Mixty No More

For months I had a daily reminder on all my devices to Plan the big 6-0. I set it back when I was trying to find a rental place up here in Maine big enough to accommodate our group, and then I left it, because the agency I ended up doing business with had several deadlines and lots of paperwork to keep track of, and I wanted to make sure they were all on my daily screen. 

Oh, I canceled the reminder once everything was all set, but it's a little hard to believe that the day is actually here. This morning we tried to find a phrase to capture the birthday, something along the lines of fifty is nifty, but not much rhymes with sixty. Victor proposed "betwixty" and I'm still thinking about that one, and what I might be betwixt. Privately, I considered "My feelings are mixty about turning sixty," but it seemed a little too true.

And I needn't have worried about planning; the day was perfect: blueberry pancakes with peaches for breakfast, yoga and meditation with Courtney, Emily, and Josh, a hike up Gorham Mountain with 10 of our 11, picking blueberries along the granite ledges on the way up, and lunch at the summit overlooking the ocean on one side and over to Cadillac Mountain on the other, a brief stop at home, and then a mini-golf 5 on 5 team challenge complete with a school yard pick. 

Even though my team lost by just a little over 1 stroke each, we had a great time, and I danced to One Step Forward all through the 17th and 18th holes, never mind that group of dudes breathing down our necks in the back nine. And now? I get to relax and wait for my lobster and steak and lemon-glazed birthday cake.

Now that's what I call a plan!

A Win Is a Win

Originally created to keep a crew of energetic, competitive boys engaged on relatively tame walks along the rocky beaches, the Smoothest Rock Contest is one of our Maine traditions. The concept is simple: as contestants explore the incredibly scenic cobble stone beaches, they sort through the kazillions of beautiful granite stones tumbled round and smooth by the North Atlantic to find the smoothest one of them all. It is a ritual we have repeated with Riley, Treat, and Josh on each of our visits for the last 16 years.

Sometimes the judging is honor system, sometimes it involves voting for the smoothest rock not your own, and sometimes there is an impartial judge. That's how we did it today down at the beach at the bottom of the Wonderland Trail, even though 2 of the 3 original boys, now grown to men, were off hiking on another part of the island.

A cool breeze blew off the ocean under bright blue skies as Heidi, Courtney, Emily, Victor, Emily, and I all dropped our entries into a hat for Bill to judge blindly. Taking his time to run his fingers carefully over each of our submissions, he considered them rock, by silky smooth rock. At last he had it narrowed down to two, one traditionally flat and oval, and the other a prism-shaped piece of fine-grain, speckled black granite with a little dimple that perfectly fit my thumb.

"The winner is..." he announced, "this one!" And he held out my black triangle.

Silly as it was? I felt a bit of a thrill-- I've never won the contest before. After a little cheer and a friendly postmortem comparison of smooth rocks, we headed home where I could not wait to report my victory to Josh and Treat.

"It's only because I wasn't there," Josh joshed.

"Maybe so," I shrugged. "Too bad for you."

Crunching the Numbers

It's a blessing to have eleven family members all in one house on vacation, but coordinating logistics, such as where to go and when to leave, what to eat and whose to cook, can be challenging, especially with a group who range so widely in age. Statistically it might seem overwhelming, but I think we're doing just fine.

 

Just dig a little deeper into the data. The median? That's Emily 2, and the mode is Treat and Josh, both the same age. The smallest is Annabelle, and the largest is me. Sure, there are 46 years that separate our ages, but in between there is Emily, Bill, Courtney, Heidi, Emily, Victor, Treat, Josh, and Nadika, and a whole lot of love and mutual respect. 

And that's no mean thing.

Come Again Another Day

The rain arrived on schedule this afternoon, although Courtney and Annabelle did not. Their flight was delayed a second time, pushing their arrival to a full 24 hours late. Coincidentally? Victor and Emily will be on the same plane with them tonight into Bangor from Boston. 

Knock on wood.

