If You Read This

For a couple of years, our CLT has been kicking around the idea of moving our second unit to be our first, but it's hard to make a change like that when being swamped by the extraordinary extra demands of teaching in a pandemic. But as I sat at my desk today, contemplating the 2 week break in our current unit and how to make it work, I thought again how these lessons and activities might be much better suited for earlier in the year. 

Earlier in the day I had serendipitously found a small choose-your-own-adventure book that a student had written for me about ten years ago. Then, the activity right before winter break was called "Gifts of Writing" and the concept was to draw a name of someone in the class and create a piece of writing of any genre for that person. We all filled out little information forms beforehand which were passed along to the writers to use as they created their gifts. We took a class period to have a little celebration and present them to each other. If they had time, students had the option of creating gifts for people outside our class. It was wonderful.

I thought we could do something like that in November and December, or perhaps encourage students to try NaNoWriMo, or enter some writing contests. The title of the unit could be "Writing for a Specific Audience" or something like that. And of course I remembered all the years we participated in the Library of Congress's Letters about Literature contest. The object of that one was to write letters to an authors, either living or dead, to tell them what difference a piece of their writing had made in our lives. It seemed like a natural fit with this nascent unit, so I gave it a search and discovered that it had ended, as a national competition, in 2019.

The news put me back on my heels a moment, and I took some time to process one more loss among the so many of the last couple years. We had moved away from the contest when we adopted the essay unit that we are teaching right now, the one that might be a better fit for earlier in the year. It was the right thing to do, but for that real world audience piece. 

What's missing from my class is that feeling of using writing to connect with a real person or real people, and I think the kids sense it, too. Just last week when I mentioned that the fiction writing project is a children's book and that we were going to try to arrange for them to read their final stories to the kids at the elementary school next store, the students in my class literally cheered.

Word.

Hallmark Moment

I had heard vague reports.

Even so,

I was a little surprised when one of the three sisters, main characters in the (see yesterday's post) Hallmark Christmas movie we had on TV as we finished decorating our tree this morning, was openly gay. Her new romantic interest did not quite receive equal treatment of that of her sister's husband and her other sister's male longtime best friend who becomes her soulmate, but that inequity was almost, almost, offset by the fact that no one even mentioned her sexuality; it was treated as an established character trait, never judged either negative or positive.

And of course, they didn't get it all right. 

But there it was.

And that is something.

Holiday Indulgence

I'm a salty snack kind of a gal, and if I'm not careful, I can down a whole bag of chips or Cheetos or popcorn or Chex mix or, well, you get the picture, in a single sitting. One crunchy, salty bite just leads to another, and it can be awfully hard to stop. I've found the best prevention is abstention, and it's rare that we even have those things in the house. That way, I freely enjoy them whenever they are served elsewhere, like a party or the movie theater.

Oddly, that's the way it also is for me with, of all things, Hallmark movies. Despite (or perhaps because of?) knowing how everything will turn out within the first five minutes, two hours later I'm up for another one! As with salty snacks, a little self-discipline goes a long way with saccharin flix, and indeed, we rarely have the TV on for more than a couple of hours in the evening, and it is never tuned to the Hallmark channel.

Except at Christmas! When it's time to decorate the tree, I always power on the television, flip the channel to Hallmark, and enjoy a little predictable holiday hijinks as I string those lights and find the perfect place for each ornament. 

Maybe this year? I'll make popcorn, too.

Twinsies

 What to do when you and a student have made verrrry similar wardrobe choices?

Laugh and take a picture, of course!

   

Wisdom of Three

“Who dat guy, NiNi?” I asked Heidi this morning on our way to work. 

Heidi didn’t even answer. The phrase was shorthand for us, meaning something like that fellow looks a bit sketchy, if you ask me. The person I was referring to was no threat at all, just a man in a sloppy flannel look shirt with messy hair and a sour look on his face in the 3 seconds it took us to drive past him, but I did notice him, and I had the language to report my reaction thanks to our niece, Annabelle, who originated that expression one morning when she was about three years old. She was watching The Lion King with her nanny, Monique. “Who dat guy, NiNi?” she asked when the villain, Scar, showed up. 

“You know who he is,” Monique told her.

“That’s Dar;" Annabelle affirmed, "he's bad," because narrating the scary parts of the movie helped her to manage her anxiety about them.

Heidi and I often laugh about how many phrases we have appropriated from the children in our lives over the years. “I can and I will,” is a common affirmation for us, coming from the time when 3-year-old Treat had to be moved away from the Christmas cookies he was trying to filch. Sitting in a chair next to a mirrored chifferobe he gave his reflection an angry little pep talk. “I can and I will have those cookies,” he avowed, shaking his fist. 

When Riley was almost three and the center of our attention as the only child in our lives, he shocked us all by padding over to our naughty black cat, Silly. When they were nearly face to face, Riley swung his right leg back as far as he could, winding up to give Silly a big kick, but losing his balance instead and landing on his own diapered butt. “Why did you do that?” we asked in shock.

