Cottage Industries

I spent some time tidying up this morning. My 10 x 10 work space had become pretty cluttered, and I was feeling overwhelmed. In addition to the two monitors, iPad, pens, pencils, notebooks and folders that comprise my school set up, there was a little rock-painting station, 4 pumpkins, 3 spaghetti squash, several butternut squash, and some ripening tomatoes over on the sideboard, a six-pack of home canned tomatoes and 2 jars of jam, a bag of mason jars and bottles, some murder boxes, a crate of teaching books from my classroom, another crate of airheads, envelopes, cards, and stamps, a shopping bag with some items I want to have framed, and the ring doorbell that I got for Christmas and couldn't decide if I wanted to install-- all this, in addition to things that were in this space before it became such a multi-purpose area. 

To be honest, there wasn't a lot I could do, but I started by organizing the pantry to find space for the canned goods. Then I painted a few rocks and cooked the spaghetti squash, which we will have for dinner. Next I went through the shelf of books next to my desk, finding a couple to drop in one of the little libraries around the neighborhood and another few to toss. Then I painted some details on my rocks, read some of the books I was undecided about,  and replaced the books I was getting rid of with my school books. After that I installed the doorbell and painted my rocks some more. 

Believe it or not, there actually seems to be a little more space in here, but it must be some of the most productive square footage in the county!

Freezin Friday

It seems like all of a sudden those warm days of late summer are long gone and winter is on its way. I shivered in my teaching chair all day long, bundled up in flannel and fleece but only warming up briefly with a hot cup of strong tea. 

I may have to move my one room schoolhouse operation closer to the fireplace!

Letting out all the Cold

The other thing I did with my homeroom yesterday was to take a NYTimes quiz. The premise of the challenge was to look at a series of photos of the inside of refrigerators and guess whether they belonged to Trump voters or Biden voters.  

Every few pictures you are asked to click on one item in the refrigerator that influenced your guess. At the bottom of the quiz there is data about the items that were most frequently associated with correct and incorrect guesses. 

The whole feature was fascinating to me and to several of my students. Beyond the voyeuristic curiosity of looking into a stranger's refrigerator, it was an interesting way to reframe our ideas about other voters with whom we broadly agree or disagree politically. 

I would never draw any but the most general conclusions from the pictures, but those refrigerators did remind me that I have some things in common with people I disagree with, and that is a slippery idea to hang on to in these polarized times. At the very least, we all have to eat.

Who is that Data Point?

One of the supports we are offering students during distance learning is a dedicated 35 minutes a day with a teacher adviser. Known as TA in our school, this contemporary version of homeroom, and pillar of the whole-child, middle school model, has undergone a lot of ups and downs in the 28 years I've been a teacher. For example, since it is not purely academic, advisory is often the first thing to be cut in the name of remediation and test prep. Even so, the simple truth that spending time with a small group of kids with the intention to forge a personal relationship is a positive and supportive equation has managed to shine through in the darkest of times. 

At our school, we are provided with a lot of guidance as to how to use the time we have. In addition to the conferences and IB orientation we do with our students, this year we have also been given some mindfulness routines and some current events activities, too. Not surprisingly, the current events piece has been very focused on the election. Such discussions are always unpredictable with 11-year-olds living inside the Beltway, many of whom are from other countries. 

Over the years I've learned a few strategies to approach that potential minefield. "How many of you guys have an opinion on the presidential election?" I asked today. "I don't want you to tell me who it is, I just want you to raise your hand if you support one candidate over the other." 10 out of 14 virtual hands flew up, but I felt like I had to check in with the other four. "So you're saying you don't care who wins the election?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral. They all confirmed that was the case.

Later, I considered who those kids were. In my homeroom I have six girls and eight boys. Three of the girls identify as Latina, one is Ethiopian, one is white, and one is from Nepal. Of the boys, three are white, one is of Eritrean descent, and the other four are Latino. It was the last four who did not have an opinion on the presidential election. If we had been in the classroom, there might have been some peer influence on answering my question, but one aspect of virtual teaching and learning with sixth graders is that the students don't really pay very much attention to what the other kids say, and I feel like my informal survey was pretty accurate.

I'm not really sure what the significance of the data is, though, because although advisory is meant to be a time to build relationships, the process can be slow, even in person, and I don't have a lot of context, other than the four of them are hardworking young men who want to do well in school.

