Dead Again

Turns out I may have been a bit too blasé about the whole dead battery situation yesterday. Did I seem unconcerned that a six-month old battery was so dead that it took a half an hour to recharge? Perhaps I was overly quick to charge the whole incident up to user error?

In any case, when I went out this morning to reset the back lift gate I found the battery dead again. This time, I admit to some concern and certainly inconvenience: obviously if the dang thing won't hold a charge, a trip back to the dealer is a must. Figuring out how to get the car restarted and down to the shop for testing and repair, over a holiday weekend and in the dwindling days of our vacation, was definitely kind of a pain. 

But, I took a deep breath and arranged the necessaries, and then? I thanked our lucky stars that the car had made it all the way from Buffalo yesterday.

Jiggity Jig

Another eight hour road trip, and 

we
are
home
again.

We had planned to leave around 10:30, but in the final stages of loading the car the rear hatch stopped opening, offering only three short beeps when I squeezed the button, and finally just silence. It occurred to me then that it might be the battery, and sure enough when I punched the ignition, nothing happened. The automatic locks wouldn't even work when I tried to secure everything before dashing into the house to breathlessly report the misfortune.

We had been using our car for the whole time we were in Buffalo, mostly because it was already out of the garage and in the driveway, and it has all wheel drive and enough seating for the five of us. It's an unfamiliar vehicle to Heidi's folks, though, and we used the dome lights more than we ever do, plus the doors have a soft close that makes it easy to overlook an open or ajar door. I'm not pointing any fingers, but it was definitely user error that killed our battery.

So there we were, stranded, except that Heidi's dad has one of those plug-in chargers that are supposed to be able to jumpstart a dead battery. We eagerly rummaged through the garage to find the gadget, only to discover that it was pouring rain when we opened the door. The weather app predicted the precipitation would last half an hour, so we occupied ourselves with extension cords and the like, and miraculously when we were ready, the rain stopped. 

The directions said to charge the battery for three minutes before trying to start the car, and we did just that, but there was literally no reaction when I hit the ignition. Undaunted, we charged for five more minutes, but there was no more than a bit of clicking. We tried once more, and then left it plugged in and went inside to call AAA, who promised to be there in two hours.

At that point, I made us some grilled sandwiches, and kept trying the car every ten minutes or so. It seemed like a lot more lights were coming on every time, and about 15 minutes later? The car roared to life! 

Here's what didn't happen. The rear hatch never opened again. Those three plaintive beeps were all we ever got. Fortunately, we were able to load the rest of our stuff from the back seat. In fact, folding the rear seat down and pushing things back turned out to be a handy strategy that I will definitely use in the future. That rear gate complained all the way home though-- beeping constantly for one minute any time we started from a full stop.

The car's manual says there's a fix, but that's a project for tomorrow

It Would Be So Nice

In a bit of a reversal of my usual 100 day challenge, where I try to cultivate a new habit or awareness by doing something very day from March 1 to June 8, this year I'm 99% sold on trying not to do something for each month of 2023. In an effort to phrase the effort more positively, I'm calling each challenge a "holiday" from whatever it is I'm trying to avoid doing that month.

So far I have a list of options and a plan for January, which is to hop on the "Dry January" bandwagon. After that, I need to strategically schedule each of my holidays. 

Here's my tentative list for the other eleven months, in no particular order:

Shopping holiday 
Amazon holiday 
Added sugar holiday
Single-use plastic holiday
Cussing holiday
Meat and fish holiday
Gluten holiday
Google holiday
Social media holiday
Clutter holiday
Restaurant holiday

Do you dare me?

Walking on Snow

The the trees were dripping when I got up this morning. Because of the wind, the snow had drifted unevenly, and there was even grass peeking through here and there. I knew my window of opportunity was perhaps literally melting away, and so I laced up my boots and strapped on my snowshoes. My first foray was to simply tramp through the backyard, but when that went well, Heidi and I walked with the dogs down to the elementary school. There the back field was a pristine snowscape, and I got my fill of walking over the top of the 18 inch pack. My cheeks were rosy and I was warm when my watch dinged to tell me that my exercise ring was closed. Heidi and the dogs were a bit chilly, though, so I stepped out of the bindings, threaded the snowshoes onto the poles, and slung them over my shoulder, determined to find a way to do this more often.

(Step one will definitely have to be to get Heidi a pair of her own!)

Christmastime

We pulled into Heidi's parents' driveway just before five this evening. Despite all the weather-related drama that had occupied our last few days, the trip was uneventful. 

We picked her brother up from the train station at 9:30, crammed his stuff in the back of the Subaru and set off around the beltway, up 295, around 695, up 83, and then along the Susquehanna River through Pennsylvania. There was little more than a dusting of snow until we turned west from the 390 in New York. Then we began to see some drifts of a foot or more, but the roads remained clear and dry. 

In Batavia, with an hour to go, tiny flakes began to dampen the windshield, and by the time we hit the Thruway, it was snowing, but there was no accumulation. Arriving in Buffalo, the city streets were a bit slushy, and the neighborhood streets were still packed powder. The Subaru slid just a little, but the traction of the AWD made it kind of fun.

The three of us stamped the driveway snow off our boots and tramped into the house with Lucy in tow. It didn't matter at all that the calendar read December 27. For us? It was Christmas.

5 Days Left

Since we aren't driving to Buffalo until tomorrow (cross your fingers and toes), I took some time today to review my 22 for 2022 list and start working on my 23 for 2023. 

This is the first year I have tried the ritual, and I give myself a load of grace, both because it's a new experience AND because doing anything on such a list seems better to me than not making one at all. My near final tally? Is 8. I celebrated my birthday in a beautiful place with my family, threw a dinner party, solved my aunt's DNA mystery, grew Hatch chilis in my garden, read 24 books, reinstated our Oscar weekend, spent Thanksgiving at the beach, and saw my dear friend Pauly for the first time in too many years.

"What are some things you didn't get to?" my sister-in-law asked this afternoon.

"I didn't clean out the attic," I sighed, "or take a class. I also didn't go away for a spa week or weekend, but I put that back on my list for 2023. And I wanted to travel internationally, but that didn't happen; although there is a chance we might go to Canada if we ever get to Buffalo."

"Does that even count?" asked my nephew's wife. She lives in Iceland.

"Kind of?" I shrugged. "Oh, and I also wanted to go cross country skiing or snowshoeing."

"It's definitely not too late for that," noted my sister-in-law, and I realized how right she was.

As soon as we got home, I climbed to the attic and fetched my snowshoes, feeling ever more prepared for our trip north.

The Blizzard

Our original plan for Act II of this upside down inside out Yule was to rise at 4:30 as usual on Christmas morning and, instead of flying to Atlanta from Buffalo, hit the road for Buffalo from home. Such an itinerary would place us at Heidi's folks right around lunchtime, and close to her brother's scheduled arrival from, wait for it, Atlanta. 

But the great Christmas Blizzard of '22 had other plans for all of us, and even now, 2 days on into the historic storm, Heidi's parents have 3 feet of snow in their driveway, their street hasn't been touched by a plow, the NY State Thruway is closed from Rochester to the PA line, there is a travel ban for all but emergency vehicles in Erie County, and the airport is closed at least until Tuesday noon. At present the death toll stands at 12, but officials are expecting it to rise as the storm subsides and they find the many missing cars and people.

As late as yesterday evening, we still planned to drive as far north as we could get today and spend a night, if necessary, in a hotel an hour or so away, but that plan was iced, literally and figuratively, by the possibility that it could be a few days, not hours, until we could actually get to their house. Heidi's brother's flight has been canceled and rebooked twice, and now the earliest he can fly in is the 29th. Heidi's mom's reaction to the news was right on point. "Boy oh boy. What a revolting development," she texted while taking a break from the snow blower.

Even now, we're not quite sure the best course of action, although we are ever hopeful that tomorrow will offer some clarity. Rumor has it the travel ban will be lifted at 7 am tomorrow, but who knows how long after that it will be until the neighborhood is passable?

There's also a chance that Heidi's brother can make it here in time for the three of us to venture north together. I'm on board for that! Surely we can make it there before the 29th.

And Don't Forget to Hang Up Your Sock

Our upside-down Christmas did a few more somersaults today. At 3:30, we gathered at Bill and Emily's to open gifts and do stockings before heading out to dinner. Our stockings are in Atlanta, though, and so we all designed and decorated a plain white gift bag to stand in for the handcrafted stockings my mom made years ago.

The results were phenomenal!

(More on the blizzard in Buffalo tomorrow...)

The Sunny Side

The temperature dropped over 40 degrees in just a couple of hours today, freezing the residual puddles and and runoff into solid ice by late afternoon. It was frigid, and as Annabelle reminded us several times, the windchill made it feel like it was even colder. 

But what can you do? We bundled up, built a fire, huddled beneath blankets, and bided our time. The worst of it should be over when we get up tomorrow, and from there it will go up to a balmy 24. Temps will rise steadily through the week, especially for my sister's family, who will be in the Dominican Republic by Christmas afternoon, enjoying 82 degrees beneath sunny skies.

Universally Onerous

Every job seems to have it.

"I have to do some work this afternoon," my brother-in-law told us as we were planning to go shopping. "I still have 8 hours of mandatory training I have to finish by the end of the year."

We found him lying on the couch a couple of hours later, his computer droning at him from the coffee table. He paused the playback when we entered, but once we filled him in on our purchases and plans, he hit the spacebar again. 

