In the Nick of Time

We ran errands today: Christmas exchanges, New Year's groceries, and a few other more prosaic items. But most importantly, we bought our 2020 wall calendars-- which was a good thing, because the other ones are running out tonight!

Running Late, but Still Expected

The sun was out and the rain was coming down when I left the gym around noon. I did a quick 360 scan for the expected rainbow, but seeing nothing hurried to my car and headed off to the grocery store.

And then:

50 Words for Rain

According to Wikipedia:

The claim that Eskimo languages (specifically, Yupik and Inuit) have an unusually large number of words for "snow", first loosely attributed to the work of anthropologist Franz Boas, has become a cliché often used to support the controversial linguistic-relativity hypothesis that a language's structure (sound, grammar, vocabulary, etc.) shapes its speakers' view of the world. This "strong version" of the hypothesis is largely now discredited...

That may well be, but after an 8 hour, 400 mile road trip with rain, mist, torrential downpour, fog, inland squall, low clouds, drizzle, and road spray the entire way, I think I have an unusually large number of words for wet weather.

But? Believe it or not, they aren't all profanities. Especially since at this time of year it could have all been snow.

Who Was Happier to See Who?

Was it Heidi or Lucy?

Upon being reunited after a three-day separation, Heidi didn't whimper and jump for joy, but that smile was huge.

I'd say it was a draw.

And, fortunately? They will not be parted again for the foreseeable future.

Season of Darkness, Season of Light

A week or so ago I read an op/ed piece in the NYTimes that resonated with me. Entitled Want to Get into the Spirit of Christmas? Face the Darkness, the author Tish Harrison Warren, an Anglican priest, makes an eloquent case for using Advent as it was meant to be: a season to recognize the short days and long nights leading up to Christmas as an opportunity for contemplation and meditation of the darkness in our lives in order to prepare for the light that Christmas promises.

As she says, "Advent holds space for our grief, and it reminds us that all of us, in one way or another, are not only wounded by the evil in the world but are also wielders of it, contributing our own moments of unkindness or impatience or selfishness."

This year, the loss of my mother has sombered the season for me. The holidays have been both warm and sad, and the notion of Advent holding a space for my grief rings true. But, as Warren also points out, tradition provides twelve days of celebration following Christmas. This awareness also pleases me and fills the emptiness that torn wrapping paper, clearance sales, and early Valentines Day displays may hollow out.

And this morning when my brother and his family were heading back home, my nephew Treat said, "Another Christmas is over," in a sweet sorrow kind of a way.

But when I pointed out that, in some traditions, there were actually 9 more days of celebration left, he quickly adjusted.

"Well, then," he said, "I guess another Christmas has just begun."

The Spirits of Christmas

Ever since we were children, our Christmas dinner has been roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and a green vegetable, a delicious, but somewhat time-consuming meal. In this year of change, we have each chosen to hold on to some of our traditions while setting others aside, perhaps until later, perhaps for good.

When it came time to cook our holiday meal, my brother wisely suggested a streamlined version of our old standard. Mild weather encouraged us to grill rib-eyes in place of the standing roast, and potatoes Anna replaced their mashed brethren. A tossed salad with shaved winter vegetables, arugula, and lemon vinaigrette completed the meal. Oh, and there was Yorkshire pudding, too.

The meal, while different, was delicious, and definitely captured the spirit of our Christmases past. Gathered around the huge dining room table, ten of us popped crackers and toasted both the year ending as well as the one ahead.

It wasn't as merry as some of our past holidays, but it was definitely a celebration, and there was a even flicker of more festive times to come.

Ride Share, Chapter 2

I didn't really feel like talking at 4:15 in the morning, but I didn't want to be rude to our Uber driver either, and so I asked if he had been busy this early Christmas morning.

"The holidays are always busy," he said, "but I work the overnights anyway."

"Do you have a day job, too?" I asked.

He confessed that he did not; he was in between jobs and taking some online courses, making ends meet by driving a ride share, and waiting for the next thing.

"Do you drive at night because it's more lucrative, then?" I wondered.

"It is," he answered, "but I'm a night owl, anyway, and since I'm usually up until 4 or 5, I prefer to work these hours."

