Wintry Conditions in Wimpville

It seems I am in good company. President Obama was surprised his daughters' schools were closed Wednesday on account of wintry conditions. Matt's school was closed Tuesday and Wednesday and will open two hours late today. By closed, I mean locked up tighter than a federal maximum-security prison . . . as Matt can attest after spending 40 minutes on the Metro followed by a 20-minute uphill hike in freezing temperatures and gently falling snow Tuesday morning. Some parents were notified by e-mail but, alas, not the parent in this house who is up and checking for messages at 5:30 am.

This picture shows the sum total of the snowfall by the time the "storm" ended Tuesday afternoon. About two inches, don't you think? Which is -- riddle me this -- two inches more than accumulated on the sidewalk on the north side of G Street. Thank goodness we live on the south side of the street or I might not have had the chance to use the shovel Mike bought Sunday after checking the extended forecast. Mike has been looking for an excuse to buy a snow shovel ever since we visited Michigan in late December. "Your brothers seem to be involved in some sort of driveway-clearing competition. We need to uphold the family honor if it ever snows in D.C.!"

We upheld the family honor by clearing snow from our sidewalk as well as Bob's while Mike sat in a warm office pushing paper and Matt recovered from his two-hour roundtrip misadventure. We savored what we've decided to call hyperlucidity after just 10 minutes of repetitious physical movement in bracing weather. (You will not find hyperlucidity in your Webster's New World College Dictionary; thanks to that anonymous blogger I felt compelled to instruct on "The History of The Twilight Zone" a couple of weeks ago, I have taken up neology.) Prepare thyselves for some hyperlucid insights on how Congress proposes to fund a $35 billion expansion of the children's health insurance program.

Many of you are wondering how Mike's daughter Juli -- now going by Jewls -- is coping. The Oregon MS Chapter recently published her story on their website: http://orc.nationalmssociety.org/site/PageServer?pagename=ORC_mymsoregon. She is pretty amazing (and hyperlucid, to boot!)

Ask a Simple Question

Katie proposed we make a sidetrip to Detroit to check out the Motown Historical Museum the next time we visit Michigan. Thinking to save myself a little research time, I shot off an e-mail to several of my Michigan relatives: Have any of you been to this museum?

The only straight answer came from niece Amy. The rest of the e-mail string looks like this:

• I have not been, but I heard it through the grapevine that it is worth the trip.


• "I'll Be There."


• There ain't no mountain high enough to keep me from getting there the next time we're in Michigan.


• Looks like this deal is signed, sealed, delivered. So I can't help myself, I'll be leaving here with my girl and look forward to dancing in the street all night long.


• So . . . Someday We'll Be Together at the Motown Museum.


• Mercy, Mercy me, this type of humor makes me want to holler.

Matt and Kate bandied a few more across the dinner table yesterday while Mike and I convulsed with laughter and choked on leftovers. I was so worried that Matt was going to beat me to the last Dove bar that I didn't stop chewing long enough to write down any of their quips. Yes, I know. I really need to get my priorities straight.

Hail Mary, Quite Contrary

Sherman and Amanda changed clothes at our house between the swearing-in and the Biden Ball. Finally having a chance to meet them was a highlight of Inauguration Day for me.

Katie befriended Sherman at college, freshman year if I'm not mistaken (and we all know she'll let us know if I am). He landed a job on Senator Biden's staff after graduation, continued working for him throughout the campaign, and does not want to follow him to the West Wing (or wherever it is the Vice President checks his e-mail). Right now he is working for a Massachusetts senator while he looks for a staff assignment that suits his personality and talents. (My unsolicited advice: Steer clear of Diane Feinstein. I am still flabbergasted by her utter disregard for the comfort of all those parade-goers and the happiness of all those teenage musicians as she waxed on, and on, and on, and on.)

