The Road to Gowanda: Part 1

The unmarked dirt road was not a road at all, but rather a couple of ruts at the edge of a grassy field. We had already passed it twice, admiring the cute gray cat lounging like a small panther in the tall grass. And we had already taken the only other turn off this short stretch of Wheater Road: a narrow way between cornfields that had dead-ended by an abandoned shanty at the edge of the woods. 

"The written description says it's here," I insisted as we idled on the narrow shoulder. "It's unmarked, at the end of a quarter-mile dirt road on the east side of Wheater between Bagdad and Rt 62." I opened the map app on my phone. Tapping the satellite image, I could see three light green clearings beyond the woods at the edge of the field where the cat was. "We're going in!" I said and put the car in gear. A hundred yards away I turned onto the grassy lane and drove to the back of the meadow. Over a small rise we saw a chained-off driveway that had been invisible from the main road. 

I pulled up to it and hopped out of the car. "I'm going to check it out!" I said.

"I'm going with you!" Heidi replied, and we left the a/c running for her parents and hopped over the chain.

The path curved around to the left and down a steep hill. I knew why they had closed it off; a car could easily get stuck going up or down this way. We flushed a flock of finches to the right and a woodchuck lumbered across the road ahead of us; clearly this trail was not well traveled by humans. It had been mown sometime this summer, but the grass was up to our knees in some places. Rounding the curve ahead of us, I stopped and pointed. "There it is!"

The Old Man

At dinner this evening, Heidi told her parents about a quick visit she made to a neighbor down the street. John was a childhood friend of hers, and he and his wife and their two teenagers live in the house that he grew up in.

"You were where?" her dad asked, cupping his ear. He hasn't replaced the hearing aid he lost a couple of months ago.

"John's!" Heidi repeated.

He nodded. "Were you talking to the son or the old man?"

Heidi was confused. I could tell by the look on her face that she thought her dad had lost his marbles. John's parents have been dead for 40 years. 

"I think your dad is calling your friend John 'the old man'," I guessed, knowing that his son was also named John.

"Right!" her dad waved a cranky hand. "Do you even know the kid?"

"As a matter of fact?" she answered, "I do. And I was talking to both of them."

Burst Bubble

Visiting Heidi's parents is always an opportunity to break out of the cultural bubble we live in. For example, here in Buffalo, the economic dynamic is much different than it is in the affluent, densely populated community where we live, right outside Washington D.C. and economics drives politics.

For one thing, the many national chains that have been sprouting up in the 20 years I've been visiting regularly are still matched by plenty of well-established, local businesses and restaurants that succeed because they have a loyal customer base, and they reliably deliver quality goods, just as they have for years. Another difference is the much higher proportion of blue collar workers and tradesfolk to office workers. Finally, there are many shoppers and tourists who visit the area from Canada, and their spending lifts the economy.

As I've mentioned before, Heidi and her mom are inveterate shoppers, and until the last year and change of COVID, no visit between the two was complete without at least one shopping day. Now that the crisis has been mostly managed, this afternoon we headed up to an outlet mall in Niagara Falls.  

Wow... The place was a ghost town and more than half of the stores were closed-- completely out of business. Those shops that remained open had pretty limited inventory; even Heidi and her mom were hard pressed to find anything they wanted. In our community, only a handful of businesses went under during the pandemic, and it was hard to relate to the reports of economic hardship in other areas of the country, but today I saw an example, first hand. The mall will probably recover, but with the Canadian border still closed, and many local workers still saving to recoup lost wages, it could take a while. 

Some Who Came Before

We spent the afternoon yesterday in the cemetery, or rather, in four cemeteries to be exact. Both sides of Heidi's family have lived in Buffalo for generations, and along with her parents and brother, we went to pay our respects to all 4 of her grandparents, as well as her dad's grandparents, and the brothers who were the first of their surname to come to the United States from Germany back in 1845. 

Remarkably, they were all laid to rest in what has become an enormous cemetery complex just south of Buffalo, in the town of Cheektowaga, NY. Originally known as The United German and French Roman Catholic Cemetery, it was established in 1859 by nine trustees, representatives of six parishes whose congregants were mostly immigrants. The cemetery quickly filled, and over the years several adjoining farms were purchased and used to expand the grounds. 