"That makes sense," I said.

"For the most part I like it," he told me, "but you do have to have a pretty thick skin to deal with some of the characters you get at that time. You wouldn't believe some of the things that have happened!"

"You should write a book or do a podcast," I laughed.

"Maybe so," he mused. "But whenever I talk to other drivers, they always have to one up me with some of their crazy stories." He paused. "I guess I could have them as guests on my podcast, though."

I wondered if he was really considering it.

"I'll give you a little piece of it, if it goes well," he laughed.

"And I'll subscribe to your show," I told him. "You can call it the Uber Night Shift!"

Holiday Tidings

I finally finished my Christmas baking this morning, rolling out a small batch of rugelach and making some chocolate chip cookies for Heidi's mom. The 17-year-old double oven here is acting up a bit, and that made the tasks a bit more challenging: I had to figure what temperature to set it to to get the proper heat for my cookies. Even more formidable than that, though, was stirring rolling scooping  dipping cooling plating and cleaning up without chipping my nails! Fortunately, I was able to achieve it all.

And now on to the comfort and joy.

Hand Me Down

There was never a day that went by in the many that we spent with my mom at the Mayo Clinic that someone did not make a comment about her beautiful finger nails. They were indeed a point of pride for her, and she was scrupulous in their upkeep, even going so far as to follow her nail technician to several commercial spaces, the last at least 20 minutes away, for 20 years.

And I might have feared the worst, were I not so committed to hoping for the best, when, a few days before her surgery instead of getting her nails repaired after a run in with her ice maker, she opted instead to have them restored to their natural state instead, no color, no filler, no tips. "It's probably for the best," she said. "It will just be easier."

One of the things I remember most about my my grandma was her bright red nail polish; her nails, too were always impeccable, and I think that was one reason why my mom took such good care of her own. As for me, family legend has it that when I was 6, my mom left me and my brother and sister with my dad for a long weekend in Paris with a cousin and her mother-in-law. (As an airline family in the 60s, that kind of thing was wildly possible, but we kids were little, so this trip was a first of its kind.) When she returned, all was well, but I had developed an terrible nail-biting habit, one I wouldn't break for over 52 years.

In fact, it has only been since my mother passed away in October that I have stopped biting my nails. And so today, instead of just a holiday pedicure, I splurged on a manicure, too, and the color I chose? Was the brightest red I could find! Heidi says it looks shocking, but I really like it, because now my hands look like my grandma's hands, and a little like my mom's hands, too.

There's No Place Like Here for the Holidays

"This is the 20th Christmas I've spent with your family," I told Heidi this morning.

"I'm sorry," she said, and we both laughed, even though she was only half joking. The first Christmas Eve I spent here in Buffalo was the first Christmas Eve I had ever been away from my own family, and I shed a few tears after talking to them on the phone even though I knew I would see them the next day.

I didn't choose the arrangement; both of our families did our big holiday celebration on Christmas Eve, but it seemed more important to Heidi's mom to keep their tradition as it was. And so my side of the family switched their routine, and Heidi and I traveled early on Christmas morning from Buffalo to DC and then Atlanta to be there with them.

Despite all the driving and flying, I never minded the arrangement: we got two Christmases with the people we love most. Over the years, though, I secretly preferred spending Christmas Eve with Heidi's family, for even though I love them dearly, even after the holiday toasts were made and all the gifts were unwrapped, I always had my own mom and brother and sister to look forward to.\

More than anything else, these last months have taught me that the old ways cannot last forever. Everything ends and everything must change. Two Christmases with beloved family is a blessing that I've had for 20 years, and I'm only just now appreciating how wonderful it has been.

The Journey and the Destination

The day was fair, and, after a bit of metropolitan congestion, the way was clear. The trees in the mountains of Pennsylvania were glazed in ice, set on white fire by the low angle of the late December sun. Further on, light snow flocked the evergreens and covered the ground in a patchy blanket. A little over halfway there the sun set, turning the sky orange and then crimson and then plum. The evening star shone in the west, and Christmas lights guided us ever north up and down hills, through forests, over rivers, and around bends until at last our station wagon rolled to a stop in the driveway of Heidi's parents' house.

