If I ever start a story with the line “My sister and I…”, buckle up. We have some strange adventures. For example, last weekend my sister and I went shopping for an anvil and came home with two armloads of old books. That story is coming in a future newsletter.
But let’s jump into this story.
My sister and I were on a road trip, driving close to the edge of the Earth. We hadn’t seen a house for 5 miles. We hadn’t even seen a cow for 5 miles. The only living things in sight were two antelopes racing across a far hill.
Not to worry. We weren’t bored; we were talking. Then I looked down at the speedometer. I was driving 80 mph.
“Oh, man,” I said and immediately lifted. Lifted is a racing term I learned from my husband. I don’t race. Except maybe when driving at the edge of the Earth.
As I lifted, we flew past a crossroad with a state patrolman sitting at the stop sign.
He pulled me over. He walked up to my window. “Do you know why I stopped you?”
“I was going too fast,” I said, and he nodded. “How fast did you catch me at?” I wondered if I had managed to slow down at all before he clocked me.
“Eighty.”
“Yeah,” I said.
He took the usual stack of paperwork back to his car. When he handed it back to me, he leaned down and looked into the car. I don’t think my sister waved at him, but, knowing her, she might have. Then he said, “Use your cruise control after this.”
He walked back to his car and pulled away. No ticket. No warning ticket.
My sister and I both took a deep breath as he drove over the next hill.
I owe that nameless patrolman big time.
And that’s why I have given my sister permission to nag me about the cruise control.
What if the sun were dying, and you were sent to stop it? And what if your only ally was someone you couldn’t shake hands with?
The movie Project Hail Mary deals with those questions, dishing out drama and hope while tackling unexpected friendships along the way.
Ryan Gosling plays Ryland Grace, a middle school science teacher with a doctorate in molecular biology and a chip on his shoulder after the academic world rejected his theory that life could exist without water or a habitable zone. That same paper grabbed the attention of those scrambling to solve an extinction-level crisis.
Watching Grace piece himself back together is half the joy of the film. The other half is Rocky. But that’s a spoiler. You’ll just have to trust me.
Project Hail Mary trusts its audience. We’re treated as people who can follow complex storylines, feel the weight of impossible stakes, and still laugh out loud.
The music is top-notch. The character arc is even better. Grace begins the story running from something and ends it running toward something. He’s found meaning in his life in unexpected but funny, tender, hopeful ways.
A note for parents: the high stakes and intense drama make this a better fit for teens and adults than younger children. Language is mild.
Go see it. The hardcore sci-fi crowd might want to bring a calculator. The rest can bring tissues. Either way, go.
As you get to know me better, you’ll know things that my kids may someday pay you to keep to yourself. This is a great reason to keep track of me. Think of it as retirement planning. Just fill out that email signup over there and the money may well come flowing one day. No promises, though.
Don’t you, by the way, get annoyed with promises coming at you in the mail and on your phone and email? You know what I mean. I have gotten a garden catalog in the mail for years. Most of the catalogs have a big red sticker on the front: “Warning: this may be the last catalog you receive unless you order.” Yeah, yeah, big promises. I’ve never ordered. I’d be OK if this were the last catalog but no such luck.
I’ve been promised that the IRS is about to pick me up if I don’t pay my past-due IRS bill with a Target gift card. And that this is my last chance to get that great loan (no fine print mentioned). What? They’ll leave me alone if I miss my last chance?
I don’t make promises like that. I promise.
OK, I digress. I call this squirreling, but I’m not going to explain that today or I’ll never get to my story. What was I talking about again?
Oh, yeah, I’ve had several jobs in my life, none related to the one before as far as I can tell. I’ve been a property manager for four years. Managing rental units provides endless story possibilities. That’s almost a good enough reason to keep managing.
As you can imagine, we occasionally have tenants who don’t pay their rent. This particular tenant not only got behind on his rent, but he had creative excuses. One month, his check must have gotten stolen since we hadn’t gotten it.
In fact, the police had contacted him about the stolen check, and he was getting another one issued. We asked, could he send us a copy of the police report? Of course not, since the police were in another state.
What, they hadn’t heard of faxing or email?
He did get that rent payment paid. It was sort of the sweet-and-sour-sauce with that tenant. One month, he was great and the next, lots of complaints and no rent.