But 100% in a demographic? That's got to mean something.

All Dressed Down

Yesterday, I actually wore pants for the first time in months. Like so many others working from home, my uniform has become athleisure wear, mostly tights and t-shirts. In the spring it was so I could work out without changing, but times have changed since we've been distance teaching. Now I just dress that way out of habit, and yes, comfort. My good old jeans slipped right on, and a turtleneck and flannel shirt completed a very familiar look, but I just wasn't feeling it. So today? It's back to the tights and tee, with a fun orange tie-dye sweatshirt and a Halloween buff around my neck. Is it temporary or is it evolution? Only time will tell. I haven't been more than a casual dresser in years, and who knows? I still might go for a run after lunch.

Gourd Heavening

I've had my eye on one of the little pumpkins that came from my garden. It is tall and slender and more of a golden orange than that traditional Halloween hue. When it was first growing, I thought perhaps it was a spaghetti squash, but I concluded otherwise. From the time it burgeons, a tiny fruit on the vine, spaghetti squash is the palest of lemon yellows, but this other fruit had the dark, mottled green of an immature pumpkin. 

And so a pumpkin it was!

Until today, when attention and opportunity collided: looking at that little orange gourd I wondered if there was such a thing as a squash hybrid, and I had the time to look it up. A bit of research revealed that pumpkins and spaghetti squash are crazy cross-pollinators. Plant two vines in a garden, and who knows what you'll get! Spumpkin? Pumghetti? 

I'm looking forward to cooking my hybrid squash in the near future, and if it's any good? I'm saving the seeds! A little squash surprise will only add to the the fun of the garden next summer.

SSDS

"I hate that pan! It's. always dirty!" Heidi growled in frustration from the sink.

"I'll wash it!" I said. "I know you hate it, but it's the best tool for the job." In this case the job was roasting vegetables and the sheet pan in question was non-stick with a circular raised pattern that did a great job caramelizing.

I should have stopped there, but I didn't. "It's not really dirty," I pointed out. "It's like a cast iron skillet, seas--"

"Dirty!" Heidi declared. "People say 'seasoned', but that just means that there's left over shit from other cooking and they're okay with it!" she scoffed.

Did I mention my wife was a bit of a clean freak?

"Seasoned and dirty are not the same thing!" I answered indignantly, searching my brain for a logical reason that I was right. "Dirty means that there's stuff on it that you don't want, and seasoned means that you do want it." I laughed, because it was a clarification I had never considered.

It might be the same shit," I shrugged, "but it's a different situation."

Kitchen Archeology

My brother likes to point out that the days are long, but the months and years are short. I know what he means, and I'm pretty sure his theory of time explains the 2 cans of evaporated milk I found in the back of my pantry this morning. Having no recollection of purchasing them, I knew they had been there a while, but I wasn't prepared for the expiration date, July 2005. Neither was I ready for the golden brown goop I found in the bottom of each can as I emptied them. Aged for over 15 years, I'm sure the thick and cheesy-smelling clabber is probably a delicacy somewhere, but as for me? I was just glad to have a little extra space in the cabinet.

A Hart and no Brain

Lately we have been watching Hart of Dixie on Netflix. Aired on the CW from 2011-2015, this romantic dramedy tells the story of Zoe Hart, a young NYC surgeon who, when she doesn't get the fellowship she was expecting, decides to spend a year as a GP in the small town of Bluebell, AL. 

Upon her arrival, she discovers that the kindly old doctor who invited her has died and left her his half of the practice. Early in the first episode, we all find out that he was actually Zoe Hart's real father. It's a fish out of water story, full of cultural misunderstandings, but surprisingly very few hard feelings. Nobody on the show holds a grudge for longer than an episode or two, even after they've been left at the altar. 

That is not to say that Hart of Dixie is a kind show; it is not-- the characters are mean, and often petty, despite the strong message that deep down they possess hearts of gold. We started watching it because it was loosely compared to Gilmore Girls, but even though the show was actually filmed on the same Warner Bros back lot that was the setting for Starr's Hollow, gazebo and all, I see more of a thematic connection to Once Upon a Time. 