Sherman teaches CCD (think "Catholic Sunday School") to middle schoolers in Arlington. He takes this volunteer job so seriously he's enrolled in an Old Testament class at a local college. This impresses me so much. I failed miserably as a fifth-grade CCD teacher in the mid-90s. There are a half dozen recent college graduates in the Florida Panhandle who still haven't memorized the Hail Mary because I could never manage to keep them on task.


Sherman and Amanda are the only people I know who had tickets to the inauguration. Even Mike's boss, the first African-American Surgeon General of the Navy, didn't merit an invite. I've decided not to count the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff since he averted his gaze (!) the last time we passed in a hallway, leading me to suspect he has either taken a peek or two at this blahg or is still feeling guilty (as well he should) about cancelling that Tiger Cruise for kids in 1998.

Oops, I'm starting to think unkind thoughts. Better go say a Hail Mary. Has anyone seen that laminated holy card?

Nine Blocks Down, 17 To Go

They say there were 1.8 million people at the inauguration but I think they miscounted. I ran into at least that many people at the intersection of Independence Avenue and 3rd Street SW a few minutes after President Obama's speech. (This was while you were listening to the poem that 1.8 million of us did not hear because we all thought the ceremony ended with the speech.) Roughly 1.7 million people were heading south in search of the elusive 3rd Street tunnel. Peevish, who will never know what it feels like to be part of a majority, was trying to go east.

Drawing on tactics learned and honed in the early 80s playing PacMan at every bar in North Central Texas, Peevish waltzed and sidestepped across that human tidal wave without stepping on any toes or elbowing any ribs. All that stood between her and an empty stretch of Independence Avenue was a phalanx of D.C.'s finest. "This street is closed. Please detour to the south."

Diving back into the tidal wave, Peevish skirted the Hubert H. Humphrey Building, which she later learned is home to the Department of Health and Human Services. Behind the Humphrey Building she spied a ramp offering a clear shot to 2nd Street. The young man a few feet ahead of Peevish hesitated momentarily at the raised automobile barrier. "I've got your back," Peevish assured him before coaxing a pair of twentysomethings to follow her. Down the ramp, past a loading dock, up the other side they skipped.

The exit was 10 feet away when three beefy security guards suddenly appeared on the loading dock and directed us to turn back. "This ramp has been secured by the Secret Service!" "Not very well," sassed Peevish just before crashing into the back of that hesitant young man. "Run for it," she hissed. "I think they have guns," he croaked as he started hiking back to 3rd Street. "You would never have survived the 60s," Peevish tutted just before her semi-maternal instincts kicked in. Ascertaining there were no police dogs in the area, she positioned herself between Mr. Hesitant and the security guards on the march back to the tidal wave.

Peevish did not make any rude hand gestures in the direction of the security guards not because she is a mature adult but because (a) she did not want to risk further frostbite by removing a mitten, and (b) she had lost all feeling in her hands six hours earlier and feared an exposed finger might fly through the air. Peevish has watched too many Coen Brothers' films.

Mpfft . . . Mpfft . . . Mpfft

That's the sound of me keeping my big mouth shut.

"PIC 2009 strongly discourages all volunteers from blogging on any topic while they are volunteering with PIC 2009." (Volunteer Information Manual, p. 6)

What they really meant to say was probably more along the lines of "Please do not publish any photographs on the internet that show you posing with a life-size cardboard cutout of a political figure, especially a political figure who is not an elderly white male Republican."

I am honored to have had the opportunity to participate in a presidential inauguration, especially one that captured the hearts and imaginations of so many Americans and visitors from other lands. Team 20, my group, was assigned to greet people entering the National Mall from the south via 12th Street, about half a block west of the Smithsonian Castle. Once that part of the mall was filled to capacity, we were tasked with keeping the area directly in front of a wheelchair pavilion clear to give the disabled people a chance to see the top half of a giant TV screen positioned about a block east of us.