The tinny voices coming from his laptop speakers could have been the same ones that narrate our hours of obligatory training. The content was focused on accounting and tax returns, but it was no dryer or more exciting than our slips and falls and mandatory reporting sessions.

And despite not being my own requirement, I found it intensely oppressive nevertheless.

Happy Coincidence

I was dropping Lindt truffles in a bag when I heard my name. "It is her!" giggled a young voice. 

Looking up I saw a couple of students from last year. "You caught me!" I laughed. "Buying chocolates."

"I can't believe we saw you here!" said one.

"Well," I shrugged, "I do things away from school sometimes, y'know. What are you guys up to?"

"We're shopping for chocolates, too," answered the other girl. Just then an employee approached us with a bowl of free samples. After we all had a truffle on the house, the girls turned to go.

"What about your chocolate?" I asked.

"We just had it!" one called over her shoulder. "Happy holidays!"

Glad I Did

 I did not want to go.

I was feeling cranky from sitting around all day waiting for things to fall into place so that we could go out and run errands. And when at 5 PM our drop-in guest headed home after a 2 hour visit, I was anxious to head out right then. But the dog needed a walk, and then our neighbors texted to suggest tonight for our annual holiday light crawl and gift exchange. There really wasn't another night before Christmas that would work, so I grumbled and sighed and even stomped a bit before bundling up and heading out into the second longest and definitely coldest night of the year.

I began to relax right away as we passed the twinkling lights of our own neighborhood on our way up the hill to where we knew the most impressive displays were located. It seemed later than 6 PM as we walked the streets admiring all sorts of lights and characters, no one was around but us. We made it to what has historically been the most impressive display: an old farmhouse bedazzled with tens of thousands of lights on every surface and even adorning the 70 foot trees that tower above it. 

Oohed and aahed out, we continued on our way a couple of blocks to another really lit house replete with a front yard full of holiday figures. "Those are the two best," I shrugged, "but let's go around the block before turning back." 

It was there that we found the treasure of the evening. A house with an electronic music and light display so professionally executed we might have paid to see it. We stood across the street watching what can only be described as the show, as lights flashed and danced and changed color along with holiday music. There was a pixilated screen in the center of the roof that added to the show with glowing holly, pulsing sunrises, and dabbing Santas.

In the middle of the spectacle a Tesla pulled up, and a couple greeted us. We assumed they were there to enjoy the show, until they crossed the street and entered the house. It wasn't too long before the guy came back out. He wanted to be with folks who appreciated his creation. He gave us a bit of an inside scoop: he was a professional cameraman; he had been installing the lights since October; he had programmed all of it himself. Then he used his phone to show us a couple of songs we'd missed. 

"Well, I'd better head back inside," he said after 10 minutes or so.

We thanked him again, both for his time and his amazing creation, and then turned to go home ourselves, confident that we had seen the best lights there were.

Shopping Local

One of the things I am looking forward to when I finally retire is to spend a lot of time at the museums downtown. Of course we know how lucky we are to live less than five miles from some of the finest exhibits on the planet, which are all open to the public for free, but knowing and going are two separate things, particularly when life and traffic stand between the two.

A few months ago we were walking on the National Mall with some friends and their dogs when one of them mentioned a monthly museum group she had once belonged to. Much like a book or dining out group, they picked an exhibit and met there. The wonder of such a plan cut through some of my how-ever-will-I-spend-my-time retirement angst. 

Even so, I resolved to get down there a bit more frequently now, before I retire, especially now that COVID protocols have eased. And today? We did just that, although not exactly in the way I had imagined. Our holiday shopping done with the exception of stocking stuffers, we remembered how fun the gift shops at the National Gallery have been in the past. That, plus the Christmas Market up by the National Portrait Gallery, made downtown seem like a good destination.

And it kind of was: the post-pandemic economy has taken a bit of a toll on inventory in many places, museum gift shops among them. It was still fun to look, though, and a good reminder of all the treasures that are really no more than a few minutes away.

So Much Funakkah

We were invited to a neighbor's Hanukkah open house this afternoon, and as is often the case, I was reluctant to go. This time my excuses included the fact that I still wasn't feeling 100 percent, and there were so many holiday chores here at home, but attending the party was pretty much non-negotiable, and so I put on a nice blue sweater and boots and off we headed. 

It had occurred to me earlier in the day when I was wishing that I could stay home, put on a Hallmark movie, and wrap gifts, that this was the type of gathering that the folks in those movies always enjoyed. Sure, they had their gift wrapping scenes, but seldom were they at the expense of meeting with spending time with people, and never was the TV on.

And this party ended up being way better than running errands or checking off things on my to do list! There were neighbors to catch up with, pups to pet, babies to hold, brisket and latkes and chopped liver, and we played Dreidel and watched Adam Sandler on YouTube. At the end our hostess explained the tradition of the menorah, and she and her sister said the prayer as she lit the shamash and then the first candle.

And as we walked home, I felt like the holiday season had truly begun.

Thanks, Universe

My stomach is still a bit tender, and so I headed to the grocery this evening for some frozen ravioli, the same kind my mom used to serve when we were kids. Back then I would have given anything to be able to eat those round little ricotta-filled pillows with nothing but butter and salt, but my mother insisted that we have it with the homemade meat sauce she had prepared. 

The ravioli themselves were precious, counted out before they hit the boiling water, so that each of us only got so many. I'm not sure if they were expensive, and that's why they were so strictly regulated? Maybe so, because they were a rare treat indeed; more often we would eat boxed vermicelli with our red or clam sauce.

Anyhow, my appetite is still not back to 100% from that lingering stomach bug, and sometime this afternoon it occurred to me that plain cheese ravioli might be a comfort to my unsettled stomach, so off I went with the intention to buy just as much as I wanted, and when I got there? They were half price! 

That's gotta be a good sign.

Stomach Bug: Day 3

When at last I felt well enough to tell about it, I had to laugh. 

"Were there any kids in the classroom when you barfed?" my brother asked.

"No, just Heidi," I told him, "and later she said, "Wow! You really don't know how to throw up do you? You didn't even bend your knees or pick up the trash can! No wonder it went all over the place!"

"Well," I shrugged, "it's not really a skill I hope to develop."

And for the record? I feel much better today.

Stomach Bug: Day 2

My stomach is still super queasy, but things could be worse. I'm on the couch with the dog, the TVs on, a merry fire burns brightly,  I have tea in my cup, and ice water by my side. 

In my entire teaching career there has only been one other time when I was too sick to go to school, so that's pretty fortunate, too. 

I'm sure it won't be too long until this is all just an unpleasant memory.

Broken Streak

 Folks, it's literally been over 30 years since the last time I threw up. Or rather, that was true until this afternoon when I booted all over my classroom.

It's just as unpleasant as I recalled.

Fortunately? I'm feeling just well enough to tell about it, so that's another streak that stays in tact.

Paradox

Our principal is fond of telling the students in our school that we are, "the best of the best, better than all the rest." She uses the catchphrase to motivate them to behave well, but to be honest? I've never much liked the comparative nature of it. Why do we have to be better than everyone?  Can't we all be good for its own sake? 

Whatever my personal objections, I've heard the expression for so long that it barely registers anymore. So the other morning when, in her last weekly message to students and staff before the winter break, she encouraged all of us to be reflective and humble as we approach the new year, I barely gave it a second thought. The same was not so of one of my homeroom students whose hand shot up immediately. 

"How can she expect us to be humble when we're the best of the best?" he asked. And although his question was more than a little snarky, I had to give him kudos for listening and thinking about the content.

Fortunately, he didn't expect an answer.

For Now

"What are you going to do when you retire?" a student asked me out of the blue today. "Travel the world? Or stay someplace cozy?'

No!" said the girl next to him. "You should move to Belize," she insisted in her musical accent. "It's beautiful there! I lived by the sea and sometimes I saw dolphins swimming right by."

"But really," repeated the first student. "Do you like to travel? Don't you want to see the world?"

"I do like to travel," I agreed, "and Belize sounds very nice. But are you saying I should retire?"

"Oh no!" said the girl. 

"Not for at least ten years," the first kid added. 

"You still look very young," the girl assured me.

"Thanks!" I said, "Why don't we all keep working, hmmm?"

Too Much Christmas

"I'm not putting up a single Christmas decoration this year!" a friend declared recently. "I'm so busy, the thought of it brings me no joy."

She sighed and then continued. "My fiance thinks I'll change my mind but he's wrong. Because you know what brings me joy?"

We shook our heads. "The thought of not doing it!"

Right Family, Wrong Generation

It seems to be a bit mind-boggling to some students to have three staff members with the same last name in our school. My sister-in-law and I have been colleagues for years, which was confusing enough. "Is she your sister?" they used to ask, and then more recently, "Is she your wife?"

And now my nephew is working there as well. "Wait! They're related how?" some kids were overheard to say when he started. "I'm going to need a family tree or something!"

And just when we thought they were getting it, a student busted into my sister-in-law's art room and announced to any who cared to know that "Mr. S is your son!"

"That's right," she confirmed.

"And the other Ms. S is your mother!" he finished triumphantly.

Starting Early

Was it my imagination or were the sixth graders extra wild these last two days? 

It almost seems like their early release revved them up more than a little. "Thank you!" said the math teacher on my team when I mentioned my observation. "I'm glad to know it wasn't just me."

"Oh it isn't," I assured her. "In fact my worst class today was actually my best, because that's how crazy the others have been."

I'm really hoping they will settle down over the weekend, because otherwise? With just one week left before break, we're in for a long one.