That Maine Thing

We tossed around several hiking possibilities this morning before settling on our plan for the day: it had to be Acadia Mountain. Just a few minutes from our rental house, the hike features a steady and challenging climb through a balsam forest up to granite ledges punctuated by shrubby blueberry, juniper, and huckleberry, and opening up to amazing views of Echo Lake, Somes Sound, and all the little Islands in the Atlantic Ocean beyond. It's everything I love about hiking in Maine, and today our hike was quintessentially so: warm sun, cool sea breeze, photos at the summit, and lunch on the ledges overlooking the sound just below. When we spotted two bald eagles soaring a couple hundred feet away, I knew it doesn't get much better than that.

There's Always Something

Few vacations are without their challenges, but this trip is really starting to rack them up. 

To start with, Richard and Jordan can’t come, and Victor has COVID in Iceland. When Heidi, Emily, Josh, and I arrived at our rental house it was all locked up, despite the promise that the door would be open. When at last the agency returned our message from their emergency line and led us to the "secret key", we found that the place itself is sort of strange. 

The original part of the house was built in 1828 and the structure was added to over the centuries. The result is sprawling and warren-like, room leading to room. The decor is somewhere between museum and cottage, and after being closed up in the uncharacteristically warm June sunshine the place smelled 200 years old before we opened the windows and turned on the fans. 

But, when Heidi was opening one of the old fashioned storm windows, the heavy sash slipped and fell on her fingers. She’s in the ER right now, properly cared for and waiting for X-rays and possibly stitches, but it was a harrowing and bloody ride to the hospital with real fears of partial amputation.

And yet, here I sit on a comfortable bench watching the sun set over the eponymous Bar Harbor and its yachts, schooners, and lobster boats. COVID precautions prevented me from waiting with Heidi as she was treated, and with at least a couple of ours to kill, I walked the few blocks from the hospital to town. 

Emily and Josh are making dinner and caring for the dogs at our place: Treat and Nadika are on their way; Bill will be here tomorrow morning; Courtney and Annabelle will arrive tomorrow night; and fingers crossed? Victor and Emily will make it on Monday.

The world is a turbulent place, for sure,  but there is beauty to be found beside the turmoil, too. 

The Only Way Out Is Through

We had the van packed and ready to go by 7:15, hoping to thread the traffic needle on I-95 up the Eastern Seaboard. Our interim destination was Andover, MA, a trip that could take a little over seven hours, if we were lucky. That would leave another four and a half or five to get up to MDI tomorrow. 

Josh rode with Emily and Rosie to spell the driving, and Heidi and Lucy and I were right behind them, until the display on our fancy rental van dropped the map app on my phone. We pulled over to the curb and sat reading the manual and troubleshooting for about 20 minutes. 

"F*ck it!" I told Heidi and twisted the knob on the dash board to put the van in drive. "Lets' go." By the time Heidi actually fixed the problem (by turning everything off and on again) we were inching along in stop and go traffic north of Baltimore. Navigation system activated, I took the next exit and bypassed the snarl. 

We made pretty good time until we were about 20 miles south of the GW Bridge on the Jersey Turnpike. Against my better judgment, I had followed the map instead of bailing for the Garden State Parkway and the Tappan Zee Bridge. Soon we were gridlocked by an accident, our route a red line on the display, and the delay time creeping from 10 to 20 to 25 minutes. 

With nothing to do, we texted Josh and Emily, who having narrowly avoided the obstruction were 30 minutes past the bridge. From there, the clock was against us. We entered Connecticut with a glut of other vacationers and commuters leaving early for the weekend. I-84 was delayed for miles, and we decided to gas up and look for a work around. 

Despite the displeasure of our navigation app, we found ourselves making pretty good time through some lovely New England towns. We rolled past village greens, stone walls, churches, one room schoolhouses, and town halls. Eventually, there was nowhere else to go but back on the highway, and although we didn't avoid all the slowdowns, we missed a few of them. 

It was 7:45, twelve and a half hours after our departure when we finally made it to the hotel. Emily and Josh had beat us by an hour or so, but there we were: tired to be sure, but so much closer to Maine.

Now and Then

Josh arrived this morning on a red-eye flight from Denver. He's here to road-trip up to Maine with us and join the big celebration for my birthday next week. Tired, but hungry, he opted to go out to breakfast before coming home for a nap. Of course we went to B&Es, the diner we've been taking him to all his life. As the three of us settled into our booths, Heidi and I hardly needed to look at the menu, but Josh took a minute. 