Voice of Reason

This week, to much excitement in the neighborhood, a great pizza place opened its second location just up the hill from our house. Our plan today was to pick up a couple of pies for dinner, but even on the way home from school around 4:30 the parking lot was packed.

"I want the pizza, but I'm not sure I want to fight the crowd," I sighed.

"It's the holidays," Heidi pointed out. "Pizza is a heavy meal, and we? Are. going to be. eating."

I nodded.

"Plus? They will be there in January," she continued.

Can't argue with that.

Penultimate

When the last student left from my last period class today I breathed a sigh of relief. Straightening the chairs and tables as I always do to clear my mind and reset the room between classes, I remarked, "I think I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel!"

One of my co-teachers was sitting at a table checking her email. "Yeah, I think they really are starting to get it," she agreed without looking up. "The lesson today was pretty good."

"Thanks," I told her, "But I'm talking about Winter Break-- one more day!"

The Debate is Real

One of the stories we read for our literary essay unit is "Your Move" by Eve Bunting. A tale of two brothers, one 10 and one 6 who, left alone by their working mother, skip out on the watchful eye of their nextdoor neighbor so that the older one, James, can prove himself to a "club" of boys who call themselves K-Bones. It's undoubtedly a bad decision, but over the course of the story, it becomes clear that James's priority is protecting his brother, who looks up to him, and in the end he realizes his mistake and redeems himself.

At least that's what I think...

My co-teacher finds James completely irresponsible and somewhat reprehensible.

When we talk about the story in class, we each stake our claim and defend it with the text and reasoning, conceding and countering the argument of the other, each convinced we're right.

The students watch like it's a tennis match, and in the end we shrug and laugh, because it's fun arguing with someone you respect.

Literally

"Do you know what D did today?" one of my colleagues asked at lunch about a student who is very distractible and more than a little inattentive. "She needed the password for the quiz, and I told her it was "yellow jackets, no spaces," and she typed y-e-l-l-o-w-j-a-c-k-e-t-s-n-o-s-p-a-c-e-s!"

"In my class," another teacher reported, "I was helping her write her essay, so I told her to write down the chicken foot [a metaphor for a claim with 3 supporting reasons] and she wrote 'the chicken foot' on her paper!" he shook his head.

"Well, in my class," a third teacher chimed in, "I said, "Write your name on the top of the page," and she wrote 'your name'!"

C'mon!

On Second Thought

"Do you have your iPad?" I asked my Gracie Allen homeroom student this morning. She had tried to borrow a laptop earlier, and I had put the ix-nay on that, but it seemed as if she was now absorbed in something below table level, and so the question.

"Yes!" she told me brightly.

"Then bring it over here so I can show you what we are working on," I directed her.

Her face turned stormy and without even looking up she snapped, "No! I don't want to!"

My eyebrows shot up in surprise, for she is usually quite cooperative. "Uh oh!" I said.

She raised her head and looked at my face. "I mean," she responded breathlessly, "Coming right away!"

And she did.

Read It and Weep

As my brother and sister and I sorted through my mother's condo this weekend, my sister held out the slimmest of hopes that we might find some notes to us, and I clung to any scrap of writing that revealed and preserved the remarkable person she was.

Five years ago my mom downsized from a three level 3 bedroom townhouse. As vigorous a 75-year-old as she was, the process of organizing the material trappings of 20 years or more, even though carried out over several months, took a toll on her. Once she adjusted to condo living Mom was very happy, but she had learned her lesson, and she was ruthless when it came to hanging on to all but the most useful, valuable, and/or sentimental of objects.

My brother and sister and I have always appreciated her practical sensibility, but now that she's gone her pragmatism has been an immense relief to us us we sort through her estate: it has made an unbearable job a little more manageable.

And we have no doubt that what is left was truly valuable to her-- the handmade cards from Riley, Treat, Richard, and Annabelle, the thank you note from Emily written in the early 90s, and the email from Heidi in 2003.

