at this moment in time, parked outside the old farmhouse with the Jeep’s radio whispering to me, staring into windows that are too dark, all of those years spent in Michigan suddenly seem like a monumental waste of time. Where I should have been is right here.

But I’m here now, and showing up is half the battle. That’s what he’d say anyway. I roll my eyes, suddenly irritated, because it’s a phrase I’ve grown to hate. A person has to do more than just show up. A person has to try.

I shut off the engine and remove the key. As a result the heater stops blowing, the radio falls silent, and Rhett, sensing a furthering of adventure, rapidly wags his tail. “Okay,” I tell him, and he leaps into the front seat, following half a step behind as I climb out of the vehicle. With all four feet on solid ground, he executes a full body shake, sniffs the soil, and promptly raises a leg to mark a fallen tree branch. He then sets out to claim additional territory—a fence post, a pinecone, a patch of already-dead grass, the trunk of a cherry tree growing not far from the porch—while I retrieve my bags from the trunk.

I haven’t brought much, but it will have to be enough.

I have no idea how long I’ll be staying.

My breath clouds in front of me as I walk to the porch, floating up and away in white wisps. The air is so crispy that I can just about crunch it. “Rhett!” I call before mounting the first step. “Come on, pup!”

He is across the yard, his nose in a hole and his butt in the air, but he raises his head upon hearing my voice. “Come on,” I repeat, and allow him one more sniff before clapping my hands. “Now, Rhett. Let’s go.”

His muscular body bounds across the frozen ground, ears flapping, and he slams on the brakes just in time to avoid a collision with my legs. “Whoa!” I exclaim, laughing and running a hand through his wiry fur. “Careful.”

Rhett pants happily and nuzzles my hand. Then he leads the way onto the porch, stands before the front door, and scratches once with his paw. “Hold on,” I mutter. “Just be patient.”

The key is in my coat pocket. I reach for it, grip the cold metal, insert it into the lock. For a moment I think that it doesn’t quite fit, but then I jiggle it and something clicks and the heavy wooden door swings open. I half expect the air in the farmhouse to be musty, like it hasn’t circulated for a while, but it just smells like Gramps: strong tobacco and lemon drops. To think that he was here three days ago, putzing around this very kitchen, makes me catch my breath. I blink once, twice, dismissing tears from my eyes, and step inside. I kick the door shut behind me and let my bags fall. Rhett scampers ahead, snout to the floor, exploring… but I just stand there.

Everything is exactly as I remember. Formica countertops, slightly dull after an uncountable number of swipes from sudsy dishcloths and years of housing pots of slippery potpie, screaming hot from the stove, set aside without the use of a trivet. There’s the solid oak table, giant in stature, which required three uncles, two cousins, and a grandfather to finagle into the house. It’s where it’s always been: in the center of everything. We used to stand around it and talk around it and eat around it. When I was just little and Noni was still in good health, she’d tuck her white hair beneath an indigo bandana and roll piecrusts on this table while I nibbled discarded apple skins. Very seldom was it that we’d use the more practical table—the one meant for dining—when partaking of a meal. Everyone simply preferred this one.

The wallpaper is faded, the curtains are drab, and the wood beneath my feet is scuffed and splintered. And yet… this place still feels like home.

I leave my bags where they’ve landed and step farther into the house, flipping on lights as I go. Mahogany crown molding, once polished and gleaming, now hosts cobwebs and a thin layer of dust, and the rugs in the living room are no longer vibrant and bright. They’re tattered from years of foot traffic. The area directly in front of Gramps’s favorite chair, in fact, is practically worn through. Without him sitting there, pipe clenched between his teeth, the large leather armchair seems emptier than a chair without an occupant ought to seem.

Overhead, Rhett’s toenails click-clack against hardwood floors as he explores the maze of rooms above me. I imagine him nuzzling doors open with his nose, poking his head under beds, experiencing scents that are completely new to him. He’s never been here before, after all; this is his first trip to Pennsylvania.