"Don't you want a milkshake to go with that?" I teased him, after he ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, and grits.

"Did I used to get that?" he asked.

"Yeah," I laughed, "and then you never ate your breakfast."

"Why did you guys let me do that?" He shook his head.

"It was fun, and you were on vacation," I told him.

"And because you wanted it, and we loved you!" Heidi added.

"I guess you did spoil me," he said, "but it seems to have worked out fine."

Special Effects

We had summer break plans to go with our friend Mary to see the new Top Gun movie, so I texted her some showtimes this morning. "That works," she replied. "Do you want to get the tickets and I'll give you $$?"

Mary is a month older than I am. "Yes," I replied. "I'll make sure to get you the senior discount."

After saving a buck on the ticket, we bought popcorn and settled into our seats to enjoy the previews. "Just think, in a little over a week, you can have the senior discount, too!" Mary said as the lights went down.

The last clip before the show was Tom Cruise himself, thanking us for coming to the theater to see his movie on the big screen. He didn't look quite as buff and dyed as he did for Top Gun and the Mission Impossible trailer we had seen earlier: his wrinkles were visible, and there was gray in his shaggy hair. 

"That guy can get a senior discount, soon, too!" I laughed, because for once? He looked like he actually might be turning 60 a few days after I do.

The Good Wife

As a rule, Heidi hates to garden. The fact that bugs and dirt freak her out is a big part of it, and over the years that we have had our community plot, I've tried to minimize her involvement as much as possible. She's a really good wife, though, and she almost always volunteers to do the community parts of having the garden, the meetings and work days especially. 

And three years ago when my mom was sick and I needed to leave for Minnesota as soon as school was out, she put together a crew of friends and family and got the garden, which I had neglected somewhat that season, into amazing shape, so that I could enjoy it all summer without worrying. She presented the results of her labor as a birthday gift that year, and it was definitely one of the best I've ever received. 

This morning, on the first day of summer break when our cleaning lady was scheduled to work, we discussed what we could do for a few hours starting at 8 a.m. "I guess I can go up to the garden," I said. I want to get it ready for us to be out of town. Maybe you can do something with Lucy?"

"What do you need to do at the garden?" Heidi asked.

"Weed and mulch," I told her.

"I don't want to weed," she said, "but I'll mulch."

"You don't have to," I replied.

"Take my offer while you can and before I regret it!" she laughed.

And I did, and after three hours? The garden looks awesome!

Rarely at Home

As I write, a fresh breeze floats in through the open windows. We have been blessed three perfectly glorious sunny, blue sky days, a rarity in Virginia in June. "Where is the weather like this all summer long?" Heidi asked wistfully the other day. "I want to go there."

"Buffalo? Minnesota? Maine?" I suggested, naming three of our most favored summer destinations.

She sighed and nodded in agreement, but I knew what she meant. 

Shorthand

A few years ago Heidi and I stood on our balcony at the rear of the Norwegian Sun. We were embarking on the cruise part of our Alaskan vacation, something neither of us had ever done. As such, everything was new and a little strange, from the dining arrangements to the mandatory evacuation drill before we left port, and from the towel animals they left on our beds each evening to the ID cards we used to scan ourselves off and back on the ship during shore excursions. 

The sun was setting over the bottom of the Alaska Range to our left as the ship chugged south, but Heidi was looking over the railing 12 stories down to the churning propellor. "What would you do if you fell in?" she asked me.

I blinked and turned away from the sunset. "Uhhhh, I don't know," I answered. "Drown?"

"Babe!" she said sternly. "You gotta get clear of the propellor! That's your only chance!"

It had never occurred to me to prepare for such a catastrophe, especially given the almost zero chance that it would happen. But that's a difference between Heidi and me; she is constantly preparing for a worst case scenario, especially in novel situations.

We have returned to that conversation several times in the almost seven years since it happened. I like to think I've grown from incredulous and dismissive to accepting and even appreciative of Heidi's perspective. Today we were talking about a friend whose health and medication issues may keep her from deploying to Iraq for six months. The job would be good for her career, but she's having trouble getting medical clearance.