Five cemeteries are known today as The Mount Calvary Cemetery Group; in addition to Mount Calvary and UGF, the collective also includes Pine Lawn, Ridge Lawn, and Buffalo Cemetery. Adjoining the grounds are also 3 Jewish Cemeteries, a Lutheran cemetery, and two independent Catholic cemeteries, one, Holy Sepulchre, that was founded for Italian immigrants and another, St. Stanislaus, for Polish. Not far away is Holy Cross, originally consecrated for the Irish laborers who came to Buffalo to dig the Erie Canal, build the railroads, and work on the steamships that plied the great lakes. 

Standing in the shade of a silver maple and looking over gentle green hills filled with row after row of granite and marble stones it was easy to forget that each memorialized at least one real person with a whole life of joys and disappointments. Many were carved with a cross that was tilted at an angle, a symbol I was not familiar with until I looked it up. Known as a Portate Cross or the Cross of St. Glbert, it represents a burden laid down after a life well-lived.

Pray, Indeed

We had Thanksgiving dinner last night. The idea, at first, seemed a little silly, but as a houseguest, who am I to object to my hostess's meal plans? 

What started out as a simple roasted turkey breast soon included mashed potatoes and turnips. "All we're missing is the stuffing," Heidi's mom said, but since I knew there was a sliced batard in the bread box, that was quickly remedied. A can of cranberry sauce in the pantry completed the menu, and the five of us sat down to Thanksgiving in July. 

"It's my favorite meal of the year," her mom told us, and considering that the five of us are never together for that holiday, it seemed like a new tradition was being established. As we ate, I heard my own mother's voice singing one of the many little songs she had for every occasion. 

And pray, how could anyone ever be cross, 

with turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce?

The Sun is Not Sunny

The damp air is temperate and mild, as the dogs and I sit outside on this rainy, rainy day in Buffalo. A steady patter of drops on the yellow and white striped awning over my head is pleasant enough, and the light filtering through the solid cloud cover paints the yard an exquisite green, flooding the eyes and filling the heart. But the forecast? That it will be like this all week, the entire time we are here? Raises a tempest of concern.

Oh Thank Heaven

Quite often the estimated travel time from our home to Heidi's parents' is seven hours and eleven minutes, just as it was today. The distance is always 387 miles, and although we could drive straight through on a single tank of gas, we usually make one stop to stretch our aging legs and let the three of us pee, just as we did today. And usually? We can make the time up somewhere on the shaded mountain roads of the Allegheny State Forest, assuming we can avoid a logging truck or fracking tanker. If not, then I-99 or NY 219 is always a good bet to nudge the cruise control up a notch so that we can pull into the driveway in 7:11, just as we did today.

I See You, Summer

A thunderstorm rolled in this afternoon. Complete with high winds, lightning, sideways torrents of rain, and those peals of thunder you feel in your belly, it was a 20 minute wonder, good for the garden and landscaping (which looks fabulous around here). I was cleaning house at the time, dusting and wiping and mopping and vacuuming, but I paused to admire the torrents of rain sluicing down the driveway when a warm blast of positively tropical air blew in through the kitchen window I insist on keeping six inches open. And then? It was over. A late afternoon sun shone golden through the misty air, the pool reopened, and I sliced some tomatoes for dinner.

Decoration Negotiation

Years ago, I asked a friend for some fashion advice while shopping. "Do these match?" I held up a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

"They don't match, but they go," she answered, and my perspective was considerable widened. But the idea that things could be put together in a complimentary way without matching exactly did not fit my casual approach to dressing and decorating as easily as one might think. 

"Matching" is a yes or no question, but considering shades and colors and patterns in a more nuanced way requires some consideration. The absence of, pardon the pun, black and white rules can also make it difficult to agree with someone else about what goes together and what does not. 

And...

I think I'll leave it at that.

Family Matters? No Comment

"Who even reads your blog?" my neighbor asked today.

"Well," I shrugged, "my mom used to..." I trailed off, unwilling to explain why she doesn't anymore. "But," I continued brightly, "my brother and sister read it every day. And my friend Mary is also a loyal reader. And there are a few others who read from time to time."