On the Bias

"The rules apply to everyone," I said to my homeroom student who did not want to remove his hood during the assembly. 

"Why are you making such a big deal?" he scoffed. "When literally everyone is wearing a hat."

I looked around and didn't see any hats.

"You know "literally" means something is actually true," I said. "Where are the hats?"

He turned away in a huff.

"I don't make the rules, but it's my job to make sure they are followed," I explained as we headed back to 

"The rules apply to everyone," said Kirsten Dunst as the strict and implicitly biased supervisor, Mrs. Mitchell, in Hidden Figures.

She was talking to Octavia Spencer's character, Dorothy Vaughan, about her request for a promotion. Dorothy Vaughan was visibly displeased.

"I don't make the rules," Mrs. Mitchell said, "but I do have to enforce them."

I looked over at the kid from earlier in the day, feeling a little guilty about the parallels between their interaction and ours. He was rocking in the rocking chair munching on popcorn, and if he noticed any similarities, he didn't show it.

"I am not racist,' Mrs. Mitchell told Mrs. Vaughan a little later in the movie.

"I know," Mrs. Vaughan nodded. "I know you believe that." 

Lost Time

Today was the annual winter concert for students, and as always I reviewed the expectations for appropriate behavior with my homeroom before they called us down to the theater. 

"Why do they call it an assembly?" one kid asked.

"Because we are all assembled together for the event," I answered. "Does that make sense?"

He shrugged.

"Didn't you call them assemblies in elementary school?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," he told me, "but we haven't really had one for the last three years."

Point? Taken.

That Might Make Us Feel better

"We can bring snacks," I told my homeroom when they expressed disappointment at having to watch a 2 hour movie and go to an assembly on the first early release day. "Things are only as good as your attitude."

I knew what I was talking about. I had voted against a movie weeks before when the topic came up, but I was overruled when I was out of town before Thanksgiving. Even so, we could only make the best of it. And that was the way we approached it this morning before we did our current events activity. 

"Remember to bring snacks to share tomorrow, if you want to," I reminded them before clicking over to the NY Times news quiz for kids. When everyone was through, (as a group, they love that sort of challenge), a recipe popped up on the bottom of my screen,  Salted Caramel Peanut Butter.

"Can we have that?" one student joked.

I considered for a minute. "Do we have any peanut or gluten allergies?"

"Wait. Really?" said another kid.

"Sure," I shrugged. "I'll bake them tonight."

And so I did. 

Diminishing Returns

For many years, I have done my best to finish my school work before leaving for the day. That way, I am free and clear to focus on other things once I push through those heavy safety glass doors. But for those same many years, I have been one of the last to leave the building. Most evenings the halls are quiet, but for the vacuum of the custodian, and often even the main office is dark and locked when I slip by on my way out.

In that respect, working from home during the pandemic was a lot better for me. I was able to take personal breaks and come back to my work in a more seamless way. Exercise and chores, for example, seemed much easier to fit in.

So recently it occurred to me that perhaps it's time to change things up. And so I have resolved to leave school much earlier and restructure my afternoons. If I have to finish a few things at home? I guess I will. And hopefully everything will go a little quicker if my errands are done and I've been to the gym, and who knows?  I may use my planning time a bit more efficiently if I know it's limited.

And although I have come to love the way the sun shines in my window in late afternoon, and the quiet of the building when almost everyone else has left for the day,  whatever happens, I have to believe it's going to be better than sitting at my desk for hours after my contract day is over.

Jane Who?

We were well acquainted with the dangers of the Christmas tree lot, and so we guarded against getting a tree that seemed the right size but would end up being enormous for the space we have. And it was good that our sights were on the smaller side, given the astronomical tree prices this year, for which we were also prepared. 

But after a busy weekend of other tree shoppers, the nursery was nearly sold out of medium trees this afternoon when we got there. We contemplated trying another place, but this establishment had given every single tree on the lot a unique name, which seemed at first puzzling, and then corny, and then downright charming as we considered our options: here was Merry, there Lucius, over there Marshall. 

And when we tipped Jane up to take a look at her, she seemed nicely shaped, if compact for her class, and we figured with a couple inches off the bottom, she could be the tree for us. So, we tapped one of Santa's helpers (That's a job title there-- the trees have names, but the workers are anonymous as elves.), and he carried Jane off to get a fresh cut and wrapped up to go, while we went to pay an exorbitant amount for her. 

She did seem a little light when we got her off the roof rack once at home, but we welcomed the ease with which we got her up the stoop, into the house, and on the stand. However, when we took a step back to admire our 2022 tree, Jane seemed much smaller than any tree we've ever had. Confused, we checked her name tag and the number on her pink ribbon. Both matched up with what we had seen at the lot; there was no mistaken identity here. 

"We'll make it work," I shrugged, and Heidi agreed, but we're still not sure how that happened.

Old Souls

Sometimes I think I'm in danger of turning my homeroom vibe into a visit to your grandma type of thing. Not only do we spend a lot of time watching the news and playing Bananagrams and other word games, but recently I mentioned that I was thinking of bringing in some jigsaw puzzles. 

Fortunately? The kids seem to dig it. Last year one of them even taught us how to knit!

The Name of the Class

"I heard you speak French!" one of my students exclaimed as she entered the room this morning.

"Oui," I replied, "c'est vrai."

"Huh?" she wrinkled her nose.

"Je parle un peu français," I continued slowly.

"What?!" she asked in return.

"I know you take French," I said. "What do you know how to say?"

"Je suis present!" she recited.

"Très bien!" I applauded.

"Heh?" She shook her head and threw up her hands.

I laughed. "Let's stick to English, for a while," I said. 

Only a Number

Maybe it's my imagination, but lately people have begun treating me like an old lady. 

In addition to being offered the senior discount every time I shop on Thursday, I've noticed that the staff at our weekly COVID testing always solicitously open my plastic bag for me and poke the swab through so it's ready to go. I appreciate it, but when a young woman actually snapped the swab in advance, it confused me and I ended up ruining the kit. I apologized and she waved me off with a bit of a testy "You're fine."

And when we arrived home from the beach the other day, one of our neighbors happened to be walking by with the dog. "Oh Jeez," he said when he saw the back of our loaded station wagon, "let me help you with that." 

It was a gesture I also appreciated, especially when he carried the heavy cooler and suitcases up all the stairs to our place, but when I thanked him I had to consciously not add, "We could have done that ourselves, y'know."

I am reminded of a story my mom told about 15 years ago. Early one Saturday morning there was a knock at her front door. She was still in her pajamas with no makeup, but the caller was very insistent and so she answered. Outside was a police officer who informed her that there had been some suspicious activity in the area that they wanted residents to be aware of. Just then his radio squawked, and he excused himself to take the call. "No," she heard him say, "no one's here but an elderly lady."

My mom was only in her late 60s at the time, and she laughed when she recounted the episode, in part because it seemed so ridiculous to her. But in the next few years, she began to complain more about being patronized or not taken seriously by service people, contractors, and others. It really made her mad.

Recently my brother and I were talking about bias. "Do you know there are only two categories on the Harvard bias test that I show extreme preference for?" he said. "Guess what they are."

I gave up.

"Young people and skinny people," he told me. 

"At least you fit in one of those groups!" I laughed.

The Songbird Knows the Score

I was saddened by the news today of the death of Christine McVie. I had actually been thinking about her over the last week or so, her talent and songwriting, and especially her role in making Fleetwood Mac one of the great bands of the late 20th century.

McVie came to mind when the family gameplay over Thanksgiving took a bit of a nasty turn the night it was me, Heidi, and Emily against Bill and Treat. The game was Mind the Gap, which is trivia played on a Monopoly style-board, each of the four sides comprised of questions from a different generation: Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, and Gen Z. As teams make their away around the board, they must answer questions from each generation. There is also a challenge component, which can get really messy.

At any rate, when we were playing that night, Bill and Treat chose to start out on Gen Z and get those questions behind them. Their first category was music; "Name 3 of the 5 members of One Direction," I read.

"Harry Styles," started Treat, and there was some discussion as they tried to come up with two more of the guys. Finally they settled on Harry, Liam, and Zane.

"I'm going to say no to that," I told them. "The card includes their last names."

Well, there were some hard feelings about that call, and in truth I questioned whether I was being overly competitive, even after the game was over. Treat had made the point that boy bands are marketed by their first names only, but laying in bed that night I thought of other bands and their members. Would I have accepted Don, Glenn, Joe, and Randy for the Eagles? How about Stevie, Lindsay, Christine, John, and Mick for Fleetwood Mac? In the end I decided it was fair, if not exactly friendly, to insist. I also thought that performers deserve that respect: a great band is a combination of talent and chemistry.

Over the years, Fleetwood Mac has played with and without some of the key five musicians who wrote and recorded classic albums such as Fleetwood Mac, Rumours, Tusk, and Tango in the Night, but without Christine McVie's piano, vocals, and harmonies? It can never be the same again.

It Was Worth a Try

"Can I charge my iPad? It's only at 5%" a student asked this morning gesturing at the bright red cable by my desk.

"I'm happy to cooperate with you," I answered him, "but I'm going to need some cooperation from you, too."

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Well," I continued, "I'd like you to do your assignments and participate in our class."

"I can't promise that," he told me dismissively.

"Why should I let you use my charger then?" I asked him.

"Isn't that your job?" he replied.

"Actually, charging your iPad is your job," I said. 

He shrugged.

"Give it some thought," I told him. "The charger is right there."