Not being an early riser by nature, I was surprised by how dark it was when I left the house shortly after 4:30 am. It was still dark at 5:30 am when a man slipped on a big patch of ice on Team 20's turf. He flew about 4 feet in the air and landed on his back. A lady named Lynn and I decided to plant ourselves in front of that frozen puddle while we waited for our Team Captain to make assignments. Three hours later it was no longer dark out and we were still directing traffic around the ice, waiting to hear from our Team Captain. (Note: Mike says my volunteer experiences tend to turn out happier, at least for me, when I'm the one in charge.)

Lynn's approach involved a sweet smile and barely audible, "Be careful of the ice." I opted for dramatic arm movements I hadn't used since the last time I performed the MSU Fight Song in 1973 and my biggest, bossiest voice. BEAR TO YOUR LEFT! GO AROUND THE ICE! ICE! (How could I possibly mispronounce a one-syllable word?) FROZEN WATER! Midway through Hour Two, encouraged by a high school chaperone who had nothing better to do than applaud my efforts from the other side of a metal fence, I got in touch with my inner rapper/Marcia, "It won't feel very nice (shake, shake) if you fall upon the ice (shake, shake)." Holding our ground wasn't easy with hundreds of people streaming towards us, especially since about half those people were paying more attention to their cell phones than their surroundings. I do believe we played Chicken -- and won -- against nearly every man who's been a linebacker on a college and/or NFL team in the past 30 years.


While I was witnessing the swearing-in on the Mall, Katie and her pals were freezing their fannies off on the parade route. They had a slumber party in our basement apartment last night after polishing off a few bottles of wine. Pat (far left) was a year behind Katie in high school and is now the assistant admissions director at George Mason University; Jana (second from left) and Katie were high school classmates and then college roommates for three years; Pam (second from right) works with Katie (and Jana's father).

Cenotaphs Clash with Delusions of Grandeur

A cenotaph is "a monument or empty tomb honoring a person or persons whose remains are elsewhere." At Congressional Cemetery, however, the term refers to 165 sandstone blocks honoring congressmen who died in office during the first decades of our nation and about half of those blocks mark an actual gravesite. From a certain angle, this part of the cemetery has the feeling of a giant chessboard.

When Senator Uriah Tracy (CT) died in Washington in July 1807, the fairly new government and even newer city had to figure out what to do when members of the government died while in office and their remains could not be transported home. No one really knows why the new burial ground at Christ Church was selected instead of the municipal burial ground, but back then municipal burial grounds in most cities tended toward the ill-kept and the church's property might have been the city's most secure site in the grave-robbing era. At any rate, as of 1807 any congressman who died and was not returned home was buried at Christ Church and the burial grounds soon became known as Congressional Cemetery.

Benjamin Henry Latrobe (1764-1820) sketched the original cenotaph design while he was working on the Capitol building. Latrobe was born near Leeds (England, for you geographically-challenged) and studied engineering and then architecture before opening his own practice in 1791. In 1795 he hightailed it to the New World, thus ensuring his place in history as our "first professional engineer and architect," a distinction he soon parlayed into a paid gig: redesigning the interior of the Capitol south wing beginning in 1803 (some day soon we will reflect on how new that interior was when congress determined redesign was required). After the British burned the Capitol in 1814, congress re-hired Latrobe to oversee restoration but eventually he resigned in a dispute over authority (suggesting we might have been kindred spirits).

Latrobe's design and the use of sandstone from Aquia Creek, which empties into the Potomac a few miles south of Washington, earned lots of unfavorable reviews. One critic deplored the lack of "any pretension to splendor" and another decried the use of sandstone rather than marble. The average cost of a cenotaph was $125. According to cemetery historians, by the time the use of the cenotaphs was discontinued in 1870 congressmen were typically transported home for burial, plus the national cemetery system was created after the Civil War. Being a historian of a more cynical bent myself, I think those Reconstruction-era congressmen just didn't like the idea of being memorialized on a hunk of stone shaped like a pawn.

