Nowhere to Hide

"What is it like being part of the brain?" a teacher asked me today as he was returning his testing supplies. "You're like a neuron or something now," he laughed, referring to my temporary position as co-testing coordinator.

"It is definitely a different perspective on the whole testing situation," I agreed. Then, gesturing around me, added, "We actually call this the command center."

He looked at the cinderblock walls of the basement office we were working from. "It definitely has a bunker vibe," he noted. "You'll be safe from any testing attacks down here."

I thought about the glitches and outages we had already faced, with the state assessments yet to come. "I wouldn't count on that," I sighed.

Use What You Have

"What happened to your arm?" a student asked me with a salty chin nod as I escorted him to the bathroom this morning. He'd been acting up in the makeup test session, so he required extra supervision.

"You mean this?" I pointed to the big bandage covering my forearm. "I had a thing there, and it needed to come out."

His eyes widened. "Yeah," I confirmed. "They cut a three-inch slice into my arm, and then they had to grab it with pliers and pull on it really hard to get it out. I have like ten stitches in there now, so it needs to stay covered."

His eyebrows were raised to his hairline. "Did it hurt?" he asked.

"No," I answered. "But only because they gave me four big shots of numbing. Even then, I could feel them digging around and yanking on it because it was so hard to get out." 

He looked a little pale.

"I know, right?" I said, nodding. "Hey, thanks for asking."

He didn't give us any more trouble after that.

Too Much Zen Ain't Zen at All

Twenty-seven years ago, when we moved into our current home, my sister-in-law gifted us a gold Godiva tin filled with hardware. "It will get you started on whatever you want to hang," she said. She was right, and that tin has become a catchall for miscellaneous screws and nails and other odd stuff ever since, stuffed so full that its shiny, round lid can barely contain its contents.

When I was on my tool-drawer organization kick yesterday, I ordered a box that held other little boxes, thinking that at last, I might get to the bottom of that tin, both literally and figuratively. And I was excited when it arrived today, immediately beginning a zen-like task of sorting three decades of tiny metal things into like piles. 

It was very satisfying and restful until it wasn't. I looked up an hour or two into the chore and realized my back was tight and my head ached from squinting. The dining room table was still strewn with hooks and anchors and nuts and washers and wires and allen wrench keys, so many allen wrench keys, but I was fried. There would be no more organizing today.

I was tempted to question the task itself, chastise myself for spending precious hours on such a trivial pursuit, but I restrained myself. I knew I was just overtired. I cleaned up, confident that another day soon I will return to this chaos and set it to order.

Tackling the Tiny To-dos

Today was one of those days when we actually tackled a bunch of the little things on our to-do list. The toilet hasn't been filling properly, so I replaced the fill-valve assembly. The switch on the lamp wasn't clicking, so I replaced the socket. I found the new hardware for the bathroom cabinets in the tool drawer and replaced those, too. Then I ordered some organizers to sort out the tool drawer itself; they'll be here tomorrow. 

Now that the danger of frost is officially over, I potted a couple of the dahlia tubers we purchased a month or so ago. Heidi cleaned out her shoe bin and swapped the broken one for the new one I found at the thrift store. She also went through her closet and found several items for the donation pile.

Does the house actually look any better? Not really. But we have a sense of accomplishment nevertheless, and such satisfaction may even fuel us into another productive day tomorrow.

The Farm Down the Hill

Back in January, a friend mentioned a new farm in our area. "Apparently, it's all hydroponic and artificial light," she said, "and it's located in one of the warehouses by the dog park. They have a weekly CSA."

I was stunned! Surprised by the proximity and the set-up, but also by the fact that I had no idea it was there. And even though I still had several weeks left on my traditional winter CSA, I signed up for a four-week trial right away. 

Again, I was blown away. First, they delivered my veggies right to my door, and second, everything in the bag was amazing-- fresh and delicious. They had found a fan. Soon, I was in for the ten-week, auto-renewing plan. The flexibility to skip a delivery at any time made the move a no-brainer, and their partnership with other local producers to include honey, lentils, and other pantry items to complement their fresh vegetables was a nice bonus.

The farm also did lots of community outreach, sponsoring tours and field trips to its facility. There was also an opportunity to order heirloom seedlings for my own garden, an offer I took advantage of. Today was the day when I went to pick up my tomatoes and peppers, and to be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect when I pushed my way through the industrial door. At 8 am, a few employees also arrived with me, and they welcomed me into the cavernous space, filled with towering metal racks holding all sorts of plants and a honeycombed ceiling of LED light tubes.

The person coordinating my order was not there yet, but another farmer offered to show me around while we waited. He explained the complex system that moved the plants through light and dark on a 24-hour cycle while also weighing them at certain points and irrigating as necessary. He showed me the seed-starting tables, the harvest and packing area, and then led me to another shelf with a collection of plants. "Wanna try some of the crops we're not quite ready to distribute?" he asked.

Just as I finished my oyster leaf and cleansed my palette with some wasabi arugula, a woman approached with my seedlings. "Thank you so much for your support!" she said.

"And thank you for your hospitality!" I laughed. "I love this place!"

Too Big to Fail

It was an actual crisis. 

More than a thousand students were in 80+ testing groups with hundreds of accommodations and special circumstances following a special schedule, but no one could access the online test. Several staff members were at the ready, monitoring a help request spreadsheet, while my ever-capable temporary testing coordinator partner was simultaneously on a video call with central office and a conference call with the test purveyor's support line. 

After more than 30 minutes into the testing session, no one could find a solution. Out in the hallway, some of the grade-level monitors and I brainstormed troubleshooting strategies and joked around with a bit of gallows humor. "I just want to point out that everybody is in a group with an examiner and all their materials," I said with wide eyes. "That was my job!"

Just as technical support announced that there was no way we could fix the problem until tomorrow, which was useless, since it would be nearly impossible to reset all the moving pieces in less than twenty-four hours, a couple of our own teachers suggested a workaround. Five minutes later, the fix was in place, and our testing session began.

Until today, I'd only seen high-stakes, standardized testing from inside the classroom, and I thought that was ridiculously complicated enough. But watching my colleagues pull together to solve an enormous problem and then troubleshoot the three-hour session, providing equipment, online support, and behavior intervention, I was witness to another category of complexity altogether.

Good Riddance

"You did great!" the dermatologist's assistant told me as I was getting ready to leave the procedure room, where they had cut a two-inch incision and yanked a marble-sized cyst out of my right arm. "Do you want to see it before you go?"

"No!" I said. "Well, maybe."

She held up a specimen cup with a gory little orb floating in saline. "You two have been together a long time," she noted wryly as she turned to place it back on the tray.

"That's true," I agreed. It had been at least 15 years. "Bye now! Take care of yourself!" I waved.

"You, too," she said cheerfully.

"Oh," I laughed. "I was talking to the cyst! I'll see you in ten days when I get my stitches out."