Turns out 5% charge is plenty when you don't plan to do much of anything.

When in Doha

To be honest, the World Cup has hardly been on my radar screen. Sure, I know it's the most watched sporting event in the world, and I had followed with mild interest of the controversial no beer in the stadium policy imposed by the host country, Qatar, at the last minute. I also read the darker reports of the exploitation of foreign workers in the push to get the venues built and running, which was not surprising to me, having lived in Saudi Arabia in the mid-70s and seen first-hand the poor treatment of Pakistani, Korean, Phillipino, and Yemani laborers.

But the competition itself? I had no idea of the groups, let alone the standings in the first stage when I got to school this morning. My mind was on catching up with what I had missed by being out for two days and planning for the formal observation my evaluator had scheduled for third period today.

As soon as the kids came in, though, it was clear that FIFA Fever had swept the school. Instead of sneaking onto game sites, they were checking scores and streaming matches, whispering updates like gossip. 

"Can we watch soccer for our brain break?" one kid finally asked, and I had to agree it was a good idea. Plus, Switzerland and Brazil were scoreless at 63 minutes. Hopp Schwiiz!

Dear Bill

Dear Bill,

By the time you read this, some of the work will be done. You will have made it through without ever having read whatever words of motivation I might muster, because you could. 

Like always, you could. 

Like always, you did.

What Are the Chances?

Three cars left East Market Street at the same time headed for the same destination. One pulled over a few miles later. Another stopped at a light to make a left turn. The third whizzed by while the second was waiting.

The second car encountered an obstacle and rerouted. One of the passengers wanted to stop for water. A few miles later a convenience center appeared on the left. The driver decided to turn. Pulling in they saw the first car.

Three siblings were reunited at what turned out to be a crucial moment.

Surely, this was more than coincidence.

Cold Feet

We walked down to the sandy beach at the end of our street in an effort to beat the rain yesterday afternoon. An unseasonably fair breeze met us as we crested the dune, and both Victor and I kicked off our boots and socks and left them by the picket fence.

"I'm a little worried it's too cold to go barefoot," I said. "I know it's almost 60, but it's still November."

"It's warmer than Iceland in July," he said and headed toward the water.

True enough.

Non-Traditional

Spatchcock the turkey? 

Roll the stuffing into balls?

Mash baked potatoes?

Bake pumpkin cheesecake

and apple-cranberry pie-cake? 

But still: be thankful for all we have.

That's Quite Enough Already

"Should we go to that meat market we saw yesterday?" I asked Emily as we out running errands this morning. "They'll probably be lonely on Thanksgiving," I laughed.

When we arrived a tall burly man in a bright red knit cap was standing outside the door with a clipboard. "Do you have a preorder with us?" he asked officiously.

"No," I shrugged. "Is that a problem?"

"It depends what you want," he said.

"We're just here for some steak," I said.

"I am totally sold out of filet," he informed me.

"Filet?" I laughed, for that is not what I had in mind. "How about rib-eyes?"

"We have those," he nodded and peered through the glass door. "That guy in the gray hat will help you."

Inside it seemed like a normal butcher shop. Maybe employees were hustling a little more than usual, but the case was full of beef, lamb, and pork. "What can I get you?" asked the gray-hatted man.

"Strip steak?" Emily suggested. "But what are those?" she pointed to the tray to the right.

"Rib-eye," I answered. "I love rib-eye! Let's get those." 

The steaks were thick, so I asked for two. The counter guy pulled out the tray and slid it in front of me so that I could choose my steaks. I selected a couple with nice marbling, and he tossed them on the scale. "Anything else?" he asked, and I shook my head no. "$96.08," he shouted to the cashier and handed me a white-wrapped package. It was then that I noticed there were no price tags anywhere.

Wide-eyed, I turned to Emily who was holding a small wheel of cheese and a bag of olives in her hand. "Those steaks were a hundred bucks!" I told her.

"I wonder how much this cheese and olives will be," she laughed.

"We're already in for a hundred," I said, "might as well get those, too." 

I placed the cheese and olives on the counter and pulled out my credit card. "That will be $140.47," the cashier said. "will there be anything else?"

Trivialists

When at last my sub plans were complete, my classroom straightened, and desk clear, I had some time to poke around into what we might do in our week away at the beach. It tickled me that the house we had landed on was right across the street from Fisherman's Wharf (Lewes version), the very scene of ten years of the end-of-the-year sixth grade dolphin-watching field trips, and I eagerly explored the local entertainment opportunities. 

Well! I literally gasped when I saw that the restaurant on the dock offered Monday trivia night. Such an event was perfect for our group, and once I broke the news on Saturday afternoon, we set to trivia training. The five of us seemed ideally suited based on our ages and knowledgability, but still we drilled, discussing strategies for both answering and consensus building.

At 6:30, we walked across the street, ready to eat and compete, but there were no tables left in the bar. Undaunted, we accepted their offer of a close-by table in the next room. Treat and I reported dutifully to the trivia master to receive our directions, and once I texted him our team name, Intelligent Instruments, we were dismissed to our table until the contest began at 7 PM.

Our outpost proved to be an advantage, as we freely discussed the answers with no fear of being overheard, and we were tied for the lead after a perfect first round. We were 4 for 4 going into the last question of round two, but too late we realized that the Bennet sisters were from Pride and Prejudice, not Sense and Sensibility. Not to worry, though! In the event of no correct answers, the rules provided a do-over. Treat confidently identified Revolver as the Beatles album with Yellow Submarine and Eleanor Rigby, and we were ahead by 3 at the end of the round.

We aced the final five questions, and went into the final wager round with a lead of five points. Unfamiliar with the local customs, we bet 15 points Jeopardy-style, trying to edge out our nearest competitor should we both get the correct answer, and even though we stumbled on that question, so did every other team, and we were crowned champions and awarded a fifty dollar gift card.

Yes, this really happened.

A Day at the Beach

It was a cold day here at the beach, 31 degrees when we woke up, but the winds that were gusting from the west all day yesterday had subsided, allowing the weak November sun to warm us ever so slightly. We decided to seize the opportunity and all five of us bundled up and, along with the two dogs, piled into the station wagon and headed to Cape Henlopen State Park. 

When we parked at the first lookout tower, the one that visitors are allowed to climb, a young doe and a fawn were feeding on the scrubby grass. They were unconcerned by us, and out of deference to them, we left the dogs in the car for this bit of our adventure, and trooped up the spiral stairs, the clanging of our feet on the metal steps echoing off the the bricks as we climbed. 

When at last we made it to the top of the 75-foot structure, the 360 view was worth the climb. With only the deep blue sky above us, we could see the tops of even the tallest Loblolly pines growing in the sandy soil to our west, and beyond the dunes to the east there was the little light house at the point of Cape Henlopen where the Delaware Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean.

Our next stop was at the beach access at Herring Point, and we walked south along the shore which seemed scrubbed clean. Last year at this time, our first walk on the beach turned up dead sharks and cormorants, tiny sand dollars, a feisty little crab, and a handful of sea glass, but this time there was only a sparse collection of broken shells and pebbles. Even so, sheltered from rising the wind as we were, we walked a couple miles on the beach as the dogs ran and swam. We did come across a couple of live horseshoe crabs, one scuttling slowly toward the sea, and the other somersaulting in the breaking surf, using that spiny tail as first a vaulting pole and then a rudder.

As we turned back towards our car and home, a couple of huge container ships sailed lazily south on the horizon, on their way to who knows where.

Mind the Rules

It's a family getaway, and so for us? That means playing games! So far on this trip our games have been mostly been trivia related, which is no coincidence, because the restaurant across the street is hosting a trivia night tomorrow, and the five of us are in training. 

Conveniently, the rental house came with a pub-style trivia game, and we have played a few rounds while cooking and after dinner. Our average hovers in the 7th percentile, a solid pass on the SOLs, and a score we're hoping would be locally competitive.

We also have another Q and A game called Mind the Gap, which has four sets of trivia questions based on the four recent generations, Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, and Gen Z. Last night, despite its rules and design, we played the game as individuals, an approach which was not entirely unsuccessful, although it did provide a few moments of unintended hilarity. At one point, I was trying to hum the theme song from a popular 80s sitcom when I dissolved into laughter.

"Can you hum and laugh at the same time?" my brother teased.

I tried unsuccessfully to get myself under control. "No," I gasped, "no, I cannot." I held my breath for a minute. "But I can laugh and pee my pants at the same time! I'd just rather not."

This evening? We played in teams.

Special Occasion

Lately, as I stand outside my classroom each morning, I've noticed an increase in the number of kids wearing pajama pants to school. These days, fuzzy fleece and flannel in fun florals, plaids and patterns, emojis and cartoon characters are a common sight in school.

As for me, it's a rare occasion that I leave the house in my pajamas, but this morning we were busy getting organized and packing for the beach from the time we got up. When 9 am rolled around and the dog needed to go out, I pulled on my warm white buffalo plaid jacket over my red buffalo plaid pjs and leashed her up. 

Imagine my surprise as I rounded the corner of our quiet complex and ran into one of my students and her mom. "Oop," I laughed, "you caught me walking the dog in my pajamas." In truth, I knew that her best friend from elementary school lived in our neighborhood, but the encounter was still unexpected.

"I need a cozy outfit like that to walk our dog," her mom told me graciously.

The next folks I met were a neighbor, who is also a teacher, and her kids. "You look nice and warm on this cold morning!" she said.