“I just wanted to kick him over,” Riley explained.

“He can be annoying,” I agreed, and so an expression of irritation entered our vocabulary, and there are definitely times when just kicking something over sounds pretty good.

Once, when Josh was three, we drove up to visit him and his mom. He was excited to see us, and even more excited to show us his new stuffed hamster. As he cuddled it proudly, I heard a rustling in the corner. "What's that?" I asked.

 

"That's my other hamster," Josh said. He shook his head sadly. "She's not a hodin' hamster."

 

"She bites," explained Michelle, Josh's mom. Years later, we would use the description to explain why our rescue cat, Penelope, was so skittish: she just wasn’t a hodin’ kitty, and that would have to do.

Like many three-year-old boys, Richard was truck-obsessed, and he loved all the construction vehicles that were doing work in the neighborhood. One morning we were out on the front porch when a digger rattled down the hill at a pretty good pace for one of them. Richard ran along the railing as it rolled by then came to a jump stop. “That guy is moving,” he cried, pointing both index fingers after it. Later on I put together a little plate of carrots, hummus, cheese, and turkey for him, he paused with admiration. “Well! Isn’t that a healthy lunch!”  Around our place, both of those catchphrases come in handy all the time.

When Kyle was three, he was afraid of our dog Isabel. He had never had the chance to be around dogs, and so he would run away whenever she got anywhere close to him. To help him get used to her, Heidi would hold Kyle on her lap and call Isabel over. “No! No!” he resisted. “Her will get me!” which is the perfect terminology for many imagined threats. And later, when he grew to love our dog, Kyle called her Lisabel, and that  was one of our favorite nicknames for her.

Of course all of these words, so funny and true, were elevated by the light of the three year old speaking them, and so we heard and remembered.

Earning It

In response to the numerous reports from teachers that they were feeling overwhelmed by the countless demands, both expected and unexpected, of returning to full-time school after 18 months interrupted by this global pandemic, our system made the kind gesture of removing requirement from this afternoon, which was planned as a professional learning day following an early release for students. We were free and encouraged to leave our professional concerns behind and exit the building as soon as our students were safely on their way. 

It was a generous gesture for sure, but at our school we chose to schedule the day in an inordinately stressful way involving staff assigned in arguably inequitable ways. I'm afraid our plan took its toll-- as I walked down the hall near the end of the day, I saw a colleague standing in her classroom doorway, clearly exasperated. I have no idea what was going on, but as I passed by we made eye contact. "Wow," she sighed, "they must really want us to appreciate our break this afternoon!"

Assignation

Our morning routine used to be that I walked the dog around 6:30 am every school day. I had a lot of time to think on those 39 minute rambles through the neighborhood and a lot to observe, too, since we walked in every season, regardless of  weather. 

It was those walks that gave this blog its name: all the random thoughts and observations seemed to beg for a home. Since then, much has changed, including, sadly, the dog, and in recent months, Heidi has taken over the morning walk, so that I can fit in 45 minutes of yoga and meditation to begin my day. 

I really appreciate the mindfulness, but this evening when yet another interruption in our usually predictable days had me and the dog taking a nice 30 minute jaunt through the quiet streets around our home, I realized how much I miss that time. 

I guess we’re just going to have to find an extra half hour somewhere— at least every once in a while. 

Out of Bounds

"Would it be inappropriate to ask a teacher about their sexuality?" a student wondered today.

"Well," I said, "it is personal, and it is not a discussion that I am willing to have, so..."

"I shouldn't waste my breath?" the student finished.

"Maybe not," I shrugged.

Outside In

We put our Christmas tree in the stand today. After being bound-up out on the deck for a week, the lovely fir needs to fall for a day or two before being festooned with lights and decorations. That doesn't bother the cats, though. The two of them have taken residence underneath its upturned branches. As in years past, they seem enchanted by the notion of bringing such a big, wild thing indoors. They preen and blink beneath its boughs as if to purr, Why don't we have this all the time? And as the fresh, piney scent floats my way, I'm hard put to find an answer to convince the three of us.

Holiday Mission Accomplished

I was more than a little frustrated after spending 45 minutes stringing outdoor lights on my balcony this afternoon only to discover they didn't work. How did I fail to check them? I had used zip ties to secure them, along with some showering icicles, and so rather than start the whole display again, I used scissors to cut the offending string into a dozen pieces for easy removal. As satisfying as that was, I was even happier when the back-up lights were twice as long and much easier to hang. 

As night fell, I went outside to get the full effect of the handiwork: merry and bright, just as I hoped!

Star of the Essay

"We should have the kids read that story you wrote about babysitting," my friend Mary suggested in our CLT planning meeting today after I confessed to abridging another author's work to make it more accessible to the sixth graders.