I glance at the clock on the wall, which used to chime every hour, but stopped ticking well over three decades ago. Gramps kept it all these years because it had been a wedding gift, designed and built by a man named Oliver Clay. They’d been friends once upon a time.

The clock is useless, but the darkening sky outside suggests that five o’clock is within sight. For a lot of people, tonight’s happy hour will include champagne. It suddenly occurs to me that my decision to disregard the stop I should have made was a bad one. Tomorrow might be Thursday, but businesses will no doubt be closed. I hurriedly retrace my steps and scoop my purse off the kitchen floor, rummaging in it until my fingers find my phone. Five missed calls and two texts, all from him, but he’s not the person I need to be in touch with. I retrieve a scrap of paper from my back pocket, dial the number that’s scrawled on it, and silently hope someone will pick up. It takes three rings.

“Turley’s Funeral Home,” a man’s voice answers. “This is Leonard. How may I help you?”

“Hi Leonard,” I say. “This is Charley Lane. Charlotte, I mean. Um… I’m calling about my grandfather’s funeral. Jasper Lane?” I put a question mark at the end of his name, as if I’m not certain it’s correct, but of course it is. Saying it out loud though, while speaking with a funeral director, just makes his death seem that much more real.

Papers shuffle in the background and Leonard Turley clears his throat. “Ah, Charlotte. Yes. I was actually expecting you to stop in at some point today. Did the trip take longer than expected?”

“It did,” I lie. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright. I’m glad you called when you did. We’re just getting ready to close up. But let me see…” He trails off and I can faintly hear the sound of fingers flying over a computer keyboard. “Okay. Here we go. The obituary appeared in the paper on Monday, as you probably know, and as far as Friday is concerned, everything is under control. The service is scheduled to begin at ten o’clock.”

“And it’s just for family, correct?”

“It is a private service,” Leonard assures me.

Gramps hadn’t even wanted that. “Just burn me up and sprinkle my ashes with the hops,” he’d always said. But his brother Kirby, my great-uncle, has been insistent about providing a proper send-off. “People need to be given an opportunity to say goodbye,” he’d told me on Monday when he called with the news. “And he needs to be buried beside his wife.”

I’d agreed to a private service, but Gramps had been adamant about the location of his remains. “He’ll be cremated,” I’d stated flatly, leaving no room for argument, “and I’ll scatter his ashes among the hops. It’s what he requested, and it’s what we’re going to do.” The conversation with Kirby hadn’t lasted long after that, and the only communication I’d had with him since was a newspaper clipping—the obituary—that arrived in the mail earlier this week.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Charlotte?” Leonard asks now.

I tell him there isn’t, thank him for his help, and we hang up.

The house seems too quiet, too empty. Rhett still scampers about overhead, creating occasional clatters that remind me he’s up to no good, but it’s not that type of quiet I mean. It’s a lack of laughter and voices and music. Gramps never spent New Year’s Eve alone, and back in his heyday he used to pack the farmhouse with people from all walks of life: mail carriers, doctors, barbers, and waitresses. Dorothy Kirkland, wife of the local shoe salesman, always brought chocolate cupcakes piled high with her famous peanut butter frosting, and the staff from the Tavern came laden with more appetizers than could be consumed in a night. Gramps provided the beer, of course.

It was inevitable that someone would bring a guitar or a banjo, and once the strumming began, feet started moving. Floors shook and windows fogged and people mingled, clinking glasses at midnight. The dancing would last into the wee hours, and thinking back on it, I’m not sure how Gramps was able to squeeze everyone into the house at one time. But somehow he did.

He’d be disappointed in my current New Year’s plans, since I have none at all. No music, no guests, and no bubbly. I intend to put on my pajamas, curl up on the couch, and if I’m still awake when the clock strikes twelve, I’ll watch NBC’s coverage of the ball dropping. Not much of a holiday, really.

Rhett’s footsteps race clumsily down the stairs. He skids around the corner, charging into the kitchen, his tail wagging proudly. Held gently between his powerful jaws is a pipe. I reach down to take it from him, hoping his needle-like teeth have not marred the surface. “Drop it,” I command, sternly. “That belongs to Gramps.” Only after the words are out of my mouth do I realize I’ve used the wrong verb tense.