"I used to have a just shirt like that," her son pointed to my pants.

She's an elementary school teacher, so I said, "I don't know about your students, but in middle school they are wearing pajamas on the regular. Soon, there won't be any point in having pajama day!" 

"Maybe we should change it to wear regular clothes to school day," she laughed.

No Need

 "We need lip stuff," Heidi told me yesterday on the way to school. "It's getting colder and I can't find any."

Rather than answer directly, I told her about an essay by Ann Patchett I had just read called "My Year of No Shopping". In it, Patchett writes, My first few months of no shopping were full of gleeful discoveries. I ran out of lip balm early on and before making a decision about whether lip balm constituted a need, I looked in my desk drawers and coat pockets. I found five lip balms.

"We probably have a bunch of lip balm all over the house," I laughed. "I can't remember the last time I actually finished one, can you?"

Heidi shrugged, unconvinced. Perhaps she sensed that I was considering a year of no shopping myself and was bracing for it, or maybe she was just thinking we should buy some damn lip balm.

I thought of our conversation this afternoon after a day spent in my warm and dry classroom. My lips were stinging a bit, and I knew I needed to be mindful not to lick them into an angry, red mess. After the last of the kids had headed off for PE and electives, I opened the top drawer of my desk, certain I had some chapstick in there. 

Did I ever! I hit the jackpot with three little pots of our favorite lip balm as well as a couple of sticks of peppermint. I guess we won't be shopping for lip stuff after all!

This Is Not Going to Be Easy

Two students stayed after school with me today, one by choice and the other by coercion. The one who chose to stay retook a test and improved his grade from a C to an A. The other moped and refused to work despite the expectations of his parents and the cajoling and offers of support from me. 

"No one can make you do your work," I acknowledged at one point in our conversation, "but wouldn't it feel better if you did?"

In the end he turned in the incomplete (but well-written) narrative he had, and I called it a win, since he complained about the effort of tapping his screen the entire time.

This kid has been on the team's radar since day one of the school year. "I think he might be my future favorite," I have joked with my colleagues at lunch, even after told me how much he hated my class. Maybe? I thought today when he left without saying good-bye, he's not a problem to be solved, but just a kid to accept for who he is.

The Oven Ordeal, Finis

 The technician arrived shortly after I did. He seemed very professional and quite competent, and I gave him the pre-shipped parts that had arrived earlier in the week then sat down to wait. I heard the whirr of his drill as he opened the back of the stove, and then a melodic beeping that I recognized as my oven in working order.

"Is it fixed already?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes," he said. "It was only a loose wire ribbon. Have you had anyone else out to look at it?"

"No," I answered honestly, omitting the truth of my tinkering.

"Well, it's fixed," he shrugged and then went on his way. 

I was happy enough to have the oven working that I resolved to give myself some grace. I had, after all, almost, repaired it. I considered giving the extended warranty company some grace, too, even after all the screw ups. 

Just then, my phone rang. "This is Company X," an urgent voice reported. "I got your message about the stove, and I'm returning your call."

"Someone was already here," I told him. "He fixed it."

"Another company came?" he replied in relief. "Okay then," and he hung up.

Seriously, WTF? 

I put my phone in my pocket and turned the oven on. It was definitely time to bake something.

Ask Me Again Later

I always say a good seating chart is among the most effective of classroom management tools, at least in 6th grade. Combining personalities and academic strengths in an engaging, but not overly socially stimulating, way can make a class both fun and functional. 

In general, I think I have knack for effective grouping; whether it's from experience or intuition or a combination of both, I can't say. Even so, I do have my rare failures, and first period yesterday was definitely one of them. 

Rather than the subdued quiet that usually follows a seating change as the students get acclimated to their new group, the class came in raucous and stayed that way despite several sharp redirections from me, and eventually only buckling down under threat of losing their brain break. 

In between the wrangling and the warnings, I stepped over to my desk and scribbled a reminder to try again before our next class. One of the students followed me to fetch her iPad which was charging nearby. "Are we your favorite class?" she asked with a giddy grin.

"Sometimes," I answered, and it was true.

But not that day.

The Oven Ordeal Continues

It was a maddening conversation. 

"I know you received an email saying the appointment was confirmed, but that was only tentative," said the operator on the call I had made to avoid a cancellation of my oven service appointment. I had hastily contacted her company after checking my home phone messages, even though I had updated my contact information twice to my mobile number and explicitly stated that the home number was not monitored.

"But tentative and confirmed are opposites," I pointed out with irritation.

"You confirmed with X company," she answered, "but we are Y company," she finished, as if that was obvious and therefore explanation enough.

In the end, I really just wanted my stove fixed, and even though I postured by asking her if the call was being recorded, and later, her name, I accepted the appointment she "confirmed" even though it was 5 days after my other confirmed appointment.

"What if they cancel the appointment?" I asked.

"They won't," she replied, "because it's confirmed."

"But it was confirmed before," I pointed out, "and it was canceled."

"It's confirmed," she insisted.

"What if it's not?" I repeated.

"It is, because I confirmed it," she told me.

"But that's what they said before," I replied petulantly.

"That was Company X," she answered impatiently.

And so I let it go.

Over the next 10 days I received many communications reminding me of the service appointment scheduled for today betwee there, tooen 1 and 5, and I organized my workload to be able to book home and meet the technician. By 2:30, I hadn't heard a word, and so I packed my things and prepared to leave school. 

Before I did, though, I thought to check the home phone. Sure enough, there was a message from someone at 10:30 a.m. saying that they would be at my home in 20 minutes. Fuming, I called the number back, but it went straight to voicemail. In essence, I said that I expected someone at my house before five, and then I headed out to my car.

I hadn't gone three blocks when the phone rang. "This is your technician," said a voice way too friendly to have received my last message. "I'll be at your house in about 20 minutes."

"I'll be there, too," I said skeptically. "See you then."

and Local

The cashier smiled at me as I set my purchases on the scale of the produce stall at the farmers market this morning. "Oh you have some dried apples!" she noted, and then looking at the rest of my selections added, "and some wet apples, too!"

We both laughed and wrinkled our noses. "Somehow, that doesn't sound very appealing," I said.

"Right," she agreed, "let's just call them fresh."

It Takes All the Kinds

After we did a few errands, we headed down to the Tidal Basin to enjoy the sunshine after Hurricane Nicole dumped a load of rain on us yesterday. Many other folks had the same idea, and there were loads of people out and about downtown, strolling and jogging and biking and playing ultimate Frisbee and kickball.

As we circled the basin looking for a parking spot, we passed a dapper young man extending his selfie stick with a big cheesy grin above his bowtie and plaid suit. He was posing on the bridge over the inlet gates with the Jefferson Memorial behind him and his pet rabbit on the railing. Heidi and I both giggled as we drove by. 

"That was worth the trip down here!" I said.

"It sure was," she agreed.

The walk wasn't too bad either.

Thank You for Your Service

On a rainy holiday after all the puzzles are done, if the movies are sold out, and the oven is still broken, there seems to be only one thing left to do: clean out the attic.

Or, rather, begin to. There's a lot of junk up there that was once treasured possessions, but somehow I felt it was very easy today to part with many things, especially if they haven't been used in years. So I thanked an entire carload of crap for its service and sent it on its way to spark joy in someone else.

The Spirit of the Assignment

 It was a mystery.

A student claimed to have written 500 words, and Google word count confirmed it, but there just wasn't enough on the page for it to make sense. "Come over here," I invited the young writer, a squirrely and mischievous sixth grade boy whose angelic appearance belied his naughty behaviour. 

He beamed at me and happily complied.

"Share your document with me, and let's take a look at it," I told him.

Soon I was looking at the loaves and fishes of personal narratives: three short paragraphs that were somehow comprised of exactly 500 words, which happened to be the minimum for the assignment. "Well," I said, "your narrative is not really complete."

"But it has 500 words," he insisted.

"I know," I agreed, "but that's the minimum. If you can't write a whole story with that many words, your narrative will have to be longer."

He slumped in his chair. "I can't think of anything else," he sighed.

"Well, let's work on it together," I offered. "Tell me about this car trip-- what were you doing? What did it look like out the window?"

He gave me a few details, and I showed him how to expand and elaborate on his minimal description, and we took turns adding to his story, he on his iPad and I from my computer. 

"Now let's look at the end," I said and scrolled to where the story abruptly stopped. I noticed that his document went on to the next page, which is not unusual for kids who are learning to type their drafts: they often inadvertently hit return when they are editing and revising. I clicked my cursor to the end and swept it up, intending to delete the extra white space. Imagine my surprise when 200 or so words of gibberish, typed in white, were revealed as I highlighted them.

"What's all that?" he asked innocently.

"I think you know that's how you got your 500 words" I answered. The bell rang then, and he rose to pack his books and rush out of the room, but we weren't finished yet. Let's just say there were tears in his eyes when I handed him the late pass 10 minutes later, and I'd like to believe his remorse was more than invisible words on the page.

Who Knows?

"Next year I think we should go through the checklist with our own writing pieces to show the kids how to do it," I said to my friend and colleague, Mary, today. Then I paused. "I mean, if there is a next year."

She nodded. the two of us are on year 30, and the psychology of being able to retire but not being sure if we're ready to retire has been intense. Thank goodness I have someone trusted to work this through with.

"Is there going to be a next year?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Lately it seems increasingly unlikely."

She shrugged.

I laughed.

We continued our conversation about tomorrow.