"I can't believe your brother and sister read it every day! My brother would never read anything I wrote," she scoffed.

I thought it best to remain silent.

That's Why We Call It Practice

We were chatting with neighbors at the pool today when the topic of food and activity tracking came up. "We use MFP," Heidi said.

"It's great because it has so many foods in the data base," I added.

"I just think it might be hard to do it regularly," our friend sighed.

Heidi nodded sympathetically. "Tracey is really good at it, though," she reported.

"True," I confirmed. "I actually haven't missed a single day since May 2, 2015."

Our neighbors were stunned. 

"That's nothing!" Heidi said. "Tell them about your blog."

"I have posted my blog every day since March 1, 2009," I told them. "And I do this other thing where I post a selfie every day. That's been happening since December 2014."

I couldn't tell if they were impressed or convinced that there was something wrong with me. "It's just what I do to keep going," I said. "One day off and I'd probably quit."

"How do you find the time?" somebody asked. "What if you get busy or something?"

I thought about it a minute. "It probably doesn't take more than 30 minutes to do those things," I answered. "And to be honest, coming up with an idea to write about is the hardest part, so, thanks for that!" I laughed. "I don't always love what I wrote, but I am always happy when it's done."

You Know You're On Summer Time

...when you wake up at 6:14, stumble over to the spare room, roll out your new yoga mat, and join your live 6:15 Kundalini practice, then back to bed and fast asleep again by 7:10.

Because the garden, the baking, and the pool will all be there when you wake up.

Sorry Ladies!

We were halfway through North Carolina when we tuned our podcasts to the saga of Henry the Eighth's unfortunate wives. The iHeart Radio show Noble Blood does a nice 30 or so minute overview of each of the six. The episodes are cleverly and accurately titled "Divorced" "Beheaded" "Died" "Divorced" "Beheaded" "Survived", which sums up the careless brutality of the time and the monarch just right.

But I will say this: there's nothing like a little historical misfortune to pass the time.

Greatly Exaggerated

My 13-year-old niece wanted to go shopping at the mall this afternoon. School starts in just about a month down here in Atlanta, and after a year and a half of virtual learning, she had some clothes shopping to do before returning to 8th grade in person. So her mom, Heidi, and I all piled into the car and drove her out to the nearest "real" mall-- you know, the one with the food court, department stores, and Forever 21. 

As Heidi and Annabelle headed off together to browse the clothing, my sister and I literally poked through Williams Sonoma and then meandered along the upper level, commiserating about our loathing of shopping. "We used to love it though, remember?" I said, and we reminisced about malls of our past-- Lynnhaven and Pentagon City. Eventually we found a table and sat down to play gin rummy with a deck of cards I had found in the sale bin at Anthropologie.

A little while later we joined Heidi and Annabelle, and my sister was drawn into school shopping, but I kept on people watching. As the afternoon grew later, the crowds grew as well, and the place became a vibrant scene of American consumerism. Parents with strollers and little kids, teens and 20-somethings, and folks in their 30s drifted in and out of stores, ambling along with shopping bags from Nike, Urban Outfitters, Gucci, and Crazy Rabbit. Just the variety of shoes and hair styles was vast enough to hold my attention, although I avoided staring too much.

Coming out of one store on her way to another, Heidi laughed and compared me to her dad, who is infamous for joining shopping trips just to find a bench and sit while the rest of the group trolls the stores in search of that must-have item. 

Maybe the old guy isn't so nutty after all.

Carbo Loading

My sister hasn’t had a chance to ride the pandemic sourdough train, so I brought some sourdough starter along on our trip to Georgia. Rest assured Dear Reader, we have put it to good use. So far we have made sandwich bread, bagels, peach tart, and English muffins.

And it's only been five days!

Rules of the Game

My family is full of folks who love a good board game. As such, we have amassed quite a collection of them, and few holidays or birthdays are complete without unwrapping a sturdy box with a new challenge within. 

My nephew, Treat, is our go-to guy when it comes to figuring out the rules and set up of all but the simplest games. He is able to read and explain even the most complicated set of directions with ease and humor. 

