Local Sunsets

 

Needle Creek Farm Brewery

26 September 2026

I was writing the previous blog post when I looked out the window at a pink sky. I slid into my slippers and went outside to photograph the sunset from the middle of the street while Jack and I chatted with our neighbor. She's retiring next week. They're everywhere!

Yesterday our lab had an outing to the Needle Creek Farm Brewery. It was the sort of thing that would have taken more effort than it was worth to avoid, given that the plan was for everyone to get together at noon to clean the lab first. I've been there the longest. I know what's in the junk drawers. Even though we didn't get through much, it was satisfying to haul out a trash bag full of cables that predate my time in the lab. I've been quietly getting rid of old solutions and expired kits for a few weeks now. There are 75 boxes of plasmids and primers from a zombie project that might truly be dead now. If we get rid of those, there will be much less of my handwriting left in the lab. I'm a month away from hitting the six month mark of part-time work. That's the halfway point to my disappearing for good. I feel almost invisible now as it is. But they say they need me still.

We settled onto a picnic table at the outer edge of the lawn. Needle Creek doesn't make a sour beer, but they do sell giant, Bavarian style pretzels with beer cheese. My boss picked up the tab for all the beer and food people ordered.

There were chickens running around, and a dog with "do not feed me" on his collar.

In the middle of a conversation, I saw the former building manager for the department we'd been in before neuroscience was its own thing. "Mike!" I called out, and to the lab folks, said, "He retired" as I stood up. They laughed.

He recognized me and gave me a big hug. He was that person who knew everyone, knew how to fix anything, and knew he was the one we all came running to. He always had good stories. He was what I aspired to be in the lab. Maybe I was almost that person. I don't know how to fix stuff.

Most of the food had been eaten. The wind was picking up. "It must be getting on to 7:00," I said. "The sun's going down."

I waited for the first hint of orange before I stood up and began wandering around with my phone pointed at the sky. I was well aware that I was off doing my own thing and I didn't care.

There appeared to be two layers of clouds. One layer might have been the impending nor'easter.

When the sky turned purple and orange, other people started to notice.

That phase only lasts a few minutes before the grays seep in.

We walked to our cars in the last light. A cow, pursued by a small tractor, was enjoying its fleeting freedom along one end of the parking lot.

Now I know where to go for a good sunset and a $15 soft pretzel.

By 10:00 the storm had arrived. I brought two of my outdoor glass sculptures inside. I put my car (still with the hitchhiking spider) in the garage. I don't trust my neighbor's trees anymore. The wind was gusting at 40 mph by the time I went to bed. It was just me and the cats; Jack was at his nerd prom in New York City. I opened the curtains so I could watch the trees sway.