The interesting core of both HOD and OUAT is not a likable heroine, but rather a complex villain. At least that's what it seems like the writers are shooting for. We are only on episode 26 of 78, and it's all still a bit of a muddle. Oh, I'm definitely over-analyzing, and I really shouldn't, because the best thing about the show is that it is pretty brainless, though, and after so many hours a day working, that is what we need right now.

Me Mail Makes Me Smile

I had forgotten that one of the school counselors had asked me to add her to my class call this morning so she could observe a student. How one does that on an MS Teams call with very few cameras on, I'm not sure, but I will say that the student in question participated quite a bit. This afternoon I received a quick email from my colleague with the subject line Fun!

Hoping for a little positivity, I opened it up. Thanks for letting me join your class! it read. So fun-- makes me want to take a writer's workshop from you. 😊

That was nice! 

I also texted another colleague a few minutes before my conference with a student of hers and his mom. I noticed he has several kissing assignments, I mistyped. Is there anything you want me to pass along? Then I hit send without proofreading.

Oh, I sent the obligatory correction with a goofy emoji, but I laughed out loud when I got her email tonight, subject line Solution for Kissing Assignments. She filled me in on her phone conversation with his mom, adding at the end, I can't wait to be in the classroom with real faces. I kiss so much this way!

Need and Want

We woke to news today that school was canceled because of a major internet outage. Still, there were piecemeal work-arounds, and I had a lot of work around, so I still spent the day at my dining room table, what else? Working. 

Even so, It gave me a chance to get almost caught up with my grading and emailing and planning. Plus, I took a few breaks throughout the day, making a breakfast other than yogurt and finally finding time to get out the Halloween decorations. 

In a few minutes, I'll go out and stretch my legs, and maybe run a little. I need to be back at 5:30 though because I have a call scheduled with my brother and sister. Today is one year since our mom died. 

She has been on my mind even more than usual over the last few weeks, as I thought back to last year at this time when I spent the last weeks of her life with her in Rochester, Minnesota.  Even though I was away from school, I was actually teaching remotely. Every morning I would post an announcement and links to activities for my students, which they would complete under the guidance of a co-teacher or sub. In the evenings, I would check their work and plan for the next day. 

I guess that experience kind of prepared me for the transition to distance teaching this fall. I wondered this morning if perhaps my mother was somehow sending me this day off from teaching. If so, I wish she would have given me the whole day with nothing to do. But to be honest, that wasn't really like her. She believed in hard work and fulfilling your responsibilities without complaint. And in that respect, an extra day to get my work done is probably just what she would have sent.

Carried Away

There won't be many more days this year when I can walk up to my garden and harvest some of the vegetables I have growing there, and this afternoon seemed like a great time to do just that. It was 77 degrees and sunny with a light breeze when I headed up Superman Hill on foot. Once to the top of the hill I spun the padlock and stepped into the community garden, which I had all to myself, unless you count the goldfinches and crows. 

I weeded a bit and cleaned out the tall, bare corn and okra stalks. I picked the last two pumpkins, got most of the shell beans, some of my favorite little peppers, 2 quarts of rainbow cherry tomatoes and at least five pounds of tomatoes. When it was time to go, I realized that I was overambitious in my reaping-- the thirty or so pounds of produce would not fit in my carrying bag. I repacked a bit and headed home with 20 pounds on my shoulder and a bag of beans and a pumpkin in the other hand. 

I hadn't gone far when I began to regret my decision to not just walk home and come back in the car to pick up my harvest. Still, I soldiered on, mostly because it would have been uphill to return to the garden, shifting the bags and the pumpkins a couple of times until I reached the halfway point at the bottom of the hill. There I found my solution-- an ebike docked in the bikeshare station just ahead. 

I was so eager to drop my load that practically skipped over. Before I unlocked the bike, though, I had to figure out the cargo situation. In the end I strapped the pumpkin and beans to the front basket with the built in bungee and balanced the big bag back on my shoulder. Then shifting my weight to keep the bike steady, I teetered and tottered and then zipped right on home, where I delivered my bounty. 

And I was just considering a quick little pedal-assisted ride when I received a text that my bike's battery was low, so I sped out of the complex, up the other big hill, and around the corner to surrender it to the nearest station. 

Oh, I was a little disappointed I didn't get more of a ride, but there was definitely a satisfied spring in my step as I jogged home to my vegetables.