Even though the three of us sat by sobbing as she called her closest friends to say goodbye, my mother had no final words for any of us in the last days and hours of her life. She resolutely believed that we all knew how vast and unwavering her love for us was, and so there was nothing to say. 

Fresh Weather

"How are you doing in the cold?" all my mom's Minnesota friends have asked.

They were referring to the snowy single-digit conditions that have been the daily standard since we landed on Friday.

"I kind of like it!" I tell them.

And when they tsk, I continue with a shrug, "It's a novelty for us."

"Right!" my brother agrees. "Plus? We're leaving tomorrow!"

To Cushion or Not to Cushion

The two estate agency representatives were of different minds when we asked if it would be best if at least one of us was present when they came to pack and parcel my mom's belongings. The 10 o'clock women, who were warm and personal, told us that it would probably be a good idea, if possible. They asked about some of my mom's more remarkable possessions and encouraged us to write up descriptions of them for the prospective buyers they were sure would love them.

The noon woman, who was all business and photographs, said, "Absolutely not! In fact, we actually charge more if someone's here."

We looked at her quizzically.

"Not really," she clarified, "but so often people follow us around, picking things up, telling us their stories. That takes time, and we are on the clock."

Maybe she thought she was being a little too harsh. "It's also really hard for you," she continued in a softer tone. "We're very organized and professional. Right now? This place is a home, but when we are done? It will be a house-- four walls. That's what you want, but it's hard to watch it happen."

Ride Share

"I don't think I've ever had a pick-up as my Uber before," I noted as I settled myself in the back of the king cab on my way to the airport this morning.

"Yah, I get that a lot," William, my driver, told me adjusting the volume on the sound system.

I fiddled with my phone as soothing meditation music flowing from the speakers elevated the familiar landmarks we rolled past. High rises gleamed, gulls swooped, and golden rapids riffled the wide urban stream outside my window as the music swelled in the Ford F-150. Even the water treatment plant and metro bus lot were transformed by the light and music as we glided past. I set my phone aside and took a deep breath.

Arriving at the curbside check-in 10 minutes later, I felt refreshed and renewed, which was really not what I had expected at all. "Thank you for the ride, William," I said, climbing out of the truck.

He nodded, and I stepped forward into my day.

Consensus

It was an early release with a winter concert assembly today which left limited time for a few other items like locker clean outs and the "Know Your Rights" presentation that all secondary school students are required to see. Even so, my homeroom was quick enough to have time for a movie after lunch.

Students suggested a few films some reasonable (Home Alone), some not (It), and they were debating when an idea occurred to me. "Hey you guys!" I said. "What about Toy Story 4?"

There was mild enthusiasm, but it wasn't a clear winner by any stretch. "It's just that I haven't had a chance to see it, yet," I explained, more to myself than to them as they returned to their discussion.

One student heard me, though. "You haven't?" she asked.

I shook my head a little ruefully, for I haven't seen very many movies at all this year.

"I vote for Toy Story 4!" she said. "Ms. S. wants to see it!"

"I do, too," said another student, and one by one they stepped to the white board and erased their tally marks under the movie they had voted for to place them under mine.

"Aw... thanks you guys!" I told them. "I'll make some popcorn!"

Karma Thrash

I was in a snit when I scooped up the lollipop stick from the table in my room and marched out the door after the girl who had left it. The hallway was packed with a throng of students changing classes, but I spotted her right away one door down. "Hold out your hand!" I demanded and when she did I dropped her rubbish into her palm and spun on my heel. I didn't get far however, because as I turned toward my room, 120 pounds of sixth grade boy hit me and body slammed me into the wall behind me. My head whiplashed back and hit the window of the classroom as he bounced off me and back into the mosh pit of the class change. Seeing both stars and red, I staggered forward and glared at him in disbelief.

"I didn't do it! I was pushed!" he explained desperately and pointed to a culprit clad in red and orange sweat pants snaking his way down the hall and toward the stairs. His mistake was in looking over his shoulder, for it was then that I locked eyes with him and waved him back.

I was cross; he was defiant; it was an unbridgeable gap.  Fortunately I spotted the assistant principal down the hall and handed off the situation to him. 