Oh, before I forget: The opinions expressed in this blog are mine alone. I am not speaking for the president-elect or pic 2009. Because, like, you know, I worry you would ever be stupid enough to think anything to the contrary. Oh, and I also may not accept gifts of any value from federally-registered lobbyists, most of whom are probably cheapskate attorneys who asked their former law school classmates who now work for the federal government to include that provision in the Transition Code of Ethical Conduct so they would not have to buy me presents. Fortunately, because so few of you have attended law school, the code does not bar gifts from family members or close personal friends if a prior relationship and history of gift giving establish that the gift is not intended unduly to influence the recipient. I'll start checking my mailbox in about a week to give you a few days to browse the sale racks at WalMart.

Brunch is a Foreign Concept

Takematsu is in town! She has been in the USA for nearly a month, interviewing with residency programs in Grand Rapids, Philadelphia, Brooklyn, and Norfolk. This week she'll be interviewing with Georgetown University/Washington Medical Center and then she'll head to New Haven, circle back to Philadelphia, and stop by the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota before returning to Japan at the beginning of February. (Securing a residency slot requires a lot more time and travel than I realized.) It was so much fun to catch up on what's been happening in her life since she completed her internship at USNH Yokosuka last May.

We took her to brunch at the historic Old Ebbitt's Grill across from the White House so she got to do a teeny bit of sightseeing. The parade reviewing stands are all set up in Lafayette Park and most public buildings are decked out in bunting (much of which looks a bit dingy up close). During his morning run, Mike had to detour around several military bands which seemed to be involved in a dress rehearsal complete with road closures.

Speaking of the inauguration, my training session is tomorrow night. First they wanted me to be at the convention center at 6:30 pm. Then they changed their minds and asked me to please arrive by 5:30 pm. This morning they moved the starting time to 5:00 pm. I'm bemused by this process (or lack thereof). Do you suppose it will ever dawn on them that maybe they should have secured the services of a professional event planner?

Peevish Resolves to Ch-ch-ch-change for Better

We're not finished with Congressional Cemetery -- not by a long shot, and there will be a test -- but I wanted to throw a splash of color in winter gloom's face. Three neighbors who live across from the cemetery were happy to oblige.

Suburbanites and even those of you squished into Japanese houses are probably thinking these rowhouses look pretty small. You are thinking correctly. Incredibly, a similar house just a few doors down from us sold for $635,000 last month. What do people who live in $600,000 houses do for a living? If the answer is "work for the government," that would pretty much explain the concept of Beltway Mentality, wouldn't it?

Remind me not to log onto the internet until after I've gulped down my first cup of coffee. This morning, when I should have been reviewing my Stamp Stampede script in preparation for leading my first tour since mid-December, I felt compelled to comment on a total stranger's blog. I know it is totally ridiculous to allow myself to get irked by statements like "One Step Beyond was the precursor to Twilight Zone," but there you have it.

My friend Wendy has added a whimsical border to her blog. I'm hoping she'll tell me how she pulled this off. I would try to figure it out for myself but I'm too busy commenting on strangers' blogs, researching Rod Serling's biography (interesting), being appalled by a misplaced apostrophe in a message I received from Matt's school, and searching for instructions on how to embed photographs that Diane sent me months ago. Oh, yes, and trying to do something with my hair lest I terrify a score of seven-year olds. Stephen has done a fine job of transforming me into David Bowie, the Ziggy Stardust version no less, so I have banned him from using scissors for at least two months. So much for catching up on my reading at the beauty parlor.

Purr-fect Pupils for Pretend Schoolroom

Please excuse the quality of this picture. Our resident photographer reached quietly for the nearest camera device, which happened to be his blackberry, when he spotted the cats listening attentively to me stumbling my way through chapter nine of Lee's Tarnished Lieutenant. You probably thought I was kidding when I told you I was teaching Matt's cats to read . . .

I didn't even know the cats were there until a few seconds before Mike snapped the picture. Those chairs were lined up classroom-style temporarily while I de-Christmased the house, a chore well-suited to frequent breaks, but aren't most chores?