I reported the final events to my business partner, who is also my sister, Ann, via texts:
Me; “Guess what? No rent today again.”
Ann: “Still nothing? Didn’t he promise?”
Me: “Yep.” Captain Obvious is my texting handle.
Ann: “Can’t you just email him and tell him to send us his kidney.”
I was typing, “I’m OK with a kidney,” when Ann answered, “No! Ack! Money. Not kidney. Money”
Meet Ryven Ashcroft who fixes gas masks in a world where the air can kill you. Today, he gets a break. His biggest problem is a chess-playing drone.
*****
The chess set looked like it had escaped the teeth of a wood chipper. Barely.
Outside, the toxic Murk swirled yellow against the windows.
Ryven sat beside a small table and scratched his head. “Which bottle cap is my queen?” If he was going to play, he planned to win.
“The green one,” Edl said, not looking up from his remote.
“There are three green ones.”
Edl had to look. “Gyro oil. Hang on. Jinks isn’t ready.” A small drone that resembled a spider hovered over the chess pieces.
Jinks has opinions about chess. Not all of them are legal.
Ryven ignored him and slid the oil cap to a cracked square in the center of the board. Had he just moved a knight? Or a pawn? “Your turn.”
“Jinks’ turn, you mean.” Edl slid his thumb over the remote and then squeezed his eyes to focus on the chess board.
“Well, make your move,” Ryven said.
“He’s thinking.”
They both watched Jinks dip down and knock over a skinny can of seal compound. The can clattered onto the floor and rolled under a chair.
“What kind of play was that?”
“E7,” Edl said.
“In whose world?” Ryven grabbed a coolant lid and set it on a square. “That is E7.”
“Vintage rules. Jinks uses modern rules.” Edl slid his thumb on the remote again. Jinks beeped and then hovered again. It darted to the board and grabbed a fork.
“Is that your rook?” Ryven said. “What mastermind takes his own piece?” Switching from vintage rules to modern ones took some concentration that he didn’t intend to give.
Edl leaned close to Jinks. “Drop it.” The fork clattered onto the board, scattering pieces like a mini explosion.
They both stared at the cleared board.
Then Edl raised his free hand in the air. “Good job, Jinks! Check mate!”
******
Jinks is just getting warmed up. So is Ryven. Sign up here.
In a world far, far away, in a time nearly forgotten, my college roommate, Phyllis, and I buckled on skis to ride a T-bar lift.
T-bar lifts are extinct today. (That’s not accurate. See the footnote if you care.)
Back then, T-bars ferried skiers to the top of the mountain while weeding out the unworthy.
You’ll have to decide that part.
A T-bar requires two skiers to step into the loading area, grab a vertical pole attached to overhead cables, and stand as the crossbar hits your thighs.
Here are the rules:
Rule #1: Don’t sit on the bar.
Rule #2: Keep your skis pointed straight forward at all times.
Rule #3: Keep your balance while the terrain bucks like ocean waves under your feet.
Rule #4: Choose the right person for the trip up the mountain.
We stepped into the loading area and up we went. I slid up the incline, my skis holding straight.
Phyllis’ skis, on the other hand, began making giant S-curves on the slope. “Whoooooaaaaa,” she yelled.
I clung to the center pole until the T-bar bucked, twisting to the side, and dumping me onto the snow. The heel of my ski caught on the crossbar , dragging me up the mountain on my back.
After some frantic kicking, I broke free of the t-bar and rolled to the side through deep powder to escape the next pair of skiers.
I lost track of Phyllis.
I finally shoved through the trees and stood at the edge of the wide slope.
As I was resettling my goggles, which were resting more on my ear than my nose, Phyllis skied to a stop beside me.
She gave me a once-over. “What happened to you?” She had righted the T-bar after it dumped me and made it to the top of the slope. Now she looked like a sleek skier while I looked like a snowball.
I could have pointed out that she broke Rule #2 and #3. I could have complained about snow dribbling off my stocking cap.
But I had broken Rule #4. And that might have been the most important one.
Footnote: Today, out of approximately 2,400 ski lifts in the USA, only 88 are T-bars. They’re cheaper to install and operate. But they have more rules.
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