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.

Play for Pay

"Do you have to go to college to be a professional soccer player?" a student asked me today. 

"Are you asking for yourself, or someone else?" I responded.

"It's me," the student replied. "I want to be a soccer player, but I don't want to got to college."

"College soccer is another level up," I said. "It will give you more playing time, and more visibility to professional scouts. That's why many soccer players do go to college."

"Is that true in other countries, too?" the student asked. "Don't they have academies you don't have to pay for?"

"I don't know," I shook my head. "What country do you want to play for?"

"I don't want to say," the student told me. "I just don't want to go to college."

"Well, if you're a good athlete, you can get a scholarship, and then the college will support you in your classes. You can get help and tutoring."

The student seemed unconvinced, and we ended our conversation there, but as I walked away I considered how many, many times over the years I've been a teacher I've had such a discussion, with a few variations. Usually, it's the sport that is different, but today was the first time I've ever had that talk with a girl.

Vantage Point

I was following to my virtual PD session this morning with half an ear and a glance at the screen every little bit. To be honest, they lost me when they started 15 minutes late, posting the registration link at least 4 times in the chat, trouble shooting for stragglers, and gleefully reporting the participation number as it climbed to over 70 people waiting around for it to begin. 

Even so, one name popped out at me from the list of participants: it was a former student who was obviously now a middle school ELA teacher in our district. A quick google showed me that she was a 6th grade special educator at a nearby school, and I thought back to what I remembered about her. She loved to write, and she was pretty good at it, too, despite struggling in other subjects and with executive functioning. 

The first year of middle school can be a crisis year for kids who were holding it together academically with a lot of support in elementary, and that's what happened to her. We met with her parents a couple of times, and even working together as a team to help her, eventually we all decided that testing for special education services would be appropriate in her case. She was found eligible, and with the extra support she received, she became a real success story, working hard to make the honor roll by eighth grade. 

And now here she was, offering other kids the same sort of help she herself once needed to be the best she could. That's the kind of long view that makes having taught in the same place so long so rewarding

And Many More

When Emily requested flan as her birthday dessert, building the whole menu around that Spanish favorite seemed like a good idea, and so tapas it was! And today, as I peeled pears, deveined shrimp, marinated swordfish, cooked chickpeas, shelled fresh beans, scrubbed clams, sliced mushrooms, rolled meatballs, chopped a lotta lotta garlic, so that I could grill, seer, sauté, poach, and braise, it was fun pulling everything together. And this evening, when I plated the jamón ibérico, manchego cheese, marcona almonds, apples, dates, and homemade sourdough toasts, and popped the cork on the champagne, I was really glad to have a chance to celebrate Emily with Bill and Treat and Heidi and Nadika.

No Fault Manufacturing

The wheels were falling off of our top dishwasher rack, and no amount of macgyvering could make them stay on more than one or two cycles. I did some research, and it quickly became apparent that this was a common problem with this model of dishwasher. Indeed, it was a similar situation with our last model that led to its replacement: then the parts to fix the problem were not available, and a new upper rack cost more than we paid for the whole machine. 

But this time, the part was readily available, or rather a redesigned version approved by the manufacturer was easy to obtain, although every supplier made it clear that installation directions were not included. I was a bit daunted by all this, but upon continuing my research I found a YouTube video that made the job seem very doable. With that, I ordered the part. 

And everything was going smoothly this morning when I unloaded the dishwasher, removed the clips and pulled out the rack to begin my repair, until I noticed the extra piece that was not mentioned in the video. Frowning, I disassembled my work, and tapped on the comments. Most were quite positive, but several mentioned a couple of missing steps, and one provided the link to a companion video that helped me finish the job. 

There was one comment that has stuck with me, though. Let me get this straight. They make a defective part, and then they charge to replace it with a "better" version, but don't provide directions, so you have to pay somebody else to do it? Why wasn't it a recall? 

Dress Rehearsal

Now that we are week into October, the neighbors are starting to trim their homes with spooky lights and decorations. Darkness fell as we walked the dog this evening, and the streets were aglow with islands of orange and purple, as well as a few inflatables-- Jack Skellington, Oogie Boogie, the Headless Horseman. 

There were also a few gourds and pumpkins on the stoops of those who either do not know or do not fear the squirrels that will probably eat them long before the 31st. Fake skeletons are also popular, as are the companion fake tombstones, but those decorations are not to my taste. 

We even saw a pack of tiny tots dressed up as princesses and super heroes, riding their little three-wheeled scooters. 

"What do you think they're doing?" I asked Heidi. "Birthday party?"

"Maybe they're just practicing for Halloween," she laughed.

Blinded by the Light

"My doctor is so nutty!" Heidi told me when I picked her up from her eye appointment this afternoon.

"How do you mean?" I said. Because of COVID restrictions, it's been a while since I've accompanied her to any appointments, and so I've never met the guy.

We laughed as she filled me in on his idiosyncratic comments and behavior. "And you know, I have no idea what he even looks like, because I'm dilated whenever he examines me. To me, he's just some tall, skinny shadow with a soft southern accent!"

I shook my head, because I knew exactly what she meant. One time, years ago, we were at a craft show on Thanksgiving weekend. As we browsed the aisles of pottery and painting, a woman walked toward us. Seeing Heidi, she tilted her head and smiled, but Heidi ignored her and continued on.

"Wasn't that Doctor Keyes?" I said, pointing my chin in the direction the woman had gone. 