Rhett releases his grip and I cradle the pipe in my hands, inhaling the aroma of sweet tobacco. Two-toned, it has a marbled red bowl and a black stem. I examine it closely, searching for imperfections, but find nothing. “You know what?” I ask of Rhett, forcing the shakiness from my voice. “We might not have any champagne, but I bet we’ve got beer. The least we can do is toast Gramps.”

Rhett sits on his haunches, cocking his head to one side and watching curiously as I walk to the refrigerator. It hums quietly, and when I yank on the door, light floods the shelves and pools at my feet, illuminating the appliance’s contents. The sight causes me to laugh out loud. There’s a Tupperware container filled with what looks like leftover spaghetti, and a bag of salad that’s seen better days, but it’s the top two shelves that make me smile. They are lined with row after row of beers: amber lagers, golden IPAs, chocolaty stouts, and coffee-colored porters. Gramps bottled each and every one of them.

I grab a pale ale, pry off the cap, and extend the chilled bottle before me.

“This one’s for you, Gramps.”

Trivia Recap: 11/10

The Players: Ben (social studies teacher), Hannah (English teacher), Mary (English teacher), Brock (complicated marketing/graphic design job), Alex (coffee shop owner), Kristin (English teacher)

Hint of the Day: Piggy Bank

Opening Category: AC/DC songs

Round One:

We nailed it. All of the points were earned, as were the bonuses, and we essentially killed it. AC/DC? Check. Three Clues, One City? Check. (Both Ben and I knew this right away because of the lions named Patience and Fortitude, which made me feel really smart because Ben is really smart.) Life on the Farm? Check. (The answer was "pig," and the hint of the day.) TV Sitcoms? Check. (The answer was Two Broke Girls. I am not a fan of that show -- it is so vulgar and not funny, in my opinion -- but thankfully my team knew enough about the show to not only get the answer, but the bonus too!) Novel Trilogies? Check. (Many of us knew this, and the many of us were named Hannah, Mary, and Kristin.)

Round Two:

My team (namely Kristin and Alex) doubted that the first answer was Beyonce... but the answer was Beyonce and because Mary and Ben and Brock supported me, we got that right (along with They Might Be Giants and Jewell). Pretty much everyone except yours truly knew the answer "Michael Corleone" and Ben was our savior with Political Speeches since he knew the answers of "Eisenhower" and "Dulles." Kristin and I knew that "Beechnut" is baby food (Kristin got it straight away!) because she has kids and I have cats who sometimes need chicken baby food when they're sick. Mary, who has a small child, only knew of Gerber; she wasn't aware of Beechnut. We missed the Professional Basketball question because who cares about sports? It was one point. That's the only question we missed in the first two rounds.

Halftime:

We got 17/20, which wasn't bad. On the top, we had to identify shows that included exclamation points. On the bottom, we had to come up with answers that included the word "Master." Some were tricky, but we didn't do a terrible job by any means.

It was around this time that I confided in Ben that I don't think he finds me funny enough. I told him that I very much appreciate his intelligence-intelligence, because the dude is about the smartest person I know, but I sometimes think he should laugh more when I tell him a funny thing. I mean, I had told him a funny thing earlier in the night and he didn't even crack a smile... so I called him out on it because if you know me, you know that I am blunt (and funny!). And I am especially blunt with the people I enjoy most. So I just pointed out to him that he should smile when I tell him a funny thing because I am, after all, funny.

Ben used the excuse that he was eating (which he was), but then he went on to explain his "Ha Ha Scale." Certain things earn more "Ha's" than others. For instance, the word "boogers," I learned tonight, is worthy of a few ha's. I don't really agree with this, as my humor is apparently a bit more... refined, perhaps? I don't know. Whatever. Kristin flat out asked Ben "What makes you ha-ha?" and that resulted in all of us gauging our ha-ha's for the rest of the night. Ben might deem something "One ha for me" while Kristin would say, "That's a lot of ha-ha's from me." And then Ben might say, "Here's something that made me laugh two or three ha-ha's." It was really good in that we paid a lot of attention to what was truly funny. At one point, Ben was being really hilarious in his delivery of a story about flushing a fake poppy down the toilet, but I hid my ha-ha's in my sweatshirt (I just pulled the neckline over my face) so he wouldn't see me laughing because I was determined to reinforce that I'm funny too and he should have laughed earlier in the night. I can be stubborn sometimes.

