At some point, years and years ago, during a vacation at my dad’s, a tradition began. A crossword puzzle was copied and handed to me, in addition to the copy my dad worked off of, and the original that my second mom completed each morning. They both were much faster and more accurate than I, but I readily justified that advantage to retirement and practice. The competition was friendly and perhaps more self-imposed than anything between the three of us (although it’s hard to discredit much of anything my family does as not having some kind of competitive edge to it.)
My memories of the crossword are deeply connected to the glide of a wicker couch, the sunrise over the lake and the quiet of the house in early morning hours. Eventually, at my dad’s, others would arise and sit and visit. While a gallant effort was initially made, the puzzle usually lasted me much of the day, with lingering questions and changes being made well into the afternoon and evening.
Eventually, the conversation would start. “Were you as baffled by 12 down as I was?” “I never would have gotten 16 across if I hadn’t gotten most of the letters from the intersecting words to help me out.” “I still can’t get 36 across, but don’t tell me. I haven’t given up yet!”
My dad would even print out the puzzle for me on the day I left Tennessee to head back home. Driving the long hours back home I would ponder clues and try out my answers, the puzzle keeping me entertained during a very long and otherwise uneventful drive. Years later, in fact, I found my half-completed crosswords tucked into the Rand McNally map under the back seat of my car. I couldn’t help but smile.
Just recently, my second mom inquired if I’d like her to send me the daily puzzles by email. I had just started back to in-person teaching after months of COVID-related virtual lessons. It took me a few weeks before I even responded, but I eventually accepted, looking forward to a connection with my family that I don’t see as often as I’d like – a word bridge across 500 miles.
Now, each day, during the only 15 minutes of “break” time I have during the entire day of teaching, I sit in the empty teacher’s lounge and work on the daily puzzle. I don’t think about the math lesson I’m teaching four times that day.
I don’t think about all the reading or writing lessons I wish I were teaching instead. I don’t think about all the ways I miss having my own classroom of kids instead of rotating through several. I don’t even think about the pandemic. I take off my mask, pick up my favorite 0.9 leaded mechanical pencil, and I think about what river in Venezuela has an ‘n’ in the middle (I still don’t know), or what is a three letter word for a diving bird (a clue I only solved by using the intersecting letters). I think about my dad and my second mom. How envious I am of their retirement years. How envious I am of my second mom’s memory, especially for books and movies and words. Especially words. I think about my dad’s methodical approach, not just to puzzles, but to life. How careful he is. How rarely, if ever, he needs to use an eraser. Literal or proverbial.
I am grateful for those very fast 15 minutes, when I never get the puzzle done, nor entirely right, but for one far-too-short portion of my day, I find joy in a puzzle, joy in a memory, joy in NOT thinking. And any way you look at it, across, down or sideways, I am blessed by this little thing.
Blessed Little Things 