Rule of Five

Here in the dark and the wet and the cold and the sheer busy-ness of early December we find ourselves resisting exercise and activity, despite the routines and regimens we have worked so hard to cultivate.

That's where the rule of five comes in-- we must do five minutes of something and after that? We can quit. But as Heidi pointed out with a scoff and a growl when I first proposed this guideline, No one will stop at five minutes once they start!

Indeed!

So far.

Nothing But

Right before the turn for the highway up to the Twin Cities, there is a modest strip mall in Rochester, MN. We stopped there a few times over the months that I traveled there occasionally with my mom for her treatments at the Mayo Clinic: once for gas, once for lunch at a Mediterranean place,  and once for my mom to get her nail fixed after a run-in with her ice maker. It was on the last stop that we noticed the marquee on one of the store fronts tucked into the shopping center. Nothing Bundt Cake, it proclaimed.

My mom had a sweet tooth and more than anything, we were trying to boost her calories, plus? My birthday was in a couple days.

An old-fashioned bell jangled over the door when we pushed it open, and the smell of fresh baked cake washed over us. A friendly young woman welcomed us warmly and gestured to the samples on a small round table to our left. Everything was delicious-- but the lemon raspberry special, the chocolate chocolate chip, and the red velvet were our favorites, and so my mom bought a few mini cakes to celebrate. It was a pleasure seeing how much she enjoyed them.

Later in the summer, Heidi, my mom, and I moved to Rochester for a month, and the same formerly forgettable little strip mall became one of our main shopping destinations with a great grocery, pet supply, and liquor store conveniently located there. Those little bundt cakes were a treat my mom always enjoyed, no matter how tepid her appetite otherwise. So much so, that when she died, we looked for a NBC franchise near enough to her home to buy desserts for her funeral lunch, but without success.

The other night I hosted my writing group. It was the first time we had met since before school ended last year, and it was time. I love those gals, but to be honest, I don't really feel like seeing many people yet. The four of us always split the meal-- hosting means providing dinner, and the other three bring apps, wine, and dessert. This time, Ellen brought delicious chutney and cheddar and crackers, Mary brought some wonderful Spanish red wine, and Leah arrived with treats from a brand new place that none of us even knew had opened.

"Nothing Bundt Cake," she announced as she deposited the bakery box on the sideboard. "Have you heard of it?"

Original Recipe

My mother and I shared the same taste in Christmas cookies, and every year it has been a pleasant chore for me to spend a Saturday or Sunday in December baking our favorites, Russian Tea Cakes, Rugelach, and Mandelbrot to share.

Last year, as I plucked one of the almond-flavored, biscotti-like Mandelbrot studded with walnuts and glace cherries from the tin, I asked her if she liked them, for we had lost our traditional recipe and I had been trying to recreate it ever since. "No!" she told me without hesitation, "they are too dense and too floury."

"Noted!" I laughed. "I'll try to do better next year!"

The morning after my mom died, I restlessly roamed her condo as I waited for the coffee to brew. Opening a cupboard below the TV, I found a white, 2-inch binder and flipped it open. It was filled with recipes in page protectors, mostly photocopied or typed and printed both for convenience and to compensate the palsy that made handwriting laborious and barely legible the last several years of her life.

But the recipe I turned to first was near the middle of the binder and written on a sheet from a notepad in my mother's own hand. Mandelbrot, it read.

This year, my holiday baking is going to be a little less than in the past, because I'll be away from home next weekend to help organize my mom's estate, and then we'll be off to Buffalo the weekend after that. Even so, there are three varieties of cookies I will definitely bake, and I started this morning.

With the Mandelbrot, of course, which turned out to be crispy and light, just as my mother would have liked.

Re Re Re Re Reading

For the last four or five years we have used the same short story as a common text to teach our students about analyzing a literary character and crafting a claim to argue in an essay. I confess that the first year, I was not that impressed with "Raymond's Run" by Toni Cade Bambara; we used it because the Teachers College materials for writing workshop provided mini-lesson and materials to go along with it. 

BUT, after reading it, listening to it, re-reading it, and discussing it 5 times a day for a week, not to mention dissecting the character of Squeaky and guiding hundreds of students through writing a thesis statement to argue about her, I have changed my mind. Hazel Elizabeth Deborah Parker is a positive pistol of a person, and Bambara? Is a damn good writer.