States of Blue and Red

Blue and Red for the Buffalo Bills

Blue for Kathy Hochul

Red for Dr. Oz

Blue for F*ck Biden flags

Faded red for Trump flags

Bright blue for the November sky

Red for the brake lights on the Beltway

Blue for the walls of our bedroom

Red for the welcome home pasta sauce

V̅

A former student stopped by the other day to say hello. As we chatted, she mentioned that her 9th grade sibling was still doing the daily writing they started during our hundred day writing challenge back in 2020. I was impressed, and I did a quick calculation. “They must be getting close to a thousand days,” I remarked. 

“Really?” she said. “That is impressive.”

When she left, I pulled up my own blog to see what day was 1000. On November 25, 2011 the title of my post was M, for 1000. (Little Cats Drink Milk is the way I always remember the Roman numerals for 50, 100, 500, and 100.) 

I finished that post with the suggestion that I stop counting and keep writing, and for the most part I have, but that conversation made me wonder how many days I’ve written, and so I did another quick calculation. Today, November 7, 2022 is day 5000 for me. 

Wow. 

I wonder how you write that in Roman numerals?

One for the Visitors

The Buffalo Bills are having a pretty good season and their town is full of die-hard fans even in the worst of times. I happened to be out running errands when the game kicked off at 1 PM today, and the streets and stores went from bustling to abandoned. 

Unfortunately for the hometown crowd, the Bills fell to the Jets 17-20, worsening their record to 6-2. It worked out great for me though; I had the shops to myself and was able to check out without waiting, even at Wegmans.

Let's go, Buffalo!

Crossing

At its southernmost, the road to Buffalo this morning was bright with autumn foliage; sun filtering through thin clouds made the oranges, reds, and yellows sing. But as we traveled north, the journey seemed to somber as the day grayed and the leaves browned and then disappeared all together. 

Perhaps contributing to the mournful mood was the abundance of roadkill: we passed at least a dozen dead deer, five foxes, plenty of porcupine, several skunks, and two turkeys. Each one made me sad for the life lost, but it was probably the two dead bears that cast the most profound pall on our progress: I'd never seen such carnage.

Night had just fallen as we pulled into the driveway of Heidi's parents' house, and I was relieved to be off the road and here at last.

Okay, Alpha

To kick off a mini-lesson on adding thoughts and feelings to a personal narrative, I thought it would be fun to ask students what their favorite emoji is. And it was fun, but it also provided more anecdotal data for the question we are all asking, What the heck is up with these kids? 

I was curious about their interpretation of the emojis, and when they used them. As usual, one student tallied the responses on the whiteboard (creating a huge tally grid with lots of single hash marks), and another student read the replies from the chat, in this case translating each emoji into a word or two. The interpretation of some of the emojis was fascinating. For instance, they thought the raised eyebrow (one of my favorites) was confused, not skeptical. They also used the tears streaming emoji to show extreme amusement, choosing it over its actual laughing/crying kin. And they love the see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil monkeys, even though they have never heard of the original trio. And Groucho Marx? Well, he's called the "uncle emoji". 

I couldn't resist that teachable moment! In every class, I pulled up pictures and cartoons of Groucho to show them the origin of the image. They saw the connection, but they didn't get its meaning. "But why is he an emoji?" someone asked. "And where is his cigar?" 

I didn't have a good answer.

But perhaps most notable is that over the two days I taught this activity, there were no trends. Out of the 90 sixth graders surveyed, the most popular emoji was the skull with 4 fans, but there must have been 65 other contenders with just a single vote. Maybe it's because there are so many images to choose from and we use them so frequently. 

Happily, though, the students were appreciative and accepting of each other's choices. I would almost say that they preferred novelty to consensus, which is an interesting concept when sharing one's opinion, unless kids just want to be unique in their signature response. Maybe they don't value precise communication as much as their brand.

At any rate, I'll keep collecting this data. With 30 years of field work, I might be just be among the more qualified anthropologists of the American tween. Plus? These kids are the vanguard of our latest generation: the first Alphas I've ever had the pleasure of getting to know.

Share and Share Alike

I have a couple rules about eating in my class. If I provide the treat, then all are welcome to eat it, right there and then. if it's an outside snack, then I usually default to save it for later, mostly on the basis that eating it will be a distraction. Trust me, it is nearly impossible for sixth graders to eat anything without a big production and a lot of detritus.

Post Halloween candy consumption adds another layer of complexity. Many kids have something in their pockets, but not everyone. So today, when a student was eating candy, I reminded her of the rules. "What if I have enough for everyone?" she asked, and I agreed that it would be fine for her to share. 

She ran out though, with a couple of students to go. "Can I run to my locker for more?" she asked.

I told her no, planning to supply the extra candy myself, but two kids who had their treat willingly gave theirs to the two who had missed out.

"Wow!" commented one of the beneficiaries. "Chivalry sure is not dead in here!"

A Hit and a Miss

"Wow!" one student exclaimed as she sat down for her writing conference today. "Look at this!" She flipped her iPad around so I could see the 400 words she had already written neatly divided into paragraphs. "I never knew how to do paragraphs until today when you taught us!" she reported with pride.

I felt a little proud, too. "Thanks!" I told her. "It's always nice to get positive feedback."

Overhearing our conversation, another student joined in. "Look at mine!" he said. "Paragraphs are so easy now!"

But before I could congratulate myself further, he continued, "I just count five sentences and hit return!"

Mmmm, No. No, I Do Not.

The young writers in my class spent a good chunk of the last couple of days in a writing workshop-style class. There was dedicated time set aside for them to work on first drafts of their personal narratives, and as they drafted, I met with each student for a 3-5 minute conference.

It felt good to talk to each of them as one writer to another, both from the perspectives of making a personal connection and demonstrating my credibility as a coach. (I'm pretty good at this writing stuff, y'know!) As expected, though, there were kids in every group who raised their hands 10 or 15 minutes into the writing time to ask, "What do I do if I'm finished?" and so I made the declaration that every draft had to be at least 500 words.

Eyes widened throughout the room every time, and I gave a quick tutorial of the word count feature on Google Docs so they could monitor their progress. Soon writers were checking their word counts frequently, but they were also using the guidelines and checklist to add to their writing. 

Even so, there was know-it-all in every class who waved a hand when I issued the 500 word challenge. "Don't you mean 500 characters?"

So There

Perhaps I was too hasty with my garden post the other day, for when I checked my email for the last time before I went to bed, I read a nasty-gram about rats in the garden and the proposal to ban all composters. Our plot is one of the seven with open-bin composting, but never do we put kitchen scraps or anything other than garden trimmings in the bin. Nor do we have any sign of rats in our plot. It seems unnecessarily draconian to ban all composting without trying incremental measures first.

Oh, we'll discuss it at the annual meeting, but because I'll be out of town, I'll have to send my input in writing, and I have little hope that the community in this community garden will suffer any compromise, so self-righteous is the spirit of the leadership. 

Ooh! It makes me mad enough to quit! And if it weren't for those shallots and garlic and cover crop I just planted on Saturday, I think I might.

Do Not Call List

My phone rang with an unknown number in Target yesterday, so I silenced it with a quick palm over the face of my watch. The caller was persistent though, and a moment later, my Linus and Lucy ringtone blared from my back pocket again, showing the same weird name and number. Again, I declined the call, but when my butt buzzed a third time, I yanked the phone from my pocket with irritation and punched the accept button. "Wrong number!" I snapped and hung up. A few seconds later I received a one word text: oven.

It was true that my original service appointment for my oven was scheduled for today, but I had canceled it earlier in the week after I got ahold of the extended warranty company and filed a claim. They were handling the service call now, and it was on the calendar for Wednesday afternoon, less convenient, but at no charge to me. The original, manufacturer-approved company was going to make me pay 160 bucks before even setting foot in the house, which was worrisome, because what incentive would they have to return with the part in a timely manner if I paid their entire labor upfront? 

Even so, I felt I owed it to the technician to explain that I had canceled the appointment, and so I called the number back. "Okay," he said and hung up.

I scanned through my email to check the Wednesday call, and I blinked when I saw the confirmation. It's the same company.

At least I'll recognize the number.

To Next Year

I shouldered a bag full of the last several pounds of green tomatoes and peppers, and spun the combination lock one more time as I exited the garden and headed home in the golden light of this October afternoon. Three hours after I had arrived, the fence line was clean, the beds clear, the compost bins full, next summer's shallots and garlic seeded, cover crops planted, and all the cages and stakes and buckets stacked neatly by the rickety plastic potting bench. 

They were chores I had put off, weekend after weekend, but as I turned my gaze one last time to that crazy, awful, problematic garden plot, I definitely felt a twinge of anticipation. 

Burying the Lead

It was a passage I have used dozens of times over the years to teach young writers how to craft an engaging lead. 

Taken from writing teacher guru Nancie Atwell's text Lessons that Change Writers, the paragraph is a short anecdote about a family going to their lake house and finding a car in the water at the end of their dock. The lesson calls for reading the overview and then showing students how this writer tried three leads for his piece, using action, dialogue, and reaction. 

This morning when I read the first passage to my class a student's hand shot up. "Rangeley Lake?" he asked in astonishment. "What state is this in?"

"Probably Maine," I guessed. "That's where this 7th grade writer is from."

"Oh my gosh!" he responded. "We have a cabin on the next lake over! It's called Loon Lake, because, y'know? Loons. But I've been to Rangeley Lake a million times!"

"That's pretty amazing," I agreed.

"I never did see a car in there, though," he finished.