I've fallen behind on my resolution to plow through at least one chapter of non-fiction a day in 2009 so that's how I was spending my break time yesterday. Reading aloud is how I push myself through the duller passages. Contrary to popular opinion, I read aloud to keep myself awake not to savor the sound of my own voice. I don't really like the sound of my own voice, in fact; it's too nasally, monotonous, and sibilant (and I should know because I studied Voice and Articulation -- twice, in fact -- at Michigan State University in the early 1970s).

This reading thing is quite remarkable, don't you agree? Neither cat budged until I finished the chapter and closed the book. With any luck, we'll wrap up the Civil War this weekend and move on to something more uplifting, like the Great Depression or Potato Famine.

P.S. My team leader contacted me today. I will be one of 25 volunteers assigned to Grid 2. We expect to find out exactly where Grid 2 is located during the training session next weekend, but it is definitely somewhere on the Mall between the Capitol and Washington Monument. Meaning "not indoors." And -- you'll love this -- my services will be needed from 4:00 am until about 3:00 pm. Mike says I shouldn't even bother going to bed the night before. He's already dreading the prospect of delivering that wake-up call.

Give Me a "G"

This entry took a bit of research. A less dedicated bloggist might have settled for telling you that Elbridge Gerry was the great-great-something-grandfather of Elbridge Cleaver but I knew I could count on one of my younger brothers or children to publicly humiliate me by pointing out that Mr. Cleaver's first name is Eldridge with a D. Hence, several hours of research. Not that I'm complaining. Learning about the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA) is a lot more rewarding than putting away Christmas decorations, especially the baubles I haven't finished putting up yet.

This might come as a surprise to you -- it certainly did to me -- but most of us have heard of Elbridge Gerry (1744-1814). Not because he signed the Declaration of Independence (and is the only signer buried in the Mid-Atlantic region). Not because he served as ambassador to France and was James Madison's second vice president in 1813-14. No, we have heard of Elbridge Gerry because, as governor of Massachusetts in 1812, he signed a bill that gave his party a majority by redistricting Essex County in the shape of a salamander. Gerry + (sala)mander gave us the word gerrymander. Oh, yes, now you remember.

How do YOU pronounce gerrymander? Thanks to Mr. Crowley, my tenth grade history teacher (may he rest in peace), I have always pronounced the word with a J sound, as in jerrymander. It turns out Elbridge's surname was pronounced with a hard G sound, as in go, get, or beg, but only some extremely old college professors pronounce the word correctly. Webster's New World College Dictionary opts for the J sound, noting the word was originally pronounced with a hard G.

Have you ever read those roman numeral pages in the front of a dictionary? Me neither until last night. That's when I learned the pronunciations used in my dictionary reflect the most commonly spoken American English. The IPA, used by many British and foreign language dictionaries as well as language specialists, is not used by Webster's because most Americans are not familiar with it. Let's see if I have this straight: my 1700-page dictionary, the one my college professors insisted was worth the $75 investment, can be counted on to tell me the most common MISpronunciation of a word rather than the correct pronunciation.

Anyone saddled with a first name like Elbridge, particularly someone who signed the Declaration of Independence, deserves to have his surname pronounced correctly so I intend to start pronouncing gerrymander with a hard G sound starting today. Be sure to let me know if you can think of ways I might incorporate the word into my daily conversations. Right now, all that springs to mind is, "Excuse me, grocery stockperson, but has someone gerrymandered all the peppermintstick ice cream?"

The TOMB of Elbridge Gerry, Vice President of the United States; who died suddenly in this city on his way to the Capitol as President of the Senate, November 23, 1814; aged 50. Thus fulfilling his own memorable injunction: "It is the duty of every citizen, though he may have but one day to live, to devote that day to the good of his country."

Processions, Then and Now

The Arsenal Monument in Congressional Cemetery marks the graves of more than a dozen of the 21 girls and young women who died in an explosion at the Washington Arsenal in June 1864. They were filling cartridges with gunpowder as part of the Union war effort when the sun's heat set off fireworks drying in pans outside the building. A burning fuse flew through an open window, igniting the gunpowder.