I thought she should be able to decide for herself if she thought she was okay to go, but Heidi wasn't so sure. "It's stressful, and she won't have any of her usual supports over there," she said. "She thinks it will be fine, but I'm concerned."

"Are you saying she doesn't know what she would do if she fell off the back of the boat?" I asked.

"Pretty much," Heidi answered. "Which is a problem for someone who's fallen off the back of the boat before."

Enough said.

Long Drive into Left Field

We are newbies when it comes to sharing season tickets to our local baseball team. For years, friends, neighbors and colleagues have exhibited their Natitude proudly, but somehow we have never been swept up in the hoopla, even when the team won the World Series a few years ago. But this year, when we were approached directly about splitting a 22 game plan, we decided to see what all the fuss was about. "They're going to be terrible," our neighbor shrugged when we agreed, "but it's still baseball!"

And after two games, we have found that she is right. It's fun to go out to the ballpark, to cheer and dance and make some noise. It's nice to sit outside and people watch, and I like try to identify the type of pitch before they put on the screen, and predict how the hitter will do based on his season stats. And it's easy to get caught up in the drama and outrage of a bad call, even if booing the guy who left for the other team is a little too much. It's not that personal for us, yet.

But... last night it took us an hour and a half to drive the 7 miles to the stadium from our house. We left plenty early and only missed the first inning, but dang! That could be a deal breaker.

With a Bang and a Snooze

This year I didn't even start packing my room until after the kids left for good yesterday at noon. Then Heidi and I stayed until almost 5, but there was very little left to do today. Even so, we rose at the usual time and carried out our morning routine one last day, arriving at school around 7:20. By 9 a.m. everything was stowed away and my bookshelves were neatly wrapped. 

After getting all my check-out signatures and dropping off some dead markers in the art room for recycling, I spent some time chatting with my colleagues about summer plans, filled out the final paper work for writing prize reimbursements, and we headed home. A little while later we walked down to Shirlington to meet our friend Mary for the traditional end-of-school lobster roll lunch celebration, and tonight we are headed downtown for a baseball game. 

But not before an indispensable power nap!

This is What We've Come To

After the kids left on their last day of school, I was cleaning and packing my room this afternoon when I found an orange post-it note clinging to the underside of a table. On it in neat letters was the full name of a student, the date of the lockdown, the current time, a description of the lunch bag where her phone was located, and the passcode to access it. 

I could only surmise that she had created it as we waited huddled in the dark and then left it there in case someone needed it to identify her and contact her family.

What a World.

Expiration Date

There is a time capsule in the lobby of our school. 

I was present when it was put in place in 2003, the 30th anniversary of our building, and scheduled to be opened thirty years later,  in 2033. Recently, some students noticed it and became curious about its history and contents. They imagine themselves returning in 10 years just to see what's in there.

"You have to stay here teaching until then!" one told me today. "It will be your 40th year! We can have reunion!"

I laughed, noncommitally, and later at the end-of-the-year staff picnic I was recounting the conversation to Heidi and my friend Mary. 

"No way I'm teaching until I'm 71!" I scoffed. "Unless I do," I hedged.

"You'll have to re-certify," Mary reminded me practically. "Our licenses are only good until 2032."

"And mine expires in 2031," Heidi said. "Sorry, Babe, I'm not teaching past then."

"Well, at least I know what's in there," I sighed.

Not Today, Sixth Graders

Late last week, two girls proposed making muffins for the class and planning a lesson based on the recipe for teacher of the day. 

"Can you make them gluten-free?" asked one of their classmates.

"I think so," answered one of them.

"No!" groaned another student. "They will taste awful!"

"Why don't you guys make two batches, one gluten free and one regular, and let us do a taste test?" I suggested.

"Yes!" said the other partner. "We can make them guess which is which!"

Today was the day they taught their lesson, starting with an informative slide show about gluten and gluten-free baking, which included both recipes for the chocolate chocolate chip muffins they had prepared for us.