Teacher as Writer

I always tell my students the more you write, the easier it gets. Some times that is more true than others. Like tonight, when I was trying to finish my lesson plan for tomorrow, and I realized I didn't have an example of what I wanted my students to do. So I pulled out my trusty writing notebook, looked over the resources, and composed three quick leads for a personal memoir that I may or may not actually write. I guess it depends how the lessons go!

Anyhow, here are my three leads: 

#1

Snapshot Character:

The baby sitter was not stupid, and she was only trying to be nice when she asked me if there was anything she could get me to drink.

#2

Dialogue

"Can I have some tea?" I asked the babysitter.

She looked surprised. "You drink tea?"

"Oh yeah," I told her. "All the time."

#3

Thought-shot

Something looks a little weird about that tea, I thought. But what did I know? I had never had tea before.

To be honest? That did not take very long. I may need another activity for the lesson!

Lessons from our Furry Friends

Sometimes it's hard to focus on how wonderful the change of season has been this year, especially when we feel too anxious and busy to appreciate it. Yesterday was crisp and blue, the leaves are showing their color all over town. And with temperatures dipping into the 40s, we had our first fire of the season last night. The leftover wood from last winter was light and dry and caught quickly, crackling merrily in no time. And also in no time at all, 2 cats and a dog were spread out back to back and nose to nose as close to the hearth as they dared, mindful of the danger, but stretching and sighing and soaking in the warmth. 

That's the way to do it.

I Get by with a Little Help

For nearly 22 years there's been a 1160 foot, 10% grade hill between me and riding my bike to school. The whole trip is only about 3 miles, but Superman Hill is near the beginning of the route, and it's a deal breaker. Plus, I'm not getting any younger. So when our local bikeshare rolled out a few electric bikes to join their fleet, I was eager to borrow one and ride it up that hill. 

Today was the day that I finally got my chance. A bike scavenger hunt to benefit the organization in town that teaches kids how to fix bikes and donate them to folks in need is running asynchronously all weekend long, and I made arrangements to meet my nephews and sister-in-law at its starting point-- my school. So this morning I launched the bikeshare app, found an electric bike available just a little ways from home, and set off to claim it. 

My first impression was how freakin' heavy and unwieldy the thing was, but once I hopped on and zoomed away, I could barely contain my Wheeeeeeeeeeeee! It was fun and zippy, the bike equivalent of walking on a moving sidewalk. Counterintuitively perhaps, riding the bike made me want to pedal even faster, and I was up the hill into our complex in no time. A little while later, the true test loomed, and as the light changed I punched those pedals and took off up the hill.

It wasn't anything like the hot knife through butter ease I had fantasized about, and I was huffing and puffing by the time I got to the top, but I got there and it didn't really take that long. I made it to school in a little under 20 minutes, which is a manageable commute. 

There was another ebike at the station there, and my sister-in-law borrowed it. We had picked the easy version of the hunt, six miles instead of 18, but our ebikes made it even easier for the two of us late 50-somethings to keep up with those two twenty-something guys. 

My only regret was that we didn't go for the 18 miler, although there was a moment early in the hunt when I was struggling to adjust my seat. "I might need a little help here," I sighed. "Pedal assist and sticky seats-- welcome to my golden years!"

To the Bone

 When my nephew was three, his scientific mind was already developing. "What's in your ears and your nose?" we would ask him.

"Oh," he would shrug, "that's carteridge." 

His pronunciation my have been off, but he knew his facts. The same cannot be said for the designers of all the decorative animal skeletons that have populated the neighborhood in advance of Halloween. Cats and dogs and rats and even a horse stare blankly through hollow sockets as we pass, but they all have bony little ears on their skulls.

Riley would not approve.

Pinch Me

Last night I dreamed that I was sleeping.

Wow! I must  really be tired!

The Show Must Go On

 Oh my!

Was that me screaming and cussing this morning 2 minutes before my first class call was supposed to start?

Err, yes, yes it was.

The tantrum was triggered when I spilled my coffee all over my work space, drenching blotter, keyboard, mouse and rosters. And instead of hastily cleaning up so that I could start my class, I swept my arm across the table in rage and knocked a few more things into the puddle of coffee pooling on the floor, then kicked my desk chair over, and stomped around, bellowing in frustration, forbidding Heidi to help me at all.