"Where?" Heidi asked.

"Right there," I rolled my eyes to the next stall where the woman was shopping.

"Her?" Heidi shook her head. "No way!"

And yet? It was. I recognized her from all the appointments I had sat in on, and of course, she recognized Heidi as a patient. But Heidi had no idea what the doc looked like, because by the time she came into the examination room, Heidi really couldn't see too much.

Just then we heard the woman ask a question about the jewelry she was looking at. “Holy shit!” Heidi said. “That’s Dr. Keyes!”

Mutable

Even though it has been chillier than usual here in the mid-Atlantic these first days of October, we refuse to turn the heat on at this time of year. Just knowing that we'll certainly need to switch on the air conditioning at some point before autumn begins in earnest makes it seem silly to change the setting on the thermostat. 

That said, 61 degrees indoors is a wee bit nippy to be padding around the place barefoot.

Fortunately?

Temps are rising, the firewood lady rang the doorbell today, and we have plenty of fleece and flannel to keep us warm.

Let's Shake on It

I was feeling even more frustrated than usual when I sent my 4th period class to lunch. Despite my commitment to abiding by the never speak ill of others precept, I complained bitterly to my lunch buddies. "I hate my 4th period class! They are total a-holes!" Of course I eagerly shared the evidence for my proclamations: 

the kid who copied and pasted an entire list of rhyming words, after being specifically instructed not to, and then lied about it (when I bluffed and told him I could look at the HTML code on his response to see where it came from, he gave it up immediately) 

the boys who were crashing their tables into each other and throwing highlighters 

the kid who wrote Ur dad on every single sensory detail anchor chart (this because last week I expressly forbade him from using the expression your mom) 

the kids who had completed less than half of their classwork when it was time for lunch because they "forgot" 

and the kid who posted tree, pee, tea, and virginity for his rhyming words. 

And my teacher friends were sympathetic; they, too are struggling to tame this new group of sixth graders. Deep down, though, I felt like I had to flip the script on this class, and I needed to do it sooner, rather than later. But when they came charging back into the room after lunch, I stopped them crossly, and directed them to line up outside the door. 

Rather than scold them into a compliant line, which Im sure they expected, I invited them to come back in, one at a time, and as each entered I held out my hand, and when they shook it, I clapped my left hand over theirs and made eye contact. I welcomed them back by name and asked if they were ready to learn and do their best. Every one assured me that they were, and I smiled and told them how glad I was to hear it.

And although it was far from a perfect class, it was much better, and I didn't hate them any more.

I Blame the Former Administration

 We were doing a quick mini-lesson on rhyming couplets when a student raised her hand to clarify. "Rhyming words don't have to spelled the same," she confirmed, "they just have to sound the same, right?"

"Exactly," I told her. "Rhyming is a sound tool. Take for example these words-- and I wrote sleigh, way, and Santa Fe. I made my way to Santa Fe on a sleigh," I laughed.

"That's stupid," said another student. "There's no snow in Santa Fe." 

"I beg your pardon," I said, "there certainly is. In fact, both times I've been there, it has snowed."

"No," he insisted. "It's too warm to snow in Southern California."

"Santa Fe is New Mexico," I said.

"Whatever," he replied. "It's hot in New Mexico, too."

"Not all the time," I told him, "and Santa Fe is in the mountains. Have you ever been there?'

"No," he shook his head dismissively.

"Well, I have, and I've literally seen snow there twice!" I said.

"It doesn't snow there," he repeated. "It doesn't snow there."

"Why don't we move on with rhyming couplets," I suggested.

Time and Again

Some friends of ours attended a formal, evening wedding last night, and shared some pictures over social media, he in a tux and she in a full-length, fishtail style gown with a flirty ruffle at the hem. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, and his was combed back. 

"They look like they're from the 20s!" I said when Heidi showed me the picture. Then I laughed, because they are from the 20s, just not the 1920s that I was thinking of.

I thought then that the more memories I accumulate as I age, the more curious time and its passage seem. One week ago I was at the Elton John show, three years ago my mom was admitted to the hospital for what would be the last time, and seventeen years ago we were sitting at our dining room table celebrating Emily's birthday a day early. The boys were 10 and 13, Vic and Judy were there, and just as we sat down to eat the phone rang. It was Jordan, with the happy news that Richard Oliver had been born. We all cheered and drank a toast to the newest member of our family.

A lot has changed since then, but not celebrating Richard. Happy Birthday to him!

The Right Clothes

Today dawned gray and soggy as the remnants of Hurricane Ian continued their slow pass over our area. After having received my COVID booster yesterday, and still nursing that nasty cold, hunkering down at home with a blanket and some hot tea seemed like a good plan for the day. 

So much so, that I was a little surprised to see people walking and driving around outside, because my hurricane response was just that sensible. But one thing gave way to another: first, the matter of breakfast got me out of my chair, then the dog needed to go out, a shower seemed prudent, and a trip to the grocery store was also nearing necessary. 

So I chose to outfit myself in jeans and boots and a long-sleeved t-shirt, took a couple of Advil, popped a baseball cap on my head and zipped up my LLBean raincoat. Once outside, I realized that fresh air, and activity, and engagement with the larger world would be much better for me than sitting around all day, and I even felt a certain sense of satisfaction at being properly attired for a day like today. 

It reminded me of the Norwegian expression, There's no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes, which is a little more true around here at this time of year than in the hot and humid summer, and I resolved to make it a point to get outside a little more often.