Oh how my sister and I missed him today as we muddled through a beautiful and well-reviewed game that I received for my birthday. It took us over an hour just to get halfway through the instructions and set up, and we never did actually get to play the game. I have no doubt that once we figure it out, it will be a lot of fun, and the complications will be forgotten when the gameplay is familiar. 

My sister has vowed to watch the video tutorial tonight, and I plan to reread the rules in the morning so that we might put my gift to good use. Oh, and I am definitely going to get Treat to play it with me when I get back to Virginia, just in case we miss something important!

How to Have an HBD

I was lucky enough to receive all sorts of birthday wishes today, but of them all, this piece of advice stands out:

Happy Birthday! Hope it is full of beings you love.

Because it has been! And even though I did not consciously realize it, those words have long been my guide for planning and spending all of my birthdays, with many happy returns, indeed.

Those Meddling Kids

I spent the Sunday afternoon before the COVID shutdowns began browsing books at my local Barnes and Noble. Who knew that would be the last time I would set foot in a bookstore (or library!) until today? And as good as it was to be back, I was surprised by how unfamiliar so many titles in the kids and YA sections that I usually frequent were. Thank goodness the publishing world did not grind to a halt with the rest of us! 

Oh, and the Daphne and Velma series? The one that fills in the backstory of your favorite Scooby Doo gals, detailing how the two were friends from pre-K, until Daphne dropped Velma in middle school and never looked back? Well! That one was too good to leave on the shelf.

Not So Hotlanta

Down here in the deep south we were prepared to make it through the days by fanning ourselves and drinking sweet tea on the veranda (or staying in the a/c all day). But weather predictions have it that the temps here will be cooler than DC by 10 degrees or more for the next few days. And? Just a bit warmer than Ketchikan, Alaska where Josh is sweating through his fish-processing orientation in unseasonably toasty weather. But on the plus side? The landscape is breath-taking there, and he says the food is plentiful and good, and dinner will be served promptly at 5. 

Maybe he can find a veranda to enjoy a nice glass of iced tea with that incredible Alaskan scenery.

Saving Graces

Even though we sat in stop and go traffic for the first hour and a half, and all the top 18 songs for this week in 1974 were totally second rate (look it up!) and the podcasts were a little sad, and there was an accident in North Carolina that had my fellow drivers four-wheeling it over the median strip and onto a feeder road, and South Carolina was one 100 mile long construction zone, when at last we got to Georgia the golden glow of the evening summer sun and singing along as we scanned through the local radio naming that tune reminded me of how much I like a road trip. 

That, and seeing my sister made this a pretty great day.

Leave it to the Pros

The text chain was humming. Our cleaning lady, whom we had recommended to several neighbors, had been working at a home in Bethesda (a referral from one of our recommendations) when a misstep led to injury. It turned out Estela was sidelined for at least 6 weeks with a broken ankle. Summer vacation made cleaning the house ourselves a no-brainer: after all, we did it for months during the COVID shutdown. And so this morning? We grabbed our bucket and mop and scrubbed from bottom to top, spit-polished til it shines.

Oh, and we also sent a Get Well Soon card to Estela, because nothing like a Saturday spent cleaning to remind us how much we appreciate her.

Friday x 9

As the midsummer sun subsides to the gloaming, I sit back in my chair and prop my feet up with gratitude for this day-- this day! Windows flung open wide, a morning yoga practice and meditation, an audio book and a few hours at the garden, poke for lunch, a walk to the grocery, blueberry pie, the pool, chatting with neighbors, and now? A fine meal and TV I want to watch. With weeks of summer stretching expansively ahead, I could not be more content.

Where is That?

You know that place where the weather is always around 80 degrees and sunny? Low humidity and a light breeze?

Neither do I.

But I sure have enjoyed it here the last couple of days.

Over-doing It

 There are many forms of the same advice:

There is only one way to eat an elephant: one bite at a time.

The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

Take it bird by bird.

And in general, I try to live my life that way, acknowledging that any small offering is better than none. But on a perfect summer day in June, with sSY2021in the rear view and the windows wide open? It was hard not to gorge on the elephant, run a thousand miles, and fly with all the birds.