But

the clock was still ticking, and so I furiously grabbed some towels and paper towels and started swabbing my tears and the coffee as fast as I could. Then I righted my chair, plopped down, and rolled over to the still, slightly damp table, dried my mouse on my coffee stained shirt, and clicked JOIN, just a minute late.

And as the little circles glowed on my screen, disembodied young voices wishing me a good morning, my composure completely returned, and I turned on my camera and started the class.

Never the Same Unit Twice

 "Why didn't we ever do that?" many returning students have asked when our conversation turns to what the current kids are working on.

Sometimes I shrug and shake my head and say, "You did!" and they laugh because they don't remember. But other times? I defend myself by explaining that even teachers, no especially teachers, have to keep learning and improving. Then it's their turn to shrug, but nod their heads.

Even so, I've noticed that the most profound improvements often come not from the splashy new activities, but rather from the most subtle changes. Today I reframed some of the writing prompts we use to help our young writers come up with a topic for their food memoirs by simply adding the phrase a story about a time when...

I had a bunch of story starters and we spun a virtual wheel to pick a couple to brainstorm (okay the wheel was a little flashy, especially the fanfare and confetti). The ideas that the studenta came up with were wonderful. In response to a story about a time when you cooked or got food for someone else, we heard stories about cooking a traditional nepalese dish to surprise one girl's parents, a boy making dinner for his mother and grandfather because he knew they would be tired after work, and another young man waking early to make breakfast for his extended family as they slept, getting overwhelmed, and then rescued by his dad when he got up.

The mark of a promising topic I told them, is the emotion you felt and the change in you at the end. "What did you learn from your experience?" I asked each.

"To keep trying, even if you think it's not good enough," answered the first student. 

"Sometimes you have to be responsible and help out," said the second.

"Teamwork really helps!" replied the third.

I think they got it.

No Rest for the Weary

The second Monday in October used to be the first holiday of the school year. It came just at the right time-- when routines were pretty solid, but everyone could use a break after the go-go-go of the beginning of the school year. Some years back, in an effort to add more working days to the teacher calendar, Columbus Day became a student-only holiday; staff was expected to participate in professional learning. 

There was some justification of the move that involved a cursory discussion of whether it was appropriate to mark the day as a holiday at all, given all the terrible consequences of Columbus's journey on the people and lands he "discovered". I more than understand that perspective, and this year I was happy to hear that our state is celebrating Indigenous People Day for the first time. Even so, I got up, logged in, participated in my distance PD, and then planned my lessons for tomorrow and Wednesday. 

I hope the kids enjoyed their day off. 

Nothing Gold Can

The weather has changed. 

The remnants of Hurricane Delta, (the Greek letter, not the name, although I like that it works both ways-- it makes me imagine Delta Burke storming through Sugarbaker's on Designing Women) are sweeping through, turning our fine, bright blue October days into a muggy gray morass. The rain is good for the plants, this I know; that cool dry weather we relished last week had crisped up what is left of our summer herbs and flowers. Still, I feel disappointed. There is something about perfect weather, the exhilaration and joy it sparks, that beguiles me into believing that, this time? 

It will stay.

Pandecorating

Just a little over a week ago I read that retailers were cautiously optimistic about the upcoming Halloween season. "If it's anything like Easter," one guy was quoted, "then we'll be fine. We sold a lot of bunny suits." The thinking was that parents are going all out to compensate for having to keep their kids at home. 

Anecdotally, I can confirm that it's going to be a boom year for Halloween. Walking around our neighborhood, as we do every day, we have noticed a lot of decorations cropping up as October gets rolling. Some houses have little cemeteries in their front yards, complete with tombstones and all sorts of skeletons, both human and other. There are cauldrons and brooms and witches and giant spiders, caskets and cats and ghosts and zombies and mummies, some scarecrows and hay bales and tons of pumpkins, of course. 

When we went to our local big box craft store today, their Halloween section was already on clearance and nearly cleared out, too. Why wouldn't it be? Halloween is sooo three weeks from now. On October 10 it's time to be planning for Christmas, people. 

And this year, I'm looking forward to some spectacular lights.