Round Three:

Not surprisingly, we aced Alcoholic Brand Names and SciFi Authors. Gems and Minerals cost us a lot of points (seven!), but we redeemed ourselves with World History. I called "Beyonce" as the answer to female pop stars before we even got the question, but then we went with "Madonna and Spears." "Spears" was wrong; "Beyonce" was right. Go figure. I need to trust my Beyonce gut ALL THE TIME, not just 50% like I did tonight.

6-4-2:

We got it for four. For six, we were convinced the answer with Kirk Cameron... but thank goodness we waited because the answer WAS NOT Kirk Cameron. It was Ben Affleck!

Round Four:

Ben got two of the three "A Lot of Fords" (Stepford Wives and Rutherford), but Kristin figured out "Cindy Crawford." She also went into the category with a lot of confidence, which became evident when she shared, "I drove an Escort for years." We missed religious phrases (Devil's advocate), but got everything else right: International Landmarks, Saturday Morning TV (Saved By the Bell... and Miss Bliss was the giveaway), and MLB Sluggers (thank you, Ben!).

Final Round:

Ben saved the day yet again with his answer of "Julia Louise Dreyfus" for the last question. That put us into first place -- SUCH an improvement over last week! -- and even though Ben doesn't know any Herman's Hermits songs, he told me I could choose the opening category for next week and I chose Herman's Hermits Songs. That was one of my favorite bands in high school, even though they existed waaaaaaay before my time, and when Adam told everyone the category, everyone promptly looked confused. Herman's Hermits is so much better than AC/DC, though ,and I will for sure be listening to them this upcoming week!

Also, our friend Sarah from Risky Quizness gave us a nice notepad tonight so we can write our responses on real paper instead of napkins. Isn't that kind of her? Even though Risky Quizness is one of our greatest competitors, we love them. And the notepad is perfect! Thank you, Sarah! Much love from The Educated Friends!

Ben's Rainbow Sack

In one of my trivia recaps, I mentioned Ben's rainbow sack and promised to elaborate on the story in a later blog. Well... today is the day for you to learn the entire tale of the rainbow sack! Grab a beverage, find yourself a comfortable seat, and settle in for the explanation.

Ben is big into hydration, which means he brings his water bottle with him to trivia each week. Last winter, he was using a large, blue, metal water bottle. It looked like a trusted friend, you know? It was dented and had obviously been with Ben for quite a while. The two of them had history. The problem with the bottle was that when it fell over (which was often; Ben would set the bottle on the floor and frequently bump it with his foot), it created a lot of noise. Because, you know, it was metal.

One of Ben's coworkers, Amanda, plays on another trivia team: Risky Quizness. Often times, Amanda brings her crocheting to trivia and creates things while she helps her team earn points. The evening that Ben's water bottle was making a particularly obnoxious amount of noise, I approached Amanda and wondered if she'd ever considered crocheting a koozie that would fit Ben's water bottle. She hadn't, but she wasn't opposed to the idea, and she instantly announced that if she did make a koozie for the water bottle, she'd use rainbow yarn and provide a pocket. I just needed to hook her up with the measurements.

This sounded like an easy enough task, but the following week Ben showed up sans water bottle! "Where's your friend?" I wondered, and then learned that it was in my school district's dugout. Ben had been on campus for a baseball game and left it behind. I asked him if he wanted me to retrieve it for him, as I'm on campus every single day, but he acted like this wasn't necessary. I knew how much the water bottle meant to Ben, however, and so the following day my third-period students and I took a mini field trip.