So, boy! Are my wings tired.

For a Rainy Day

Today, for the first time since March of 2020, I... 

wait for it... 

went to the gym!

It was cool and rainy, and with no comfortable outdoor options, I drove on over, scanned my key tag, and had a pretty decent workout.

Can the movies be far behind?

Please Forward

Since we moved into our cozy little condo in 1999, it's been mostly us and our pets. (The pets? Well... That's another blog post, but there have been many: 5 cats, 2 dogs, 3 turtles, 2 hamsters, 2 gerbils, and countless fish.) There have been periods, though, when we have had a couple of temporary co-residents, first our godson, Josh, and then my cousin Elaine. Both moved on years ago, though, so imagine our surprise this afternoon when, turning the key on the mailbox, we found correspondence addressed to both.

Door Number Two

When the FaceTime ringtone jangled my phone last night at around 9:30, Heidi and I exchanged glances. "It's Bill!" I said. "He's calling both me and Courtney." I shook my head and tapped join. "This is going to be either really bad or really random."

When the call connected, the screen was dark and jerky, like a scene from the Blair Witch Project. "Hello? Hello?" I called.

"Tracey?" my brother's voice answered, and I could just make out his shadowy figure somewhere in the night, surrounded by trees. "I'm crossing a swaying bridge at Gary's farm, and the bouncing must have butt dialed you. Sorry!"

"No problem!" I replied. "As long as everything is okay, I'll talk to you soon."

"Really random," I reported to Heidi.

"Much better than really bad," she agreed.

Setting the Tone

In their enthusiasm and love of the outdoors, our cats have scratched the hell out of the screen doors leading out to the decks. In recent weeks I have been on the hunt for a replacement, without much luck. It seems that all the local hardware and big box home improvement stores are out of stock on the item we need. 

And so, in a spurt of handiness, I decided to order a repair kit instead, and try to replace the screen myself. The first day of summer vacation dawned quiet and warm, and when I stepped outside to water the plants, I knew that the time was right to DIM. 

Flathead screwdriver, razor knife, and roller tool in hand, I pried a corner of the old screen up and zipped out the 35-year-old spline and torn aluminum netting. Then I rolled out my new, fiberglass pet-proof mesh and pushed it into the channel at the top. Heidi came over to assist as I stretched and rolled the new spline into place, then trimmed the extra screen with my utility knife. 

Unlike so many superficially simple but practically complicated projects, this one went off without a hitch, and it turned out great! Every time I look out and see the perfect expanse completely unmarred by claws, I am as pleased and proud as can be. 

Call me overly optimistic, but I have to think that's a sign-- it's going to be a very good summer.

What I Learned in School Today

1.  How to draw an English muffin:

2. How to draw a cat:

3. It was harder than I thought it would be to say good bye to these kids. 

What a year!

Traditional Learner

 In case anyone needed any confirmation that my learning style is old school, here ya go: 

The teacher for a day pulled up his slides. "The only things you will need for this lesson are a piece of paper and a pencil to take notes."

I was on it! In no time every in-person student, the teaching assistant, and me all had our materials on the desk and ready to go. What followed was an extremely detailed presentation on Sonic the Hedgehog, a topic upon which I know virtually nothing. But, although the teacher moved quickly through the dense material, my pen moved even faster as I evaluated information, created bullet lists, and made connections, using arrows and boxes to organize the facts. 

When I turned my loose leaf paper over, the kids in the room with me looked up surprised. They had already given up, and their notes were sparse. "C'mon you guys!" I encouraged them. "I bet the assessment is open note. The more you have, the better you can do!"

What followed was a 30 question Kahoot! With mics muted, our little group joined forces. I pointedly referred to my noted throughout, and in the end? Our team won the day! But the real prize was when one of the in-person kids shook his head and said with a bit of disbelief, "I gotta start taking better notes!"

Fine-tuning

Teacher-for-a-day has not been quite as successful this year as it has in the past, which is hardly surprising, considering that many would say teaching in general has not been as successful this year as it has in the past. 