I love a taste test, and I eagerly sampled the first muffin. It was delicious-- dense and moist and very fudgy. The second muffin had good flavor and a fine crumb, but it was a little dry. I re-examined the recipes. The gluten-free were baked with almond flour and coconut oil, the regular had eggs and vegetable oil. I knew the first one was the gluten-free version, and it was frankly a much better muffin.

The students asked each of us to make our guesses as they tallied our predictions on the chalkboard. I went first. "I think the muffin on the left was gluten free," I said. "It was also delicious!"

"No way!" another kid said. "That one was definitely regular." His classmates nodded.

I could tell by the tickled smiles on the bakers' faces that I was right and that they were enjoying fooling their friends. "I think they just like to disagree with you," one of them said to me, and we laughed because all year long, they were a very contrary group who never had a problem taking me on. 

Even though they had never won a debate with me, the class doubled down on this one, and all but one voted the opposite way.

When it came time for the big reveal, the class moaned in defeat. "She's a former chef!" said the student who voted with me. "And she never loses an argument!"

Maybe Tomorrow

It's been a lovely early summer here this year, but in the spirit of Murphy's Law, the first really hot and humid day coincided with our end of the year activity, with many of the activities planned for outside. The sun was unrelenting at 8:30 AM and the air so heavy and humid that there was not even a stir of a breeze in the trees, let alone on the new synthetic turf field where I was scheduled to spend my day. 

And so many of the kids were woefully unprepared, too, no water bottles, dressed in heavy, dark clothing from head to foot, wearing masks even outdoors. The whole situation kind of took the wind out of the sails for a fun day featuring kickball, capture the flag, a Survivor-style relay race, and a personalized scavenger hunt all over campus. The teacher at the doors was busy, line to the water fountain was long, and arts and crafts and inside games were a welcome relief. 

A similar activity was wildly popular in 2019, the last time we planned such an event. Back then, we were winding down the year with one of the toughest groups of kids I've ever taught, and that day was hot, too, but those kids navigated their teamwork and independence beautifully, despite all the challenges of the year.  AND our team of teachers was strong, and as needy as the kids were, they hadn't been hit with 2 years of pandemic disruption.

My reflection on today reveals so many variables, couldas, wouldas, shouldas, but I'm too tired and disappointed to unpack them all.

HBD Frannie!

The phone rang when I was driving to the store. (Wait! People of my generation: think about that! The phone rang on my way to the store, and I answered it because I had it with me. 🤯) It was a FaceTime from my brother and sister. (Again. Pause. I could see them live as I drove my car. Yes, it is very dangerous. I was careful, though.) Today is my mom's birthday, and talking to them was really the only thing I wanted to do (except get chocolate cake from the store to eat with the cauliflower tart I was making in her honor). We agreed to reconnect in 45 minutes (that call? Lasted over 3 hours!) 

Love you, Mom

This Happened

My students were just finishing a hilarious teacher for the day lesson on "acting" to get out of trouble with your parents, when Heidi knocked purposefully on my locked classroom door. "I forgot my keys," she said, and after I handed her mine, she lowered her voice and continued. "They're putting us in lockdown in a minute." Then she unlocked her door and returned my keys.

I began to prepare, lowering the inside blinds, turning off the lights. "I think we may be going into lockdown," I told the kids, but they were still giggling about the Kahoot! they'd just finished, and it took a minute to register.

"Is it a drill?" someone asked.

"Maybe not," I replied, powering down the SMART Board and moving to the exterior windows to close those blinds. Outside I saw the teachers from the elementary school across the way running frantically, gathering kids, shepherding them inside. 

Just then the principal's voice came across the P.A. "Staff and students, at this time we are in lockdown. Please follow the procedures."

Some students gasped, but I reassured them all. "If I had to guess, I would say it is something going on in the neighborhood, not in the building." Rather than perfunctorily going under the table where they were sitting, the majority of kids moved as far away from the door and into as sheltered a position as they could find. I heard heavy breathing and then soft sobs. There were also loud voices in the hallway, which I recognized as administration, and their presence confirmed my suspicion that there was no imminent threat. Before assuming my mandated position, I moved quietly to check on the students. I handed one the candy jar. "Pick a piece and pass it quietly," I whispered. The promise of a little sweetness snapped everyone out of their fears, for a moment, and we all waited quietly in the dark.