"That would be funny," I laughed.

"Is the character of Tracey a good babysitter?" Mary asked.

"That's definitely debatable," I said, "and plus, I would love to read a bunch of essays about... me!"

Background Knowledge

I read a story to my sixth graders today that was called "Rabies" which details the misadventures of sixth grader Jack Henry, an autobiographical character created by Jack Gantos. Like most of Gantos's writing, it is funny in a realistic and self-deprecating way. Jack Gantos was in sixth grade around 1962, though, and it takes a little background knowledge building to help kids relate to his story nearly 60 years after it took place. 

We have to start with rabies itself; many students do not know what it is. This year, when I told them it was caused by a virus, I figured we'd have a little less ground to cover, considering we have been living in a pandemic caused by a virus for the last 18 months. "But rabies is not airborne like COVID," I assured them.

"COVID is in the air?" asked a student in alarm.

"IT can be," I said. "That's why we wear masks."

"I already had it," another student reported, and her comment started a chain reaction. It turned out that over a third of the class had already had a positive case of the virus. Thankfully, the symptoms they reported sounded short-term and very mild, more like a reaction to the vaccine than anything else.

"That's why I don't really care about my mask," one boy admitted candidly. It was true that I often had to remind him to cover his nose.

"But your mask is more to block any virus you might have from getting out," I explained. "My mask protects you, in case I have COVID, and yours protects me. We know now that it is possible to get it again, and maybe spread it."

He pulled his mask up and so did a few other kids. I wondered what else they might not know.

Run the Day or the Day Runs You

I told my very chatty students that they would have to finish the notes before they went to lunch. With that warning, I let them talk, circulated through the room, and answered questions. When the bell rang, I dismissed the kids who had shown me their work, which was only about a third of the class. 

The reaction from the others was mixed. Some rushed to finish, others took their time, and at least one tried to sneak out. A couple were mad, and one told me how very, very hungry she was. "I know!" I agreed, "It's my lunch time, too."

Their miscalculation was understandable: today was one of the "anchor days" we have on five-day weeks to balance the block schedule. With all the fall holidays and other planned interruptions in instruction, the days when kids have all their classes have been sporadic so far this year. 

This particular group usually leaves my room for another class, but on anchor days they go straight to lunch. It was leverage that I grasped immediately, but it took a while for the kids.

"We have to go to science!" I heard one student whisper to another. "Do you think Ms. M will give us lunch detention?"

"This is lunch!" her friend hissed.

"Right!" I confirmed. "You already have lunch detention. Now get those notes done!"

Foreshadowing

Were those tiny little snow flakes falling almost imperceptibly this morning? 

You bet your keen sixth grade sense of observation they were. "Go ahead!" I shouted over the din of joy. "Take two minutes and look at the snow."

Within 90 seconds they were back to their seats, satisfied that although snow season might be here, that day off we all dream of this time of year was not going to be today.

Breaking Brains

Since our school implemented in-person block scheduling for the first time this year, I have been on the lookout for good five minute brain breaks for sixth graders. I've written lately about my mindfulness yoga challenges, but I thought it wise to branch out, so yesterday when I saw the game Whatchamadrawit at a discount store I added it to my cart. 

Today, I opened the deck of wacky drawing challenge cards, and gave the kids three minutes to draw and post their work of art for the sweet little reward of a Jolly Rancher. My first period group had to sketch their version of an animal with a fish head, elephant body, and spider legs. Their products were remarkably recognizable and cute, but it was the kid that drew the elephant ears behind the fish's head that bowled me over with her visual problem solving. 

The next group to do it was my class with many English language learners. They were super excited for the challenge until we pulled a card that read A princess sitting in an apple tree playing the banjo. "What is a banjo???" cried several students in dismay. Others searched up an image, and I pivoted to project a picture of a banjo on our screen before stating the timer. 

When the three minutes were up, we had a nice collection of cartoon trees,  basic apple shapes, and simple figures with crowns and giant lollipops on their laps. We all got the point across, and some of us? Learned a new vocabulary word. 

Maybe this little brain break has broader applications.

Bending the Rules

Despite the reported Christmas tree shortage, I had no plans to get my tree until next weekend. "I refuse to put up my Christmas Tree in November!" I told Heidi when she asked me why.

And yet, there we were running errands this afternoon, and everywhere we went, they were all Christmased up. Still, my plan to purchase a tree next weekend was firm, although I did want to go to Home Depot to see about some new outdoor lights. Once we there, the wreathes and the swags caught our eyes. "They were all sold out of these by the time we were shopping last year, remember?" I reminded Heidi. With some evergreenery in our cart we headed inside to check out the lights. A lot of things were sold out all ready, and finding nothing we needed, we pushed our cart through the big sliding glass door and out to the garden center. There were no outdoor lights that I had to have, but there were quite a few Christmas Trees, and they seemed to be reasonably priced.