Even so, a lesson today was just too short to be a hit, but it was designed by a student who really did her best, so I turned off my mic and camera and let her present  five slides on drawing an ice cream cone. I learned along with the class, completing all the activities with enthusiasm, as I do with all the lessons, and when we got to the end with a simple ice cream cone drawn on my paper and no assessment in sight, I unmuted. "Why don't we all color these as our favorite kind of ice cream cone and post photos of them in the chat?" I suggested. It was what I would have done if I had underplanned the lesson (which happens more often than you might think).

Fortunately? The teacher liked my idea, and her comments as she moderated the drawings really ended the lesson on a positive note. And later, when I read through the feedback before sending her a summary, I was pleased to see that all the kids enjoyed the activity. 

Non-stop

The question of the day was What are your three road trip must-haves? 

First answer? Food, phone, and a bottle to pee in.

Well.

Safe travels, kid.

Off Brand

Perhaps it was the way Milo cries pitifully at the door, but only when Lucy is outside, that on a whim we decided to order tiny harnesses for our cats. When they arrived today, I eagerly pulled them from the box, but then stood there dumbly with a tangle of colorful nylon straps hanging from my hand: the engineering was a mystery to me. Fortunately, they included directions, and when I lifted those from the bottom of the package I read the brand name of our new merchandise: come with me kitty and laughed out loud.

Because that's not creepy at all.

I Know How She Feels

"Do we have any classwork today?" read the message in my inbox this morning. I frowned and checked the timestamp. It had been sent a few minutes earlier.

"Nope!" I replied. "Because it's Sunday!"

"Thanks," she responded. "I was confused when I woke up this morning."

Just one more week.

She Would Have Approved

We stopped by my brother's on the way home from the farmer's market this morning. It is my mom's birthday, and I wanted to spend a little time. 

He wasn't home though, so Heidi and I chatted with Victor and Emily, admiring the garden and letting the dogs play a little. We were just heading home when Bill got back. "We're having fried chicken and chocolate cake for dinner tonight," I told him.

"I'll be there at five," he joked.

"Make it 6:30!" I said.

And so it was.

Happy Birthday, Ma.

End of the Year Review

When I read the proposals, it was a little hard not to be offended. Two students wanted to teach their classmates a lesson on Haiku, which I had just taught not six weeks ago! Did they think they could do a better job or had they forgotten that I had taught it? Either way, it was a wee bit insulting. 

But reason prevailed-- who could argue with kids getting a fresh spin on a topic that is actually one of the power standards for our grade's state test? 

Haiku? Have at it!

How You See It

"You know what I don't get?" a student asked in class yesterday. "How complicated math will ever help us in real life." He was working on his 6th Grade from A-Z project and reflecting on what he had learned this year. "I can see how I might use adding and subtracting, maybe multiplying and percents, but what else is math good for?"

"If you need to buy a new rug," one of the other kids suggested helpfully. 

"Can't you just get someone to come do that?" he shrugged.

I thought of him today when another student came into my class brandishing a torn slip of paper covered in numbers. "This is a magic piece of paper!" he announced. "I used it to finally figure out that 3 small pizzas are actually less pizza than 1 medium and 1 large. BUT," he paused dramatically, "they cost the same!"

Now that's useful!

Those Who Can't

We had our first two teacher-for-a-day lessons today, and they were both done virtually. Despite planning requirements and direct advice from me, the first lesson was just a talking head-- one guy discussing beyblade battle strategy. Sure, he waved some beyblades around, assembling and disassembling them all the while pontificating about contact points and spin-stealing. 

The next lesson was on WWII-- it began with a 6 1/2 minute video which led into the teacher reading all the text from a set of black and white slides. The whole thing ended with a five question quiz, which I scored a 0 on. That't right-- I didn't get a single question correct.

To be fair, social skills are not a strength for either of these kids, and the other students were generally kind, and even appreciative, but it made me a little sad that they think that's what teaching is.

Minding What Matters

At 8 AM my students were quietly typing away at their daily writing when one of them snapped his iPad closed with a satisfied, "Finished!"

"That's great!" I told him.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Don't mind my grammar, though."

My eyebrows hit my hairline. "What!" I laughed. "Of course I'm going to mind your grammar. I'm your English teacher kid." I shook my head.