My watch started buzzing a few minutes later; colleagues were texting to see what each of us knew. "I barricaded the door," reported one.

I relayed my inference that it was police activity in the area, but an unsettled exchange continued until one teacher got a message from a neighbor whose child had texted her when we went into lockdown. That mom had called 911, and they confirmed that there had been an armed robbery at the convenience store on the corner. In that case, it seemed like a secure the building was more appropriate, and our principal announced as much a minute or so later. 

Even so, the kids were shaken. We had missed the change of class, and as they gathered their belongings to move on, some were pale and quiet and others loudly processed the experience. I walked with one student to the office so she could call home, and through the lobby doors I saw 15-20 parents waiting anxiously outside to pick up their kids. 

One of our plate glass entry doors was shattered, but not breached, and the principal stood talking to the building manager and a police officer. All around me kids were shouting that someone had tried to shoot their way in, but we shushed them and sent them to their next class. 

The real story was much more in keeping with our times: when he heard that something was happening at school, a young man hurried down to pick up his sisters and ensure their safety. Met with the locked doors and no response to outside communication which are required by our lockdown procedures, he became distraught and began kicking the glass until it shattered. Some reports of the situation indicated that he was armed and ready to confront any threat.

And so it is.

Xtreme Brain Break

When I planned to give the students a choice of brain breaks today, I thought they would think back to some of the activities they enjoyed over the year and pick one to repeat. I figured there would be some discussion, perhaps even a bit of debate about the relative merits of whatever suggestions the group came up with. And that's pretty much how it went yesterday and for the first block today. But when my third period got to the activity the first student who raised her hand suggested that we all scream as loudly as possible. 

"That's a suggestion," I said mildly. "Does anyone have another?"

Determined to rankle me, the next kid I called on proposed that I throw candy in the air and they all scramble for it.

I raised my eyebrows, and I was quiet for a minute. Shooting down ridiculous suggestions was not how I wanted to end the year. I shrugged. "I'll tell you what," I said. "Why don't we go outside, and you guys can scream as loud as you want, AND I'll throw Jolly Ranchers in the air for you."

"Really?" they asked.

"Sure, why not?" I replied. 

As we headed down the hallway one of them fell into step with me. "How are you the most awesome teacher, ever?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm not," I told her, "I just kind of want to see what happens if we do this."

Once outside, we found a nice grassy spot. "Okay!" I announced. "You scream, and I will throw this handful of candy as high as I can!"

Shrieks erupted and Jolly Ranchers rained down on them. Some dropped to their knees for candy, and others continued hollering. It was pretty hilarious, and in less than a minute, we were done and on our way back in. 

"That was awesome!" several students agreed.

"That was a pretty good brain break," I admitted.

Tell Your Dog I Said Hi

To us, it seems like a bad habit when Lucy stands at the open window upstairs and barks at any passer-by with a dog. Over the years we have analyzed the tone, volume, delivery, and energy of the bark and determined that there is a difference between her response to the dogs she knows and those she doesn't. Some she greets; some she warns. In every case, we shush her.

Tonight, as one of our neighbors walked by with the pup she is sitting for, Lucy was extra loud alerting us to knowns and unknowns alike. Our friend looked up to the window and waved. "Hi, Lu!"

That? Quieted Lucy right down.

Don't Be Silly

Against my better teacher judgment, I agreed to get Silly String as a prize for the writing challenge last month. What's perhaps even more surprising is that I actually made the decision after a student in another class got in trouble for making a mess in the hallway with a can of the stuff. I was marginally involved with the incident, and the students in my class at the time were very, very intrigued with the actual Silly String. Many of them had never seen or heard of it before.

In my defense, I wanted to motivate them to write more, but since then, I've had some second thoughts about putting projectiles, even soft synthetic ones, into the hands of impulsive 12-year-olds, especially at the end of the school year. Visions of Silly String calamities ending with, You got it where?! filled my head, but I had given my word, so I put my money where my mouth was and purchased 12 cans.