And We're Back

Yesterday may have had a flowy-y kind of a start with the kids, but the staff meeting that wrapped my professional day was all quicksand and mud. It began with a thinly veiled attempt to guilt us into not taking any leave because there is a substitute shortage, which was billed as a problem-solving session asking for our suggestions without actually providing a forum for us to offer them. 

Next we moved on to an overview of the teacher evaluation process, and the juxtaposition was not lost on many, nor was the irony that the presentation started with the data point that, among school-related factors, effective teachers matter most to student achievement, and experience is the number one indicator of teacher effectiveness. 

I was sitting at a table with combined teaching experience of over a hundred and fifty years, good teachers all. And even though we were directly in front of the presenter, as the presentation went on, detailing all we should be doing to show all we are doing, one of us was literally nodding off in the darkened room. Another laid her head on the table and sighed that this is the kind of shit that makes her want to quit teaching, and a third shook her head and muttered that she really had to retire. All that effectiveness down the drain.

I said nothing, but the entire experience reconfirmed my chronic complaint that teaching might be manageable if it involved no more than the time spent planning, grading, and instructing the students, but all the other things that we are required to do literally amount to another part-time job. I regularly work 55-60 hours a week, and I never feel caught up.

There it Is

I've been waiting for a bit of flow since the school year started, but we're almost to the end of October and things have still been feeling a little hard. Students are tardy, unprepared for class, and unwilling or unable to follow directions on assignments. It's been a bit of a slog establishing daily routines, too. 

With 17 kids in my homeroom, it's been especially challenging to build the supportive community that can be such a positive start to the day. And I confess to feeling a little dread at the thought of spending five and half hours with them at school and on a field trip today. 

Even so, this morning started well; the students were very excited about going on their first field trip in two and a half years. They listened attentively to the announcements, completed the SEL survey, and tolerated the repeat of the Mount Vernon slide show they had already seen in U.S. History. They were even pretty engaged in selected short videos from the Mount Vernon website to watch, and we listened sorrowfully to an honest account of Washington's enslavement of hundreds of people.

The mood lightened a bit as we clicked through videos demonstrating how to make hoe cakes, pumpkin pie, chocolate, butter, and chicken pudding. Then I asked each to watch a video of their choice and share out. Even after checking on lunches, eating our snacks, and using the restroom, we still had half an hour until the buses arrived. So I pulled out a favorite group game from last year, Left, Right, Center, and gave everyone some game chips and Jolly Ranchers.

We were all sitting in a big circle on the floor when the principal announced we were in a secure the building situation because of police activity in the neighborhood, and it was clear that the buses would be delayed. No one was upset though, as we rolled the dice and passed game chips and candy around the circle and into the pot. With so many people playing, it took a while, but we chatted and rooted for candy to come our way until someone finally won. And what she did next kind of stunned me. Rather than gleefully hoarding all the candy she had won, she started giving it back to all the other kids. I supported her generosity by offering to trade them if they didn't like the flavor they got.

By then, the building was reopened and the buses were on their way. We had a loud, but fun, ride to Mount Vernon and our group spent a lovely 2 hours exploring the grounds, completing a scavenger hunt, and participating in some Colonial Days activities. The ride back to school was just as loud, and one of my homeroom kids tapped me on the shoulder. "What is it like to be surrounded by crazy sixth graders?" she laughed.

"Girl!" I answered, "I've been doing this 30 years. It's awesome!"

Spirits Arise

Back when I first started teaching, there was a new Halloween movie that everyone was talking about. Hocus Pocus was a fun Disney take on Salem witches and the zany exploits of a trio of modern kids who accidentally bring the Sanderson sisters back from the dead to menace the good people of their 20th century hometown. The movie was Halloween staple at school for at least a decade or two before streaming made showing pretty much anything obsolete, and the kids (and I!) loved it every time we showed it. 

So, even though I couldn't remember the last time I saw Hocus Pocus, I can tell you I was super excited when I read about the sequel, featuring the original Sanderson sisters, Bette Midler, Kathy Najimi, and Sarah Jessica Parker. And the buzz spread pretty wide beyond me. Not only were the kids at school excited, (I watch it every year with my parents, reported more than a few) but our 35-year-old neighbor (she was six when the original dropped) also asked if we could do a viewing party. Seems that the movie has become regarded as a classic.

This weekend turned out to be our Hocus Pocus weekend. We watched the original on Saturday night, and I must confess that I was a bit disappointed. 29 seems awfully old for a non-animated kids' movie: the pace was slower, the jokes were uncomfortably racier, and the cast was way whiter than what we are used to viewing now. Watching the new movie on Sunday night was a bit more satisfying. It is definitely a more contemporary story, full of girl-power and diversity, and it even tries to give the villainous sisters a sympathetic backstory. (And Bette, Kathy, and Sarah Jessica looked amazing!)

And, in keeping with the entertainment business model of the times, they left that ending open and ready for a sequel. Even so, I'm not sure quite how enthusiastic I'll be for Hocus Pocus 3. 

Rushing In

After successfully fixing my dishwasher, I turned to my stove. The electronic display has been blinking randomly for some time, and after watching a couple YouTube videos and doing my research, I ordered the replacement part, which arrived last week.

And perhaps here is where I should have thought things through, like what would happen if I couldn't fix it. But that was not me, and so I merrily pulled the range from its place, unplugged it, and unscrewed the back panel. Then I confidently removed the control board, pried out the old part and snapped the new one in place. And when I restored power, I was rewarded by a bright and unwavering display. Unfortunately? All it shows is an error message, C-F2, which, further research reveals, indicates a problem connection.

Somewhat daunted, I replaced the original part, which now displayed the same error code, blinking as it did so. And of course, although the oven itself works just fine, there is no way to turn it on or off. Fortunately, the stove top was unaffected by my stupidity, and so we can still cook while we wait for the service call on Saturday.

Ow!

For the second time in 6 months, I'm pretty sure I broke my toe last night. This time it was when I accidentally kicked an 8 pound dumbell on my way to the bathroom. I keep the weights tucked near the closet so I can do 5 quick minutes of curls and flies every night, and I guess I stubbed my pinky toe just right, because when I was done hopping and cursing, it was clear that some buddy taping and ibuprofen were called for, too.

Back in the spring, the same thing happened to the fourth toe on my left foot. That time, I approached the couch a little too quickly and cracked my foot on its foot. Not surprisingly, that round went to the couch. It was painful, but it hurts for a while, and then it heals. 

To me the bigger lesson is that I should be more mindful. As I age, I've noticed that my body awareness is not quite as automatic as it once was. Just the other day, I tripped and fell up the stairs, spilling my coffee everywhere: maybe because I wasn't used to wearing my slippers; maybe because I wasn't paying attention. 

I need to pay more attention.

And for the next 4-6 weeks? Every little twinge of pain from my pinky toe can remind me to do so.

Guidance System

"That was fun," my brother Bill said as we pulled out of the parking lot and started the hour trip home. We had been visiting my aunt who was recovering from back surgery. "It was nice to see Harriett, and Larry was as funny as ever."

"It was great that Courtney called while we were there, too," I agreed. "I think Mom would have been really happy that we went."

"Well," he shrugged, "I think she would have expected it."

"Yes," I nodded, "but she was usually pretty good about letting us know that she was happy we had met her expectations."

We rode in silence for a few minutes, listening to the top 8 songs from this week in 1979 and scanning the landscape for familiar landmarks. Alternate route available, flashed the screen of my GPS. Do you want to save 5 minutes?

I punched YES and made a quick right. We rolled across a bridge over the new cross county expressway and past a sign for the metro. 

"That was the Rockville Metro," my brother commented as we stopped at a light.

"Oh, are we in downtown Rockville?" I asked looking around. "Isn't that the church where F Scott Fitzgerald is buried?" I hadn't been in this part of Maryland since my mom had moved from here to Gaithersburg in 1988. "Hey Siri!" I called, interrupting Michael Jackson singing Don't Stop Til You Get Enough. "Where is F Scott Fitzgerald buried?"

"St. Mary's Cemetery in Rockville, Maryland," she intoned.

"Right there." Bill pointed to our right. 

I looked at the directions. We were on Viers Mill Rd about to cross over Rockville Pike. The next turn would be Maryland Avenue.

"I was listening to This American Life a few weeks ago," I told Bill. "The theme was something about getting places with guidance or expert assistance, and the opening anecdote was about a woman who was driving her parents to the hospital. Her mother had been battling cancer and the doctor had recommended she be admitted. Even though none of them thought it was a big deal, she ended up dying in the hospital a week later."

The light changed and we drove on. "Anyway," I continued, "the daughter put the hospital address in her GPS to find the best route from their home in Long Island, and even though she had driven there hundreds of times, it took them there in a way she had never driven before, which turned out to be right through the neighborhood her parents had grown up, dated, and gotten married in. They both reminisced about their wonderful life all the way to the hospital."

I looked at my brother. "I think this route is going to take us right by Mom's old place."

He tapped his phone. "Was it called Newmark Commons?" he asked.

"Maybe?" I shrugged. "That sounds familiar."

"Then it's right here on the left," he pointed.

We both looked at the blocky wooden sculpture marking the wooded entrance way. "That's definitely it," we agreed.

"I guess Mom really was happy that we went to see Aunt Harriett," I said.

Rusty

I was feeling a bit rusty this morning when I sat down at a table in my room for my first conference. It was hardly surprising: for the last 2 years we have conducted conferences virtually. Even this year, we offered families a choice between in-person and remote, and I was a little surprised that only one of my eleven chose to call in. All the others made their way to school for our 20-minute, student-led conference. 