"Well, okay," he allowed. "Maybe no one else will mind it then."

New Habits Die Hard

I spent around 3 hours today sitting with my friend Mary in front of the school in lawn chairs. We were there to give out prizes to the students who had met the monthly writing challenges over the last 99 days. It was a pleasant way to wile away a morning in early June, sitting in the shade of the building with a light breeze keeping the steadily climbing heat from becoming too oppressive. 

And of course, there were the kids-- what fun to meet dedicated writers I've never had the pleasure of teaching in person! They were pleased as well with the token prizes, mere symbols of their accomplishment and discipline. 

One mom asked if she could take a picture of me with her son, and I was happy to oblige. As we stood side by side, he reached over and put an arm around my shoulder. It made me laugh, so I hope the photo was good. As he turned to leave, I congratulated him one more time and stuck out my hand to shake his. His eyes widened above his mask, and he quickly pivoted and offered me his elbow.

"Safety first!" he cautioned.

"You just had your arm on my shoulders!"I told him as I bumped my elbow to his. "I thought a handshake would be okay!"

Where's Tibby?

I was sitting out on the downstairs deck when I heard a cat meowing plaintively somewhere nearby. Scanning the surrounding area and seeing no felines in distress or otherwise, I returned to the word puzzle I was solving. Lucy and Milo were out there with me, but Tibby was off somewhere else, keeping her own counsel I assumed. 

The mewing began again, this time a little more desperately, and I would have thought it was Tibby, but for the fact that there were no windows open upstairs. Still, I thought it strange that she was not outside with us: she's a cat that rushes the deck anytime the doors are open. So, I went into the house to investigate, calling her name. 

First I checked the downstairs powder room; it's another door she rushes, and she's been known to get closed in. No Tibby. I made my way upstairs, and the kitty cry got a little louder. Where is she? I wondered and poking my head in the master bedroom saw that all the closets and the bathroom were open, but the meowing was definitely coming from somewhere nearby. 

Could she have gotten out on the deck? I thought, but dismissed the idea-- I had been out there briefly to water the plants, and despite the fact she had tried to dash out there I had deftly used a foot to block the way. It's too hot out there, I told her and stepped away closing the door behind me to keep the ac in. Even so, I pulled the door open to check, and there she was-- not on the deck, but squeezed between the screen and the door. 

Oh! There was a lot of white fur floating, and the screen was well scratched when she dashed into the house, no worse for wear and probably no wiser either.

Cicadian Rhythm

I spent a little time lounging on the upper deck this morning. The sun was warm but a light breeze kept the heat from being too oppressive. Of course I was a bit wary of the cicadas, their chorus was robust, and gazing up, I could see dozens of them flitting from tree to tree, but with the sun shining through their wings they looked for all the world like tiny sprites or fairies glimmering in the blue sky. It was a sight I may never witness again, and I appreciated the moment just as it was.

A Star to Steer By

One of the kids is doing a teacher for a day project on cicadas because, well, Brood X. "Did you know that some cicadas have blue or green eyes?" I asked when she was working on the "fun fact" portion of her presentation.

"No they don't," another student scoffed. "Their eyes are red."

"Why would I tell you that if it wasn't true?" I asked him.

"You can't trust anyone," he shrugged. "Where did you hear that anyway?" 

"Pretty sure it was a NY Times article," I answered, "but it may have been Scientifica American. They are both pretty credible sources."

Meanwhile the first student was busy researching. "They can have blue or green eyes," she reluctantly admitted, "but it's RARE."

"I know," I said, "because that's what I read in the article."

This conversation came just a day after one of my homeroom students told us that he was skeptical that men had ever landed on the moon. "I'm not saying it didn't happen," he shook his head, "I'm just saying that 1969 technology really wasn't up to the job. Think about it."

As the only person in the room alive in 1969, I did think about it, with some concern. 

When some of his classmates pushed back a little, he retorted with a facile, "How do you know? Were you there?"

The issue of fake news, trusted sources, and firsthand experience will be one of the central issues of this generation. As a global community, we have to agree on some basic facts, but that very consensus is being eroded by the same technology we rely on to provide us with information. People who are just a little older than these kids grew up in a world where most of us did trust the majority of information from verified sources and we did not assume that other people were intentionally misleading us. 