There was a moment of concern. The water bottle wasn't immediately visible as Ben had apparently tucked it up into a corner of the dugout, but my girls found it and pranced back to me, holding the container as if it were a trophy. I filmed the entire thing and sent it to Ben, letting him know his prized possession had been found. What I did not share with Ben was that I recorded the measurements of his water bottle and sent them to Amanda.

Weeks passed.

Then one day Amanda showed up at trivia and she had with her a rainbow sack! Not only did it have a pocket... it had a strap! Ben could wear it over his shoulder and go hands-free whenever he wanted!

That was the last time anyone from The Educated Friends or Risky Quizness saw the rainbow sack, though. At least face-to-face. Ben has never once brought his rainbow sack to trivia. Darren once suggested that he might be more inclined to use his rainbow sack if I stopped referring to it as "his rainbow sack," but I can't imagine what else I might call it. I mean, it is a rainbow sack. And it's his! For his water bottle.

Ben drove west this summer. Sometimes he's like a fictional character. I mean, he just randomly told us one night at trivia that he'd miss the next couple weeks due to traveling west. "Where are you going?" we asked.

"Oh, here and there," he informed us. "I want to visit my friend in Colorado, and maybe my brother in California, but I don't know if I'll make it that far. We'll see."

"How long will you be gone?" we wondered.

"Two or three weeks. I don't know yet," he admitted.

"Are you flying?" we demanded.

"Driving," he clarified.

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

"Do you have AAA?" I wanted to know.

He didn't, but he was intending to get it before he left. (Which he did.)

"Hey," I said conspiratorially to Ben, leaning over to pose a scenario. "Will you do me a favor?"

"What kind of favor?"

"Will you take the rainbow sack out west with you and take pictures of it in a beautiful location?"

He didn't promise to do it.

But guess what.

HE DID IT! The rainbow sack and Ben's beloved water bottle and Ben all traveled west together! And because he's a good person and team member, Ben dutifully sent photographs of his rainbow-sack clad bottle for me to share with the team on Thursday nights.

The End.

My Buddy

I have a friend whom I call Buddy and I sometimes think I don't give her enough credit. She is an absolutely amazing human and some of the kindest compliments I've ever received have come from her. So this blog is for Buddy... to thank her for always boosting my self-esteem and recognizing my talents.

Here are three quick stories, because it is getting late:

After my brother Pip passed away, I asked several of my friends to come over and celebrate his life. They showed up on a Friday afternoon and we gathered in my house and it was very loud because there were so many people talking. My dear friend Biz brought a can of beef stew because there was this one time that Biz and I were in my family's basement playing Taboo! with Pip and his friends (they were in high school and we were in college, I think) and Biz gave me the clue, "You put things in it!" and I exclaimed for reasons I will never understand, "Beef stew?!" And I was right. I don't even eat red meat... But anyway. Buddy and I were in my living room while the rest of my noisy friends were in the kitchen, talking and laughing and all sorts of things, and Buddy said to me, "You are really good at taking an absolutely horrible situation and turning it into a positive thing." It's a comment that has stuck with me over the years, because I do try to find the good hidden amongst the bad. It meant a lot -- and still does -- that she recognized that. Buddy attended my book club for my novel Running Through the Words. When I have a book club for something I've written, I choose trusted friends and give them really early versions of the book. Like, when they receive the novel, I maybe went through it once to check for spelling mistakes. At the Running Through the Words book club, my Other Mother had a lot to say. This meant that others didn't have a chance to say as much, so afterward, Buddy texted, "I don't feel like I really got a chance last night to say how much I really loved your book, but you should know that I really did. Right up there with the others!" Last night, I was communicating with Buddy about how insanely awesome Marisa de los Santos is. I sent her a screenshot of the correspondence I'd had from Marisa de los Santos and Buddy wrote back, "She seems really down to earth. You'll be like her when you are famous." It's probably the nicest thing she could have said because I really want to be like Marisa de los Santos if/when I acquire a solid following and (fingers crossed) a book deal. I know what it's like to rely on folks to help you out and I hope that I never forget how much it means to experience a quick note from a beloved author, musician, or artist. Because it means the world.

So that's my blog for Buddy. I love her and hope she knows how much her friendship means to me.