"We don't have to put it up until next weekend," I said to Heidi, "and it's not like anybody's going to get any fresher trees." With that, we selected a nice 7 1/2 foot tree and plopped it on top of our cart. A fresh cut and some plastic mesh later we rolled through the outside cashier station and came away with a tree, a wreathe, and a window swag for less than we paid for our tree last year.

"Can I help you put that on your car?" offered a tall young man in an orange apron.

"Sure!" we agreed, and he grabbed an enormous roll of plastic wrap and followed us into the parking garage. What followed was the most curious method of securing cargo I've ever seen. He pulled a length from the roll, opened the passenger side door and tied it to the handle on the ceiling. Then he passed the roll over the tree and to me, where I handed it through the car and back to him. We literally Saran wrapped the tree to the top of our car.

And, aside from the damage to the environment that any single-use plastic inflicts, we made it home without incident. The tree is on the deck, where it will remain until we turn the page on our calendar.

Enjoying the Journey

The dogs were a little anxious this morning as we packed up our beach house and loaded the car to go home. It was pretty cold and windy, so instead of heading down to the beach for one last walk along the water we sat in the sunny living room and basked a little in the remaining warmth of our vacation. When at last it was time to go, we all trooped down the steps one last time and crossed the small parking lot to our cars. As I opened the back door for Lucy, Rosie trotted over and waited her turn to hop (or be lifted) into our back seat. 

"She did ride down here with us," Heidi noted, and it was true: Bill and Rosie road-tripped with us on Saturday because the rest of his family could not come down until Sunday.

"Do you want us to take Rosie back to Arlington?" we laughed, and with three travelers and a fully loaded car, it just made sense for Bill and Emily to take us up on the offer. And so the dogs curled up together in the backseat, Rosies chin resting on Lucy's shoulder. All the way home they snoozed and sighed an occasional satisfied sigh, almost as if they were still on holiday.

Good Clean Fun Allowed

For many years, the beach town where we are staying had the reputation as the party town of the area. Groups of young people would band together to rent beach houses and spend days roasting by the ocean and nights roasted at the bars on the strip. A few years ago, the town government passed a number of ordinances aimed at making this place a bit more family friendly. Regulations regarding the size of groups, parking, and noise have gone a long way toward taming this 

Of course, it's difficult to accurately gauge in November the level of carousing for a summer destination; not surprisingly, it's been awfully quiet around here in the week we've spent. Even so, activity and traffic have picked up over the last couple of days as the holiday weekend has approached. And tonight, as we were playing Trivial Pursuit, we heard a great ruckus outside. Several loud and excited young voices were shouting at each other on the street in front of our rental house. 

Finally, my brother stepped out on the balcony to see what was going on. He returned a moment later with the threat assessment. "They are playing tag," he reported. A little while later, the voices moved off in another direction, and we were left to enjoy our peaceful little stretch of the beach.

A Feast is Still a Feast

 Brining the turkey in... buttermilk?

Sour cream apple pie?

No scalloped oysters?

This year Thanksgiving looks a little different for us. Since we had to contend with celebrating without my sister's family and a year and a half of an unsettled public health situation and all its crappy side effects, why not shake things up a bit? 

Key phrase, "a bit"-- the other night we all laid out our must-haves, and the non-negotiables far out numbered the iconoclasms. So, there will be pumpkin pie, cranberries, rutabagas, butternut squash, spinach, brussels sprouts, stuffing, and of course mashed potatoes along with that buttermilk-brined turkey.

I'm sure it will be a wonderful meal.

Cash Economy

We headed over to the "big city" of Rehoboth Beach this afternoon to grab lunch and shop some of the stores that were open on the main street of town. At lunch, Bill and Emily and Heidi discussed their displeasure with the Christmas music that dominated the restaurant's sound system. "It's not like there is even a wide variety of songs," Heidi complained. "There are just a few, and almost everybody sings them the same way."

"They should play Ray Conniff," Bill joked. "Nothing sounds like that!"

"They do have an iconic sound," I agreed.

A little while later I was browsing through some bins of old LP records outside Gidget's Gadgets and I came across an album by none other than that incomparable chorale. The price was right, too, one buck. When I showed it to Heidi, she was not impressed however, and I did not have any cash on me. "Don't you have dollar?" I asked plaintively. "Pleeeeeaaaaase?"

"I'm looking!" she answered, sharply.

"I have a dollar if you guys need one," a helpful voice interrupted from my left. I turned to find a friendly boy of about 15, reaching into his wallet.

"Okay!" I said.

"No!" Heidi said, handing me a folded single.

"Are you sure?" the kid said.

"Yeah," I laughed, "but thanks anyway! That was really nice of you."

I was still laughing as we went inside to pay. "That guy was going to give me a dollar if we didn't have one!" 

Heidi shook her head. "Mmm hmm," she said. "That is some sad shit."