Today was the day when the writing prizes were awarded, and I was delighted that there was so much writing to reward. I did put a few restrictions on the silly string, though. 

"You have to put it right in your backpack, and you cannot even get it out until you are off campus!" I warned one student, in a serious voice. "Do you ride the bus?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then not even until you are off the bus!" I told him. "And don't spray it near anybody's face, either!"

"I won't," he promised earnestly.

Just then the phone rang. It was the assistant principal asking for him to come to the office.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! hooted his classmates when I delivered the message.

He stood up, confident that he wasn't in trouble. "I don't even have the Silly String, yet!" he laughed.

The Way They See It

I asked the students what advice they had for the young writers who would be in the class next year, and to borrow a phrase from a colleague of mine: Man! They gave me the blues!

Don’t get on Ms. S's bad side 

 Finish your work early so Ms. S has time to criticize it. 

 don’t sit on Miss S's stool without permission or else you might lose a limb. 

 Finish your assignments in class and don’t get on Ms S's bad side she will steal your lungs 

 Don’t argue with Ms. S. And also do NOT CALL MS. S A GRANDMA!!!! 

RUN FAR AWAY BECAUSE SHE WILL MAKE YOU WRITE SO MANY THINGS 

Work hard because she gives tough grades 

 Listen to Ms. S every second 

 Don’t be sad if your writing is bad. 

 If something is summative, do your best. We all know it’s a hard class. 

 Be cautious because you never know what will set teachers off 

 But a few appreciated the rigor and style of the class: 

Work hard And help will come along…DUN DUN DUN Ms. S. to the RESCUEEE!!! 

Try your best and always listen to Ms.S. and you will do good in English 

Write write write

And one? Even seemed to totally get it: 

Follow the directions and don't try to overthink your writing because if you just keep trying to get down every single specific detail right away then you won’t get anywhere for a while. Just let the writing come naturally first and then revise it. Listen to feedback.

Now that's good advice! 

Facial Recognition Software

Several years ago our school started an alumni barbecue. Held one afternoon in June, all the high school kids who went through middle school here are invited back for hot dogs and lemonade. The food is welcome, but seeing their former classmates and teachers is the biggest draw, of course.

After 2 years away from that tradition, we reinstated it today, and 3 PM found a bunch of teachers gathered out back somewhat nervously-- Will I know anyone? Will I recognize them? Will they remember me? Then little by little in pairs and trios kids started arriving, and they, too, looked nervously around until they spotted a familiar face, which made their own light up.

They were supposed to wear name tags, but not everyone did, and they were a little shy, too. The faces were sort of recognizable, but not always. "Do you remember me?" asked one student. "I'm Zosia!" 

Her name was blown away by the breeze, and I couldn't place her, but her friend came to the rescue. "She used to be about this tall,"they said holding a hand by their waist.

"Zosia!" I said, and she smiled. Then I turned to the friend. "Thank you! That was very helpful!"

Finally, it got to the point where if I saw a face I knew I knew, I just went over to the kid and asked their name, because it was better than being put on the spot. Even so, that plan didn't always work. A colleague and I stood close together then, to help each other out, and when a student came up and engaged us in conversation, it gave me a little time to access this aging memory bank when my friend was talking.

"Sariah!" I said in one such situation, and she beamed

"You remember my name?" she asked with delight.

"I do!" I told her. "I do!"

Adaptations

Years ago my cousin gave me her recipe for date nut bread. It was a staple at our Thanksgiving get togethers, and since she passed away in 2000, I treasure the handwritten card as well as the recipe itself. The technique is one I have not seen in other quick breads: it involves pouring boiling water over dried dates, sugar, a stick of butter, and baking soda. When the butter is melted, 2 eggs are added, and then flour, a pinch of salt, and the chopped nuts. The resulting bread is dark and moist, sweet and buttery, delicious, really.