One Shoe, Two Shoe, Orange Shoe, Blue Shoe

It was three o'clock this afternoon when I finally noticed that I was wearing two different shoes-- both athletic and of the same brand, but clearly unmatching. I felt lucky for two reasons. One, I haven't been anywhere today for anyone to see my feet, and two, there was no toilet paper stuck to the heel of either one. 

Because? 

If I can't match my shoes, then there will be a train of TP (or worse) trailing from one of them, probably sooner rather than later.

She Could Feed Herself

I woke at 3 AM last night. As Paul Simon sang, I don't expect to sleep through the night, but usually I can get back to sleep after I pee. Not this time, though. 

Neither mindfulness, meditation, nor podcast could get my brain off school. I had signed off my computer the evening before with a lesson plan I felt was less engaging than I wanted it to be, especially given the restraints of distance teaching, and I turned it over as I tossed to get comfortable. 

We are preparing the students to write short personal narratives centered around a food memory, and the plan was to give them several model texts to study and use as examples. Earlier in the day I had searched the archives of this blog for any food-related posts that I could turn into an exemplar for the assignment. Oh, there are plenty of tales of food and cooking, but none that I felt would be right for the kids. 

I reached back in my memory to when I was their age, or perhaps a bit older. Did I even cook then? I wondered.  When did I learn to cook, anyway? And as curious or ridiculous as it seems, I could not remember when or why I learned to cook. My mom was a great cook, and when we moved overseas I went away to boarding school in Switzerland, then a few years later, college. 

For most of my teens and early twenties I ate in the dining halls nine months of the year and never even had access to a working kitchen until the fall semester of my junior year. But then? I cooked, and it was full meals with a little help from my roommate's Joy of Cooking. I didn't even get a meal plan, and I never had one again even through graduate school. 

In high school, our dorm room had a room with a sink and a stove that didn't heat properly, but no refrigerator. There was one thing that I could cook on that stove. Some days, I would walk to the tiny store that was in the cobbled square behind our school and buy 1 egg and 1 roll delivered fresh from the bakery in town. A little butter saved from breakfast in the one skillet that was stored in the oven and some patience would yield a perfect egg sandwich. 

Bread, butter, and eggs made just as I liked them: it was a dish I couldn't get in the dining room or any restaurant in town. No one made it for me, and eating it offered an enormous sense of comfort and home.

I guess that's when I became a cook.

The Key Word is "Imaginary"

Apologies for another WOD post so close on the heels of the last!

The word of the day yesterday was "Cockaigne", a word I recognized but could not define. According to my calendar, Cockaigne is "an imaginary land of great luxury and ease". Reading the definition, I took a deep, centering breath and acknowledged its relevancy.

You see, for me Cockaigne is simply the adjective that Irma Rombauer and her daughter Marion affixed to the names of their signature recipes in The Joy of Cooking. It is a weird, but quaint, shorthand signifying some sort of stamp of approval, and a word that I have skimmed thoughtlessly over hundreds of times.

Of course, a bit of research was in order to determine why the Rombauers chose such a label; as wonderfully metaphorical as it is now that I know its definition, I think I can safely say that Cockaigne is a pretty obscure reference. As it turns out, the family named their country home Cockaigne, and the dishes so labeled were those that were favorites of the guests they entertained there.

So informed, I looked up from my computer at my own dining table, the center of all the entertaining I have done for the last 21 years. 8 weeks ago, when I set up my lap top and monitor, I draped the bags for them over one of the chairs on the other side of the table. "I'm going to put this school stuff away every weekend!" I promised Heidi.

"Why?" she shrugged. "It's not like we're having anybody over."

Farfetched

I've been working on "getting right" with the election results if they don't go my way. As unimaginable as it seems, there is a real possibility the next four years are going to be hellish, and I feel like I need to be psychologically and emotionally ready. I haven't been applying the same practice to returning to in-person teaching before a vaccine is available, though, and the messaging today from central office indicates that I really should get on that.

Because as equally unimaginable as it seems, there is a real chance that I may soon have to spend my days doing this same exact type of teaching I am now, except in a poorly ventilated classroom full of 11 year olds. The kids will be directed to wear masks and stay 6 feet away from me each other, but I will be teaching them in person, on their iPads, and, at the same time, teaching the other two-thirds of their class remotely. Most kids will come to school two days a week, and I will see them once. That can only mean distance learning for all, with the distance varying from 6 feet to a couple of miles. 