Delaware Days

Years ago, I lived in a beach town. Back then, even though I was a restless 20-something, I kind of liked the slower pace of the off-season. Nobody missed the bumper to bumper and towel to towel traffic on the roads and on the beach, and with the exception of mini-golf, I never went to the tourist traps down on the strip that were closed from September to May, anyway. It was easy to adapt to shorter hours for restaurants and other businesses, and it was nice to have the town to ourselves for a few months.

This week, we are at the beach in Delaware for Thanksgiving. Our place is on the first block from the beach, snugged between all the lights and bustle of Coastal Highway and the low dunes that protect the wide and sandy shore. At this time of year, it's very quiet here, and it's easy to forget all the commerce that is just up the street and around the corner. Easier still to forget, because so much is closed for the season or operating on limited hours.

Today was a little frustrating because it seems that the schedule around here is for many places to close on Tuesday, which seemed strange to us. When we finally found a place to have lunch (a whole two blocks away instead of one, but we still passed at least 6 places that were closed) we discussed the phenomena. "Maybe it's their day of worship around here," suggested Treat, "since it's clearly their day of rest."

"Yeah," I agreed, "maybe to them it's Sunday, Monday, Deweysday, Wednesday!"

Aptly Named

To make the best of our rainy afternoon at the beach, we decided to run a few errands and check out an outlet mall. The hour we gave ourselves to browse the deals was plenty, maybe even a bit generous, and I was empty-handed when I bumped into Treat. "There's nothing I want here," I sighed, aware of my privilege, but disappointed nevertheless. "I really want to go to that thrift store you saw across the street!"

And that's what I suggested when we all assembled a few minutes later. Our group was game, so we piled back into the car and headed over to the run-down textured concrete strip mall that must have been marvelous back in the early 80s when it was built. "Just because it's called the Treasure Chest doesn't mean it's going to be good," Treat cautioned us as we approached the shabby store front.

"I think it's going to be great!" I said, throwing any notion of managing expectations aside. "We are all going to find a treasure!"

The entryway was decorated with an assortment of holiday items, both quirky and sad. After pausing there briefly, the five of us separated to hunt around on our own. The place was not enormous at all, especially in comparison to the second hand places near us, but in the narrow furniture room my brother and I found a few mid-century early-American side tables that were eerily similar to those our parents had when we were kids. "Wouldn't it be funny if these actually were Mom and Dad's transported here by some twist of fate?" Bill said as I opened the hinged lid on one of them.

Back in the main section of the store, I found Heidi who was trying on a packable down vest from LL Bean. "That's exactly like the one I have at home!" I said. It fit perfectly, and at 20 bucks it was an amazing deal.

Meanwhile, Treat found a cream colored silk jacket that was cut somewhere in between a Members Only and plain old jean jacket, and Bill and Emily scored some cute little cocktail glasses and a jigger. Everyone was in line to pay, and although I was empty-handed, I had no regrets. Even so, I went back over to the sporting goods and tool shelf to pass the time until we left. As my eye passed over the 40 year-old jigsaw and hand sander, a flash of red caught my attention. I leaned over and pulled out a brand new bow saw. "Look at this!" I showed Treat. "It's only five dollars!" 

It fit my hand like it was made for me, and so I took my treasure over to Heidi as she approached the register, so that she could buy it for me. 

The Menu We Deserve

It was getting dark as we rolled into Rehoboth last night.  “What should we have for dinner?” I had asked my brother when we were about 30 minutes out from our ocean front destination. We exchanged ideas and settled on some kind of seafood, since it was, after all, the beach. 

“Let’s see what they have that looks good,” my brother suggested wisely, and I agreed. 

“But I do kind of want potatoes,” I told him. 

“Maybe we could do some sort of olive and garlic and tomato roasted fish on sliced potatoes,” he mused, and that’s what we were shooting for when we pulled into the seafood market a mile or so from our rental house. Inside, there was a fair selection of fresh fish in the case, and we opted for swordfish. 

As the guy behind the counter was cutting and wrapping our selection, we explored the small grocery section where we found a small container of green olives, some pesto, and a jar of puttanesca sauce. With no potatoes to be found, we opted for a bag of enormous pasta rings (called 'calamari'), but I grabbed a bag of Mediterranean herb flavored potato chips on our way to the register. 

"The flavor profile, is right," I told my brother, "and maybe we can do a little potato chip crust or topping on the fish." 

Once we got settled into our beach house, we got cooking and before too long we were dining on potato-crusted seared swordfish served on a bed of artisanal pasta with green olives and puttanesca sauce with basil green beans on the side.

Even though it was not exactly what we had planned, it was delicious, and we congratulated ourselves for preparing such a meal with limited resources. "It might have been better that what we were planning," noted my brother. 

"Having to cook with what we could find turned out great," I agreed. "What's that line from the Batman movie? They weren't the ingredients we needed, but..."