Just in the last year or so I have begun experimenting by using the method with other dried fruit. The results have been very good, especially the sour cherry pecan, studded with white chocolate chips. Today at the farmers market my eye was drawn to a bag of dried apple wedges and a bunch rhubarb. I purchased the duo, considering just how they might be combined. Sandy's recipe was the answer. Apples, rhubarb, and pecans, with a touch of apple pie spice and a little extra cinnamon, all baked up into an amazing loaf. Sweet, tart, nutty, dense and buttery, just a thin slice is a satisfying snack.

On Hand

Last Saturday I woke up determined to make ice cream, strawberry ice cream in fact, using a recipe my mother gave me a few years ago. I didn't have all the ingredients, but rather than let that stop me, I substituted a few things and ended up with an entirely different version. 

The almond strawberry swirl was delicious in its own way, but after enjoying a pint and a half this week, today I woke up determined to make strawberry almond tea bread with what was left. After melting the 2 cups in the microwave, I added a couple eggs, some lemon-lime syrup I had going, ginger, cinnamon, 2 cups of flour, and some leavening, and baked it off.

The result was very pleasant, moist and firm, with good strawberry flavor, along with subtle notes of almond, citrus and spice. Such a loaf may never exist again, so we will enjoy it while we have it.

Pride is Pride

One of the teacher for a day lessons will celebrate Pride Month by taking a look at all the sexual identity flags. The student teacher prepared a slide show to share with her classmates featuring an image of each flag along with an explanation. 

As I scanned through her slides, I had to stop at the one with a pride banner featuring gray, green, and white stripes. Aromatic it read. It took me a beat before I realized that auto-correct had struck again, transforming the word aromantic. Even as I type now, there is a menacing red squiggle under that word. 

I'll take care to leave it as I have written it, but I can't stop thinking about Aromatic Pride, and what that flag might look like.

50,000 Hours or So

Malcolm Gladwell famously posited that it takes 10,000 hours or more of practice to make someone an expert, and the way I figure it, I've done my time in teaching.

So, as we enter the last couple weeks of school and the teacher-for-a-day lesson ideas start to come in,  "Come talk to me!" I always tell the kids. "I've been doing this job a long time, and I've got some mad teaching skills. I'm ready to help!" 

"I want to teach the class to make a pillow fort for my lesson," a student told me today. 

"Hmmm," I responded, "what will you use for the hands-on part of the lesson?"

She gestured grandly to the four pillows I have over by the windows.

"That doesn't really seem like enough for everybody," I said.

Her face fell.

"What if..." I continued, thinking out loud. "What if we made little pillows so that they could create models of their forts?"

She looked skeptical. 

"Hand me a piece of paper," I said, grabbing some scissors. I folded the paper in half and then cut it in half. I stapled it closed on three sides. "Does this look about the right size?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Now we need some stuffing." I looked around the room and my eyes landed on a tissue box. I pulled a few out, wadded them loosely, and gently pushed them into the pouch. A couple more staples produced a pretty little paper pillow.

Now the student was smiling. "Do you think this will work?" I asked.

"I really do!" she replied. 

After we talked a bit about presentations and rubrics, she returned to her seat to finish her planning.

On the way out the door at the end of class, I saw her show the prototype to a classmate. "I'm doing pillow fights for my lesson," she said, "and these are the pillows we're going to make!"

"That's actually pretty genius," said her friend.

Genius? Perhaps, but I prefer to think of it as expertise.

The first kid looked at me, and I gave her a chin nod.

"Thanks," she told her friend.

Deep Roots

Today was the state math test for sixth graders and the luck of the draw had me proctoring a group of kids I did not know. At this point in the year, that situation could go either way. Either the students will be quiet, because they are unsure of me, or they will consider me a glorified substitute and challenge me. I can certainly handle either, but who wants to spend almost 5 hours locked in a room with a bunch of antagonistic tweens?

As I took attendance, I made note of a few of the last names. "Do you have a brother in 8th grade named Max?" I asked one student. "Do you have a sister in high school named Ava?" I asked another. "And your sister is out of college, right?" I said to a third.

By this time, the group was pretty impressed. Even if I didn't know them personally, I had some juice through my connections. That's when I got to the last kid. "Do you have an aunt named Tasha?" I asked him.

"She's my mom!" he said. There was a low suspiration of approbation from the crowd, and the testing continued without a hitch from there.