Close to thirty-five years ago, on the night before our wedding, Bill took his son Bill J. Into the laundry room for a DIY haircut. Let’s just say that back then, our financial situation was far different than it is now, and home-grown haircuts saved money. Partway through the process, the guard on the end of the electric clippers came loose and fell off. My Bill uttered a very ungentlemanly word followed by these. “Looks like you’ll have to wear a hat.” If you were to get a glimpse of the wedding photos, you’ll see Bill J. sporting a small but prominent bald spot just over one ear. All these years later, since Bill J. is mostly bald, that wouldn’t be such a big deal, but back then it was.

So this morning, in the shower, the last vestige of my February manicure—complete with Big Apple Red polish–came off. I’d had the manicure done in advance of the Tucson Festival of Books—which was cancelled. I was going to have it done in advance of our Disney Cruise—which was also cancelled. After that all nail and hair salons went into Covid 19 hibernation where they remain as of today.

For days, Bill has been threatening to steal one of my scrunchies and turn the hair at the back of his neck into a man bun. So after breakfast today, I took scissors and comb in hand and gave him my first-ever haircut. I grew up with my father wielding a clippers and giving my brothers buzzcuts on Sunday mornings before Sunday school. (I never remember seeing a single bald spot.)

The good news is that Bill and I are still speaking—at least so far. The hair cut isn’t perfect by any means, but it’s done, and the birds outside who are busily making nests will have some soft tufts of curly gray hair to join the floating tufts of cottonwood in constructing the lining to shelter their chicks.

So what did we do this weekend? We had socially-distanced grilled steaks on Sunday with our daughters, our son-in-law, and three of our ten grand-kids. (For all you Covid 19 contact-tracers out there, that means 8 people total on 1.2 acres. I don’t believe our actions posed a threat to anyone else.) It was too cold to swim, so the kids played Bocce Ball down in the lower part of the yard. While they were here, Audrey harvested the last of my rhubarb, and then Colt and Celeste cut it up. By the way, that’s what Bill and I had for breakfast this morning—rhubarb pie.

As for yesterday? I stopped off and delivered one of the pies to Colt and Jeanne T.’s place, and then the Colt and I went bowling. No we did NOT go to a bowling alley. They are still closed, but Colt is a top-notch bowler who has really missed being able to bowl. His bowling coach had brought over a set of used and battered bowling pins. We set them up on a deserted stretch of sidewalk on the school grounds across the street from my daughter’s house. Colt used a bowling ball that is long past its prime and far lighter than the ones he uses now. He bowled. Grandma was the pin-setter (Pin-monkey is the proper term.) and ball return machine.

It was fun. Bowling uphill on cement is different from bowling in an actual house. (That’s what people-in-the-know call bowling alleys.) He was only good for about fifteen throws. Not wanting to overdo it, we quit after that. As we were packing bowling pins back and forth across the street, I was astonished at how heavy they are. When it came to carrying them, three was my limit. We waved to people walking along on the street. We chatted with the guy across the lawn throwing a tennis ball for his exuberant black lab. We didn’t wear masks, but again, we endangered no one.

As for the rest of the cold, rainy weekend? Bill and I spent it in the British Isles. No, we didn’t go in person. That would definitely be considered inessential travel. Instead, we spent it watching a BBC series called Walking Through History on Amazon Prime. There are three seasons, all of them hosted by a presenter named Tony Robinson. Each segment is made up of four days of walking in a designated area and focuses on one particular incident or series of incidents that took place in that neighborhood. We both learned a lot we didn’t know, but we also saw a lot of familiar places.

Years ago, while on a Rick Steves tour of the UK, Bill and I encountered a bunch of back-pack carrying walkers while we were visiting Hadrian’s Wall. That was when I first became aware of the huge and complex network of walking paths that crisscross the whole country. The segment on Stonehenge reminded me of a Sunday morning in the summer of 1970 when my sister and I walked from our hotel in Salisbury to Stonehenge because we were too cheap to hire a cab. The segment on Cromer in Norfolk reminded Bill and me of the five days we spent there with two other couples. We stayed in a time-share condo overlooking the English coast. The condo contained a fold-out hide-a-bed which collapsed with astounding regularity, but the restaurant next-door served the best Dover sole I’ve ever tasted anywhere.

I was surprised to learn that the rebellion that led to King John’s signing the Magna Carta—what is now considered to be the cornerstone of our democracy—was in large measure a political hit-job on the king and on some of his minions who happened to be overly-enthusiastic tax collectors. We learned that Queen Victoria’s visits to Scotland, less than a hundred years after bitter bloodshed between the Scots and the English, laid the foundation for the tourism industry that is such an important part of Scotland’s economy to this day. I loved learning about the walking trails that meander over hill and dale. I loved seeing the canals that were such an important part of the Industrial Revolution. And I was surprised to learn the fate of the Bronte sisters. I was aware there were three of them. Somewhere in the back of my head, I had always wondered why three such talented women wrote so few books. Walking Through History gave me the full story of their tragic deaths from natural causes all at terribly young ages. Oh, and I saw a view of the home in which Daphne du Maurier was raised.

These days we’re all familiar with the idea of fake news. The views of Mr. Robinson, striding along through all kinds of weather carrying nothing but a small backpack just don’t cut it. For one thing, a camera crew was already stationed near wherever he was so he could march into view and then march right out again without so much as missing a stride. At the end of each day’s fifteen mile hike (I’m pretty sure he didn’t walk the entire way each day!) we always saw him checking into some small hotel in some quaint little town—still with nothing showing but that little backpack. From all the costume changes along the way, I’m pretty sure he had a whole crew carrying camera equipment, sound equipment, and luggage around for him, but that doesn’t matter. I enjoyed the trip, and it made me wish I had started doing my steps years earlier than I did.

All in all, it was a memorable Memorial Day. But one final note. If anyone would like to see Colt playing Amazing Grace at his father’s grave in the cemetery in Cle Elum, please send me a request at jajance@me.com. I’ll be glad to send it to you. He plays his piece and and then stands quietly while someone out of sight in the distance plays Taps. The bottom line, of course, is that’s what Memorial Day is all about.