"They were the ingredients we deserved!" finished my brother.

I'd like to think so.

Options

In this hot market, homes for sale in my neighborhood come across my news and mail feeds all the time. Sometimes I click the link out of curiosity, but most of the time I scroll on past. I don't know what it was about the place I saw yesterday that made me go even farther than usual. 

It could have been the price, which seemed almost suspiciously below market, or it might have been the address, just up the hill and back into the neighborhood, or perhaps it was the size of the backyard, very spacious, or maybe the quirky style that came through in the 59 photos. 

Whatever it was, I made an appointment to meet a realtor and see the place in advance of the open houses today and tomorrow. "There's a lot of interest," she told me on the phone. "They are expecting to open offers Tuesday, and I expect it to be gone by then. Are you pre-approved?"

I was not, of course, since we're not actually in the market for a house, but she assured me she could connect me with a lender and have us pre-approved by Monday, if we "fell in love with the place."

So off we went in the middle of packing for the beach to meet her at noon. A tiny 2 bedroom bungalow had been stretched out and added onto in the most peculiar way. Both bedrooms had been turned into little offices, and the attic had been expanded to an a master suite that overlooked the kitchen like a loft. There was also a mini-loft above the added great room that housed a pinball and slot machine and opened onto the upstairs deck. 

But the decks! They were like the Swiss Family Robinson built them-- multi levels with wooden steps connecting them. At the ground floor of the house there was a sunken hot tub flanked by four seats salvaged from a baseball stadium and a tiki bar. Sliding glass doors led into a small space between the kitchen and one of the bedroom-cum-offices, and a trio of spiky potted plants hid a full-sized porcelain urinal. A hand-lettered sign read Fully plumbed! Move the washer and dryer here or maybe a butler's pantry!

After the mirrored backsplash, pressed tin ceiling in the kitchen, and cork floor, tile floor, and hardwood floor all leading off from the kitchen, I was not sorry we had come to see the place, but it was definitely a hard no.

"But you should get pre-approved!" the realtor said, so that you can move on the place you do love."

Maybe.

T'is Better

 Is it better to give or to receive? I asked the students for the question of the day. As we enter the season of gratitude and gift-giving, I was curious about where they stood. Plus, the moral of the folktale we had read together about about Anansi the Spider was What goes around comes around, and I wondered if they would make a connection.

They did not disappoint me: by a margin of 52 to 24, these kids professed a preference for giving. Though I was careful to respect either position taken and argued in good faith, I would have been dismayed if the results had gone the other way. Some of their reasoning also touched upon the theme of our story. "If you give, some people may give back to you, or even to others, and it will probably come back to you," said one young writer. "I like to be a part of that," she added.

Even the kids who said they would rather receive did not have onerous reasons. "I don't have much to give," wrote one. "Especially since I'm just a kid."

"But you can give friendship or help or volunteer time," one of his classmates reminded him.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Can I change my answer?"

Undocumented

I have a recurring dream that I am at the airport to catch some international flight and I realize that I have forgotten my passport. Beyond that, the details change: sometimes I'm trying to fly to Paris, sometimes London, sometimes other places, and I always try to make it home to get my passport, by car or taxi or even bus, but the dream changes before I do. 

Last night I had a dream where in the dream I actually dreamed I forgot my passport, and so I remembered it for the trip. I'd like to think that's progress.

I actually had a real experience that might be partially responsible for the dream. When I was in high school in Switzerland a lot of us took the 3 AM train to Zurich at the end of the fall term. The timing was right to make our mid-morning flights to the States, or Libya, or Tehran, or Algeria, or Nigeria, or, in my case, Saudi Arabia. A train full of teenagers in the middle of the night was pretty much a big party-- there was no sleeping, of course, and a lot of moving from one compartment to another, and some drinking, and we all were pretty bleary-eyed by the time the train pulled into the Zurich Bahnhof. 

I got my plane ticket and passport out and set them on the small table beneath the window in the six-seat compartment, and pulled my orange backpack from the overhead rack. Shouldering the pack, I turned and followed my friends through the sliding door, into the narrow corridor, and down the folding stairs onto the platform. It was only when I reached in my pocket for the 5 franc coin I needed to pay for the airport shuttle bus on the other side of the station that I realized what I had left behind. I waved good-bye to my friends (they had planes to catch!) and ran back to the track we had come in on, but the train was gone. 

What followed was a lot of me explaining my plight in English to people who spoke German. I finally ended up in a stuffy office within a cavernous luggage storeroom. A very stern looking man frowned at me as he punched the buttons on a putty-colored phone and held the receiver to his ear. He spoke at length, in German of course, to the person on the other end, as I fidgeted with my watch and wondered what I would do if I missed my flight home. "

Zey haff it," he told me when he hung up, "and zey are sending it on ze next train." 

"What time?" I asked him, pointing at my watch. 

"Drießig minuten" he answered.Thirty minutes.