Hard Reality

In general, I don't mind attending parent meetings, because I appreciate the time and opportunity to consider individual students and their needs. It's a good reminder of what we educators do for whom and why.

In particular, after two such back-to-back meetings this afternoon lasting from 1-4 PM, my butt literally hurts.

Documentation

"What are you writing?" asked the student I sat next to during class as my co-teacher led the instruction.

"Oh, I'm just taking notes about your behavior," I told him. "Want me to read what I have so far?"

"Okay," he answered with an impressive mix of hesitation and defiance.

"1)" I started, "doing the Macarena in the middle of the classroom."

"What's the Macarena?" he scoffed.

"That little dance you were doing right after the bell rang," I explained. "2) shouting "Do you want a Kiss?" across the room while the teacher was giving instructions."

"I meant a Hershey Kiss," he said.

"I know," I assured him, "but that's what you were shouting. 3) Offering candy to other students while the teacher was doing the lesson."

"Nobody got any," he shrugged.

I nodded. "4) standing up and pretending to put his gym shorts on over his jeans."

"Fine!" he said. "I'll follow the directions."

"Great!" I replied and waited a moment. "5) got his writing notebook and iPad out."

He raised his eyebrows, and picked up his pencil.

"6)" I said, "wrote some great observations about the character in the story!"

He smiled. "Keep writing!" he told me. "I can do a lot more."

Worlds Collide

Several years ago, so long I can't remember exactly when or where, I read (or saw? or heard?) about how physical touch can build community. Just a brief handshake can forge an unconscious positive connection. As soon as I discovered the notion I put it to use. Standing outside my door before each class, I greeted each student by name with either a hand shake, a fist bump, or a high five.

I'm pretty sure I had positive results, but like so many things in a busy teacher's day, that strategy fell by the wayside as I reset the lesson on the smart board, pulled up the class attendance, and pushed in the chairs and picked up any stray belongings from the class before (another useful habit, along the lines of the broken window theory).

But today, something there was that prompted me to give the human touch a try with my last class of the day, which is again this year my most challenging, mostly because of a couple of boys who are impulsive, negative attention-seekers with poor self-regulation skills. And so I stood by the door and welcomed each kid by name and offered him or her a high-five along with my sincere wish to Have a great class! My co-teachers walked in last, with big smiles and hands slapping as they wished each other a good class, too.

Did it work? I'd like to think so-- the two most troublesome students were pretty subdued (but that might have been due to the fact that their moms were coming in today and tomorrow).

And everyone else? Was... sort of on task.

Even so, the episode reminded me that I teach people, not classes, and every single kid is a whole universe walking around in jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. To them, the 42 minutes they spend in my class is a blip, and I am mostly incidental.

Unless I choose otherwise.

Never Say Never

The activity was pretty simple: work in small groups and report out to the class evaluating claims to decide whether or not they could make strong argument strong essays. The choices were a little confusing, though: "too obvious" if few would disagree, "not defensible" if few would argue in favor, and "controversial" for that just right claim, but that's why we were working together.

The task was harder for some than others, but most had to give it some thought. Then there was that one kid who wanted to argue every issue, no matter how outrageous. Of course she knew she was tilting at windmills when she raised her hand to say that perhaps all middle school students in the US should indeed work full time in addition to their studies, and she understood full well the difficulties in arguing that only citizens between the ages of 18 and 25 should be allowed to vote, but she was grasping for a challenge and I couldn't fault her for that.

And when it came time for the independent assessment, she aced it in under five minutes. Looking around at the rest of her classmates working intently, she whispered, "What should I do now?"

"Why don't you start drafting your argument that only families with small children should be allowed in amusement parks?" I asked her. "Or would you rather argue that children of all ages should be able to drive?"

"I think I'll read my book," she laughed.

#HolidayReady

I thought the gym might be a little crowded on the Sunday after Thanksgiving-- maybe folks wanted to work off the extra pie? But that was not the case. The nail salon, on the other hand?

Was packed!