The newspaper accounts of this tragedy are not for the faint-hearted. Journalism was apparently an entirely different profession in the Nineteenth Century. I tossed and turned all night after reading of charred remains encased in wire hoops, mothers swooning upon recognizing a scrap of fabric or shoe, and girls leaping from second-story windows to race in flames toward the river.

The funeral was the largest public event in the city's history up to that point. The cortege, led by President Lincoln and Secretary of War Stanton, took 35 minutes to pass each point between the Arsenal and cemetery because it included 90 pall bearers and 2,000 mourners. Spectators lined Pennsylvania Avenue, peered out of windows, and stood on rooftops to pay their respects. Every male Arsenal employee forfeited a day's wage to pay the burial expenses but the War Department soon insisted on picking up the tab.

The city will witness another procession about two weeks from now when Barack Obama is sworn in as President. This parade will go west on Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House rather than east toward Congressional Cemetery and, judging from all the advance reports, promises to be a jubilant occasion. The Washington Post reported the other day that the Presidential Inaugural Committee (PIC) has received 60,000 applications from people wanting to volunteer for the event, which is quite overwhelming considering fewer than 30,000 volunteers will be required.

Big surprise, my innate curiousity got the better of me about four hours before the application deadline. I logged on to the PIC website and completed an application, figuring my "no" response to the question about volunteering during the campaign would eliminate me from the pool of volunteer candidates. Apparently not. I've been invited to attend a volunteer training session at the Washington Convention Center a week from tomorrow. That's when I'll get my assignment which I sure hope will not involve attending a ball (one question on the application was "Do you own formal attire?") because (a) I'm not sure I can fit in my formal attire after my annual fudge binge, and (b) an article in today's newspaper says the inaugural balls have not been elegant affairs since Eisenhower took office so participants are advised to bring their own snacks, wear comfortable shoes, and be prepared to spend most of the evening standing in long lines.

Greeting visitors at Union Station would play to my strengths and keep me out of the elements. I sure hope the Committee has figured that out.

Another Year, Another Cemetery

Congressional Cemetery is three short blocks east of our house. Until today I've always headed west when leaving the house because that's where the action is -- the Capitol, the Library of Congress, the National Mall, the Smithsonian Institution, and the Potomac River. Today, it being the new year and all, I decided to get a little more adventurous.

The cemetery was established as the Washington Parish Burial Ground in 1807, just half a score and seven years after the District of Columbia was created (and 70 years before Arlington National Cemetery came into being). Many notable Americans are buried here, including John Philip Sousa, J. Edgar Hoover, Matthew Brady, Thomas P. "Tip" O'Neill, and Cochise's son, Taza.

By the mid-Twentieth Century the cemetery had gone to the dogs, literally. Packs of wild dogs roamed the hillside, deterring all but the most intrepid visitors. I'm sure glad I didn't live here then. Appalled by the situation, 400 Capitol Hill neighbors formed the Association for the Preservation of Historic Congressional Cemetery in 1976. They have made remarkable progress in preserving this national treasure.

Some of their success can be attributed to what they call the K9 Corps. Membership in the K9 Corps is limited to 600 dogs (is it just me or does that seem like a LOT of dogs?) who have the privilege of cavorting unleashed across the 30-acre hillside when their owners pay a $50 registration fee, $200 annual dues, and volunteer 12 hours a year helping maintain the grounds.

The K9 Corps is not allowed to use the cemetery on Saturdays between the hours of 10:00 am and 3:00 pm so, after carefully checking my watch, I ambled down the street to Congressional Cemetery with Mike this morning. We were greeted in the gatehouse by five friendly neighbors, including a Civil War expert who passed muster by correctly naming the actor who played General James Longstreet in Gettysburg (Tom Beringer). We were offered a guided tour but, being introverted autodidacts, we elected to explore on our own.