It was tense, but I made the plane, and I had almost forgotten about the whole ordeal when we landed. My dad, who worked for the airline, used his badge to meet me on the tarmac, and as we walked toward the terminal he said, "What happened to your passport?"

I stared at him, speechless for a moment. "I left it on the train! How did you know?" I asked.

He just squeezed the back of my neck and shook his head. I was so tired, I let it drop. And to this day, I have no idea if he really knew what I had done, or if it was just a lucky vote of no confidence.

Kid Stuff

Recently I have taken to calling my students “Kid” as a casual alternative to using their given names. It is friendlier to the gender sensitive than Dude! or Girl! and for the most part they tolerate it, I think, especially since I keep my tone light and friendly. 

 “Kid!” I said today to a chatty young man, “get your assignment done! 

 “I will, Grandma,” he answered cheekily. 

“Grandma!” I said, shaking my head at this guy who borrows sporting equipment from me every day at lunch. 

He laughed, unabashed. 

“I guess you can forget about using Grandma’s football tomorrow,” I threatened. 

His eyes widened. “Sorry miss,” he apologized. 

Now that’s more like it!

Oh No! Our Table- It's Broken

 The custodian tapped on my door a few minutes ago. "Are you still having trouble with your table?" he asked.

I tilted my head in confusion. "I don't think so," I said with a frown. 

"It was this one over here," he pointed and walked toward the table by the window. "There was a note or something on it, but I accidentally wiped over it and then I couldn't see exactly what it said."

His description jogged my memory. "I think I did see a post-it over there yesterday," I told him, "but you know what? I think it was just something silly that the kids were joking about."

He jiggled the table. "Well, I tightened it up," he said, "but I wanted to make sure everything was all right. Just let me know if you ever need anything like that."

I thanked him, and as soon as he left I Googled, Oh no the table is broken, the phrase I remembered hearing some students laughing about. A ridiculous meme from 2018 popped up along with hundreds of parodies, many of them recently popular on Tik Tok, and a couple even with Squid Game theme. 

Mystery solved-- that table's been broken for years, and it's not even in our school. But I do appreciate that conscientious custodian.

A Feast for Spitters

In general, spelling is much less of a problem for students now that it was in the early days of my career. The explanation, of course, is the judicious use of the autocorrect feature on the devices we supply each student with. 

Not even 10 years ago, we had to encourage students to run spell-check, and extra step many were unwilling to take, but now their iPads give three options even as they are typing, and some students only key in a couple of letters before tapping the word they want and moving on. 

I doubt I will ever compose like that: most of the time I don't even see the words at the bottom of my screen when I'm texting; my brain filters them out as unnecessary information to bother with. I also wonder what the long-term impact will be on a person's writing who doesn't even form whole words. Maybe research will show that there is no harm at all; that it's kind of like reading all those passages with missing and transposed letters, generally pretty easy for the fluent speaker. 

But the question of fluency brings up another consideration, too. My students who are not native English speakers like to use the suggested spelling feature as they write, but they do not always do so accurately. Take today, for example. Kids were asked if they considered spiders to be good or bad and to provide three facts and some reasoning to support this mini claim. 

Spitters are bad to the bone, one writer started with animation, because they can be Venmo's.

But, countered another, they do eat misquotes.

Late Aughts

Recently the events of 2007-2009 have been intruding on our consciousness. Britney Spears' trouble with conservatorships and the like all started back then and were the subject of a podcast that Heidi was fond of listening to on road trips. Just over 10 years ago, times were different: Homeland Security and wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were dominant; iPhones and social media were only emergent; the Great Recession, President Obama, and skinny jeans were right around the corner.

And Brittany Murphy was alive. Last night we watched a documentary about the sad ending of her life in late 2008 which reminded us of nothing so much as the fragility of young woman as they face the relentless expectation of our culture. And for the final show of the night? Well, recently the creator of The Sopranos (sort of) confirmed that the famous black out was indeed the end of Tony, as many have speculated over the years, and since I was already in a late 2000s frame of mind, why not revisit Tony Soprano's swan song from 2007? 

Too Soon, Not Soon Enough

A TV show we have been watching made the optimistic choice to frame its return to production after the COVID hiatus of 2020 as "Sometime in the future when COVID is behind us." Even so, the show, which is a medical drama, portrayed in flashback what the characters and the hospital in which it set went through starting in March 2020, when a sick man who has recently traveled from Seattle infects an ER nurse, and moving on to her fight for life, even as the ER and ICU are overwhelmed.

And although the story is no more harrowing than any of the dramatized illnesses and injuries that the show depicted in the episodes before the pandemic, for me? It was too much, too soon. But the fact that when the show was produced in late 2020 and aired in early 2021, its creators were looking forward to a time in the near future without the specter or even the consequences of COVID-19, made it even more painful to watch knowing how far off they were.