Without such an anchor, we can only do our best to prepare these kids and provide them the tools they will need to invent new navigational systems that will allow them to move forward through this storm of information.

That's New

 I was standing outside my classroom door greeting students as they entered for class.

"Happy Pride Month!" waved one student as she approached.

"Thanks," I answered.

Let Them Think So

To round out the year, our sixth graders are doing a series of mini-projects that they have selected themselves. Today I was checking in with a student who was getting ready to pick his final activity of the year. 

"Which project are you going to do?" I asked him.

"Just to make you happy, I'm going to do... Teacher for a Day!" he answered.

"Yay!" I cheered. "That does make me happy! But how did you know it would?"

"Because, obviously, you're a teacher," he told me. "Of course you would be happy for someone else to do it for you."

At Least We Got That Straight

This morning I opened an electronic message from a student that was sent yesterday. "Do we have any asynchronous work?" it read. "I can't find any."

As luck would have it, the student walked in the door at just that moment. "I was just reading your message," I told him. "No assignments yesterday-- it was a holiday!"

"Thanks," he said. "To be honest I have no idea what any day is anymore," he laughed.

"But," I added, "you are missing that mini-project that was due a couple of weeks ago. And you have another one coming up today."

"I haven't had time to finish that," he said quickly.

"Really?" I asked. "Why were you looking for new work yesterday, when you knew you had this to do?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. 

"I guess you just like to know what you're not doing!" I shook my head.

"That sounds about right," he nodded.

Flying Over the Chesapeake

 Riddle: What do you call a bird that flies over the Chesapeake?

A bay-gull!

Look what I made today:

Growth Mindset

After an afternoon spent battling mugwort, just the latest skirmish in an 11 season war, I came home, scrubbed the dirt from beneath my nails and turned to the internet. There I found a source for mugwort seeds (!) (noooooooooooooo!), but also several articles on the medicinal and culinary benefits of the very weed that has been the bane of my garden from the moment I began to clear it for planting. 

I want to appreciate this plant, I do, and I am impressed that it can be used to treat congestion, stress, headaches, poison ivy, and even breech births, not to mention stir-fried, added to soups and salads, mochi and rice cakes, used to season goose and even to bitter beer instead of hops. I want to flip my perspective and see mugwort as a crop instead of an invader, or at least a volunteer, but...

I’m just not there 

Yet!

Not Fair

 What do you call 52 degrees and rainy on the first day the pool is open?

Try to Remember

I was talking up the teacher-for-a-day activity this morning, trying to encourage more kids to design a fun lesson and take over the class during the last couple weeks of school. In the past it's been a great way to end the year, novel, engaging, and very student-directed, but this year concurrent learning has put a bit of a damper on the project and fewer kids have stepped forward. So there I was, really pitching it, giving examples of past lessons. 

"There was a great one on bottle flipping!" I said. "I know that was a thing a while ago, but it was fun." 

 "A while ago?" said one kid incredulously. "Try five years!" 

 "Was it really that long ago?" I marveled. "Well, it doesn't seem like it to me!" 

 "Five years was a looooooong time ago!" he insisted. 

 "To you, sure," I conceded, "but to me? Not so much."

"How can time be different?" he scoffed.

"Think about it," I said. "I'm about five times your age." And there I paused, because that itself seemed impossible, even to me. Then I pressed on. "So, to me? Five years seems like one year seems to you." 

I thought it made perfect sense, and I had actually had a similar conversation with a student in the class before. She was contesting my suggestion that she add more information about her current life to her letter to her future self. "I think I'll remember everything about myself," she shrugged. "It's me! And it's only six years in the future."

Really?" I said. "Six years ago you were six. Do you remember everything about that?"

She swallowed and lowered her eyes. "No," she admitted. 

"That's all I'm saying," I told her. "Trust me: you'll appreciate the detail."

And I know that she will, because there are times when I read back over my own little time capsule that this blog has become and have no recollection either of the event I documented or the people I was writing about. In fact, in a few years, I'm sure I'll have no idea which kids these were.