Earlier in the week I had thought a lot about how these meetings would go. The last time I held in-person meetings, all the material had been on paper and, as we sat down together, I presented each family with a packet that their student had prepared. 

This time, the kids had done all their preparation on their devices, which they had when we were virtual. But working on a video call allowed me to share my screen and control the pace of the meeting, so that I could better support the students. Without that option, I was worried about how it would go.

During some sleepless moment on Wednesday night, it occurred to me that I might use my iPad as a second monitor mirroring my laptop, and so I could show the presentations and move them along at a productive pace. And boy! Was I glad I had figured that out, because it quickly became clear that I had not explicitly directed any student to bring their device. Freudian slip or not, it all worked out for me, and I quickly remembered how much easier it is to interact with people in person.

So much so, that I was glad I had a few extra minutes before my one virtual meeting. It turned out that I was very out of practice using those tools, too!

Writing to Unpack

 "Excuse me," said one of my students this morning. "I can't do this assignment."

"Why not?" I asked about the checklist of key features for a successful narrative. We had just listened to an audio version of a short story as the students had read along, and now they were supposed to work with their table groups to analyze the story with the same checklist we had used on two other mentor texts, all in preparation to write their own personal narrative.

"It's too sad," he sniffed.

I was a bit surprised. The story, which involved a boy hunting a blue heron with his dad, even though he didn't like killing birds, and then subsequently rescuing a chick, hiding it in the hayloft, and then jumping in front of his dad's shotgun to save the bird, had been very popular with the other sixth grade readers.

"I know it's a little sad in the beginning and scary at the climax, but everything turns out alright in the end, right?" I pointed out.

Tears were dripping down his cheeks. "It's just too sad," he insisted. "I can't even think about it anymore."

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Could you do the checklist without adding evidence from the text?" I suggested.

He grabbed a tissue and blew his nose loudly. "I guess so," he agreed, returning to his seat and making quick work of checking 'Yes' for every category. He had found it a successful narrative, for sure.

"We're going to talk about the story some more," I told him quietly a little later. "Is that going to bother you?"

"No," he answered, and in fact he participated quite a bit in our discussion, naming the author's purpose and even answering a question about when the main character showed courage.

"I think it took courage to take care of that baby bird," he said, "even knowing that if something went wrong it might die, and then he would be really sad. I'm not that brave," he finished, shaking his head vehemently.

It was not a typical sixth grade exchange, but his parents had warned us that he 'emotes freely', which was clearly the case today.

Not Exactly My Point

Today, a student used both empathy and sympathy to describe why people tell stories. "What's the difference between those two, in your mind?" I asked him.

"I dunno," he shrugged. "It just sounded good.

"It can be a mistake to use words that you're not sure you know," I warned him. "Let me give you an example. Yesterday, one of my students greeted me by saying, Hola, mi amor."

The Spanish speaking students in the class gasped.

"I know, right?" I agreed with them. "When I told the student it was inappropriate to talk to a teacher that way, they said they didn't even know what it means."

"They didn't know they were saying they love an old lady?" asked one of the kids. "That's messed up."

One in the Win Column

 "Double or nothing!" a former student challenged me this afternoon. 

He had come by after school looking for some candy. He remembered I like trivia, and so he had already asked me one. "What day and time did Abraham Lincoln die?"

"Uh," I said, "I do know it was April 15, 1865. I'm not sure about the time, though. 1:30 in the morning?"

"Wrong!" he reported gleefully. "It was 7:22 in the morning!"

"OK," I shrugged and reached for my bag of Jolly Ranchers. I didn't care that I was wrong; I'm still really happy to see the kids from last year. These new students haven't quite managed to take their places, yet.

"Double or nothing!" he replied.

"Sure!" I accepted, but he couldn't think of a question. Another teacher from the team was in my room watching the entire exchange with amusement. 

"Do you speak Spanish?" he asked. 

"No," I confessed.

"Wait!" said the other teacher. "I think she got that one right! Doesn't it count?"

We all laughed, but the kid looked a little crestfallen at having missed his chance to get two pieces of candy.

"I forgot you speak French," he said.

"But you remember that now?" I asked, impressed. "I think that earns you a couple of Jolly Ranchers! It makes me feel good that you were paying attention. Those are good social skills!"

I happily handed over the candy, and he happily took it. 

Festival of Lights

The homepage on my browser is the NYTimes. The setting works for me because I am generally interested in current events, and that page informs me of any pressing matters I may not have been aware of. I like it, too, because it's like picking up the newspaper anytime I go online, and often I'll spend some significant time reading articles that capture my attention, no matter what my original task was. 

That's what happened tonight when I launched my browser to write this very blog post. I had a vague idea of topic, but the item that derailed me was on Diwali sweets. After getting this Indian holiday off for the first time last year, I was all in for the traditional festival celebrating the triumph of light over darkness. Even just reading about the joyous celebration made me happy.

And this evening, when I read about the South Asian sweet shops across the country that are flooded with business as celebrants purchase mithai, traditional sweets of Diwali (for what better way to celebrate such a victory?), I found myself getting right into that holiday spirit!

Just Sayin'

 I did not spend my whole day grading poems.

And so that task is unfinished. There's something wrong with a job you have to work all week and then give up your weekends to get done.

More is More

We finally got around to putting up our Halloween lights this afternoon. 

I write that as if it's an annual occurrence, but we have never had anything other than a jack-o-lantern lighting our home before. Heidi is still embracing the holiday light vibe, though, and so I ordered a few things from Target a couple of weeks ago, and then we supplemented our decor when we went to pick those lights up. 

And although I haven't been able to find that dedicated block of time to get down the step ladder and actually decorate, the light design has definitely been on my mind. Last week I ordered a set of green shower-effect lights, and just the other day I told Heidi we needed one more string of purple lights. So when the porch light blinked on around 4:15, I knew my window of opportunity was both open and closing, and I climbed up to the attic and got the step ladder down. 

Like everything, this project was more complicated than planned; there were hammers, pliers, drills, and extension cords involved, as well as a non-functioning string of lights. Even so, Heidi and I worked together to problem solve and hang those suckers up. It was deep dusk when we finished, and neighbors passing by stopped to admire our handiwork. 

"It looks great!" noted one friend, sweeping her hand to encompass green waterfalls, purple c-5s, Halloween mulits, and spider paper lanterns.

I shrugged modestly. "You know Heidi," I said. "More is more!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" my wife elbowed me.

"You have gusto!" I answered. "Your enthusiasm is a really good thing."

She looked at me suspiciously.

"And the lights are amazing!" I said.

Props

It was the last class of the day, fifth time I had taught the lesson, and five minutes until the kids were gone for the weekend. "Would anyone like to share their quick write?" I asked. 

The presence of the assistant principal who had dropped by unannounced to see what we were doing added a bit of energy to the exercise, but it was still feeling a little rote. 

The first couple kids who read were notable for their earnest engagement with the prompt, and I glanced at the clock. "We have time for one more," I said. The student next to me had raised his hand each time, and it was his turn now. 

"'Baseball is my favorite sport, I lied'," he started, and my eye brows shot up with interest. "It wasn't true," he continued, "I loved soccer, but I wanted these boys to accept me."

What followed was an amazing sketch, and when he finished, the assistant principal and I locked eyes with a What just happened?? kind of a look. Just then, the bell rang, and I dismissed the class, but not before I told that writer how well he had done.

In the last 30 years, I have read the work of thousands of sixth graders, and there have been several who I could easily imagine becoming way better writers than I will ever be, but this kid? He might be there already.

Doctor's Orders

I had my first over sixty eye exam today. "Your eyes look perfect," the doctor said. "Especially for a woman of your age-- no dry eye, glaucoma, floaters, or cataracts. And no sign of macular degeneration, which is more common in fair people like us." She seemed genuinely impressed.

I gulped and looked around for some wood to knock. Who knew these were things I needed to worry about? "Thank you," I managed.

"You're welcome," she said. "Keep exercising and eating those vegetables, and I'll see you next year."

Oh, I will. I certainly will.

Dinastía

"I put the good news that your nephew joined the staff on the leadership agenda," my friend and colleague Matt told me this morning.

I knew just what he was talking about. For the last many years I was in that group as team leader, we started every meeting by sharing good news and kudos. I had also read the minutes of the meeting; old habits die hard, I guess. And of course I knew that my nephew Treat had joined the staff to work in Heidi's program

"We think he's the fourth parent-child employee for our school," Matt said, because Treat's mom, my sister-in-law, is the art teacher at our school.

"Fourth!" I responded with furrowed brow. "I know there's Nicki and Garret," I began.

"And Nicki and her mom way back when," he continued. 

I nodded. Nicki, a veteran special education teacher, had started as a personal assistant for a student in my TA over 20 years ago. At the time, her mom was the special ed lead in our building. Nicki's next position was as Heidi's assistant, but by then she was working on her teaching credentials and starting a family. We had all watched her son Garret grow up, even as we mourned the loss of her mom to cancer.

"That makes three," I said.

"Me and my mom!" Matt reminded me. I smiled and nodded, remembering that five years ago when he joined our staff, Matt's mother had been our longtime library assistant. 

"Amazing!" I marveled. "What a testament to our school and community! Not to mention all the former students who have also come back to work here."

Even right across the river from the capital of one of the most powerful countries in the world, in one of the fastest growing places in the country, we still keep those small town connections.