We took lots of pictures, so prepare yourself. Unfortunately, although I bade him do so, Mike did not get a picture of the two unleashed large spotted dogs we ran into on the far side of the cemetery. He says it was impossible to lift the camera while I was alternately burrowing in his armpit and shooting dagger glances at the evil dogowner who didn't bother to call his dogs when it was pretty darn obvious I wasn't thrilled to be circled by 300 pounds of frisky exuberance. Still, I'm looking forward to exploring more of Congressional Cemetery, just not by myself.

What Did Della Wear?

The Michigan tree is easy to spot on the Ellipse, and not just because the trees are lined up in alphabetical state order. This year's Michigan ornaments were made by students at a grade school in Three Rivers. Someone might want to tell them that the thumb is on the east side of the state rather than the west . . .

I'm glad I'm from a state with a unique shape rather than one of those lopsided triangles or vague rectangles. State shapes fascinate me, actually. Why does Maryland have a long skinny arm stretching across Virginia's shoulders to pinch up against West Virginia? Who decided Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia would share the peninsula between the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean? Together we will learn the answers to these and other questions when I get around to reading a book about state shapes I picked up at the Museum of American History. Lucky you.



We went back to E Street Cinema today with Katie to see Slumdog Millionaire, a poignant and thought-provoking film. On our way home on the Metro, I wanted to choreograph a Bollywood-style dance scene using the other riders but Mike and Katie were having none of that idea. They can be so stodgy sometimes.



The boys are still immersed in an alternative reality. They emerge from their lair every 12 hours or so to request clean towels or a hot meal, but were totally oblivious when gusty winds busted off a section of roof edging the day before yesterday. Little branches pelted me whenever I stuck my head out the door to check conditions but we had it good compared to the kindly priest in Loudon County, northwest of D.C., who lost his life when a tree fell on him while he was clearing branches from a road. How sad.

Happy New Year From Eva Knievel

It doesn't take much to amuse Mike and Matt. Slipping the telephoto lens between the blind slats when Freecycler Brian came to claim the old camera bag, they clicked off nearly a dozen shots unbeknownst to me or Brian. Those pictures showed up in the shared pictures file on my computer yesterday, labelled "drug deal." I hope the FBI person assigned to monitor my computer has a quirky sense of humor. I guess we'll find out, won't we?

Environmentally aware people freecycle for all the right reasons but I doubt anyone would accuse me of being environmentally aware. Yes, I took the kids to Earth Day at Mount Trashmore in Virginia Beach in the mid-90s but I'm fairly certain our attendance was mandated by one of their teachers. The expression "reducing my carbon footprint" tastes pleasantly sophisticated when it rolls off my tongue but I'm not exactly sure what it means so I only say it around Mike because he rarely calls my bluff on stuff like this.

There are a couple things I like about freecycling you won't read about in their promotional material, which is too bad because maybe more people would jump on the recycling bandwagon for the wrong reasons than the right reasons and the whole point, after all, is getting people to recycle.

There's a slightly thrilling yet scary aura surrounding each encounter (it's probably a lot like going on a blind date). You've got those safety and identification issues to address: "I'll meet you at the top of the Metro escalator at 4:30. I'll be wearing orange clogs and a green fedora." (That's another thing: freecycling allows you to wear your most eccentric clothes in public under the guise of making things easier for the other party.)

Then there's the handoff and the attendant pleasure of spending a few minutes in the company of someone who is either a lot more environmentally aware than you will ever be and/or effusively appreciative about getting something for nothing. I tend to spend more time on the handoff than is strictly necessary (hence the 12 clandestine pictures) but you probably already guessed that.

Doesn't the word itself sound like a risky, physically demanding sport? This makes me giggle. If some people, admittedly people who don't know me very well or AT ALL, can picture me on a bicycle soaring across the Grand Canyon or careening down a ski ramp in the Swiss Alps, that's fine with me. "You won eight gold medals in Beijing? I'm so pleased to meet you! I freecycle," she said modestly.