Earlier today, a friend and I were texting about this proposal. "I'm wondering if this is a show to appease the vocal public with no plan of following through," I wrote. "Because if it's a real plan? It sucks."

It's Going to Leave a Mark

The word of the day on my calendar today is "demarcate" meaning to fix or define the limits of. 

The challenges of demarcation neatly sums up the good and the bad of working from home. No longer do I need to stay late at school just trying to finish that last thing before I can pack up and go home with clear conscience to enjoy the evening. 

But, no longer do I leave work at all. My desk is in my dining room, and any unfinished business greets me several times a day.

But, I can eat and drink and bake and stretch and pet the cats and dog any time during my day. Which is good, because the days are really long.

My calendar tells me that the word probably comes from the Italian, marcare, or to mark. Funny, I can't decide if I'm marking the days until we return to normal, or if the days are marking me. Either way, there has got to be a limit.

Rocktober

We hauled out the rock painting stuff for a couple of 7-year-olds in the neighborhood yesterday. All involved sat outside and wore masks. The adults half-heartedly brushed a little paint on a few rocks, but it just wasn't the same as those therapeutic summer paint-sessions. 

Perhaps it was the angle of the afternoon the sun, or the chill in the breezeway where we set up, but once I went to the trouble of trying to mix a perfect chocolate-chip-cookie golden brown tint and, after applying it, realized that I had just literally painted a rock brown, I was done.

The kids had a good time though, and their liberal use of all the glitter and paint we had so carefully collected and cared for over the summer reminded Heidi of why she could never be an elementary school teacher. I don't think it was quite as hard for me to watch them slather contrasting colors over wet paint, smearing it all into a muddy mess and then strewing it with glitter and abandon, but it wasn't very satisfying either.

Until this morning when I heard excited voices outside the door. It was the kids showing off the rocks they had left to dry to a dad who hadn't been there. Then, their pride became mine, too, and I knew that all that paint and glitter had been for a good cause. This world can use all the sparkle we can find.

Anywhere, USA

I despise this fall

most--

you can

vote early and worry

that your ballot won't be counted

and mourn RBG

and rage about the hypocrisy

of the Senate majority

and the corruption of the president

who is also a buffoon and a bully

who cheapens every discourse

and then gets hospitalized

with the same virus 

he's lied about for months

that has already killed

more than 200,000 people

in our

fragile 

democracy.

Faking and Making

One of my homeroom students asked if he could "stay after class" to talk to me. When all the other students had left the call, he said that he was having a situation with one of his teachers. "Part of the problem is that she's not good at technology," he explained. 

"We're all doing our best," I told him sympathetically.

"I know," he admitted, "but she's not professionally trained or anything, like you."

"I'm glad you have confidence in me!" I laughed. "Now let's see what we can do about that misunderstanding."

Left to Carry On

We spent a little time last weekend watching the new bio-pic about Helen Reddy. Telling the tale of her hardscrabble journey from a single mom scraping by in New York City thousands of miles from her family to a pop superstar of the seventies, it featured every one of her greatest hits in a context of both time and narrative. The film ended with Reddy coming out of retirement to perform I Am Woman at the Women's March on January 22, 2017. 

It was a pretty good Saturday night movie, and although I sang along with every. single. song. You and Me Against the World was still stuck in my head yesterday when the news broke that Helen Reddy had died. 

After watching the movie, I read that she was in a memory care unit, but there was something a little comforting about knowing that Helen Reddy, that radio icon of my childhood, was still out there somewhere. Her passing made me sad to lose another link to those days.

Coincidentally, in one scene of the movie, she was recording I Believe in Music, which was originally to be the A side of what would become her first top 40 hit, I Don't Know How to Love Him. 

"Who sang that song?" I asked Heidi, but she shrugged.

"You know, it goes Music is love and love is music if you know what I mean," I sang. "People who believe in music are the happiest people I've ever seen! I think it was Mac Davis." A quick search of the world wide web confirmed my rusty memory. "I bet I could play that song on my ukulele!" I continued, and another search brought up the tabs for the song. 

And so it happened that I was also singing I Believe in Music when I found out that Mac Davis had died, too. I know the 1970 was 50 years ago, but it doesn't really feel that far away, except for all the people who are gone.