I didn't realize how traumatized I still am from living through the last 20 months.

Transparency

"Do you like spending all day around kids?" one of my students asked today.

My eyebrows shot up in alarm. "Yes! Can't you tell?"

"Good point," she conceded. "Just checking."

Deciding He's Done

I asked my students yesterday to name the "best" Pixar character and give three reasons why they thought so. I have to admit that I was surprised by the outcome. The character most often mentioned was Lightning McQueen from Cars. 

McQueen garnered a lot of support from the boys, while the girls spread their arguments out over many characters. Those who wrote in favor of Lightning gave reasons like he's strong willed, he's hard working, he never gives up. Some made it personal: I'm a car guy, and he's a car, and I grew up watching him, and he's funny and fast.

And then there was the most poignant answer of all: Basically, he's my childhood, and those were happy times. 

What a world it is when 11-year-olds express such nostalgia for a childhood that by all rights should not be over yet.

Old Timers

 The lights were on and the door was open in my classroom when I arrived at school this morning. A large black tool bag sat on one of the tables, and as I entered, I could see a gray-haired man sitting behind it with the pieces of my disassembled clock laid out between him and the bag. "Yay!" I cheered. "You're here to fix the clock!"

He nodded. "You know what the funny thing was?" he asked without looking up. "I got here at 7:15 this morning, and your clock was right. I almost left, because I checked all the other rooms around you, and their clocks all said the same time. But when I got back, your clock still said 7:15, so I knew it was broken."

"Broken!" I said. "Wasn't it because of the time change?"

"Oh, no," he assured me. "The movement was totally frozen. I had a new one with me, though, so I'm replacing it right now."

"Do you think that clock is original to the building?" I asked.

"No," he said, "the original ones are like the ones that stick out of the walls in the hallways."

"Well it's pretty old," I told him, "It's been here at least since 1994."

"Yeah," he nodded. "This black plastic ring model was probably made in the early 80's."

"That makes sense;" I said thoughtfully, "that's around the time they added the walls to convert from an open-space school."

"This clock has been fixed a few times since then," he noted. "This movement I'm replacing was made in 2005. How long did you say you've been here?"

"This is year 28 in this room," I said.

"Well, I used to work for the company that makes these clocks," he continued, "and when I retired, the school system recruited me to work for them."

"How long has that been?" I asked.

"Over 15 years," he told me.

Before I could say another word, the bell rang, and kids started pouring in the room. He climbed the ladder to hang the clock back on the wall, and then packed his tools.

"Thank you," I said over the clamor of another new school day.

He nodded and left without another word.

All the Pieces

Because we use the Toy Story short film"Small Fry" as a introductory text for our character analysis and argument essay unit, I was doing a little research for supplementary materials this afternoon when I came across a whale of an argument essay written about Pixar.

Have you heard this?

Every single Pixar movie takes place in the same alternate universe, and they are all connected! This is according to "The Pixar Theory" which blogger Jon Negroni first published in long-essay format in 2013, and has since added to as new Pixar films have been released. 

Here are a couple of videos that will nicely bring you up to speed:

Pixar Easter Eggs

The Pixar Theory

As for the argument itself, the claim is spellbinding, although unquestionably debatable. The evidence is colorful and engaging, consisting of clips and characters and plot lines from Pixar movies, and the reasoning? Well the reasoning is compelling with the extra attraction of uncovering a secret, complex universe the clues to which have been hiding in plain sight all along.

I like it!

Right Twice a Day

The clock in my classroom was frozen at 7:15 this morning when I got to work. Over the years the clunky old analog system has had a little trouble adjusting to time changes in the spring and fall, but I never remember it stopping completely, and I was sure I would see the hands speed magically ahead to update. I hadn't realized how reliant I am on that good, old round school clock on the wall, but without it, here's how the day went:

7:15 Homeroom

A few oppositional kids are resisting the lesson on vaping, and as I patrol the room using proximity to keep them focused, I'm wondering how much longer until they will be dismissed. Unfortunately, it's hard to tell.

7:15 1st period

I tell the class they can have 5 minutes to copy the notes on the board and glance at the clock to start my mental timer. No dice.

7:15 still 1st period

I'm running a pair share activity and trying to gauge about how much time they will have at the end to write a paragraph with the information they have given and received, but it's a little hard to tell.

7:15 3rd period

The chat snap warm up activity seems to be running a little long; a quick glance at the clock tells me nothing.

7:15 5th period

This group came in with a lot of energy and I want to give them a couple of minutes to settle down before I raise my voice. I think I do.

7:15 still 5th period

This block is split by lunch, and I can tell that the bell will ring soon, but as I explain the concept of character analysis, I wish I knew how much time we had.

7:15 Lunch

After keeping a few kids for who knows how long to finish their notes, my colleagues join me for lunch in my room. Luckily they have their phones out and can check to see how much time we have. Even so, we are momentarily confused when there is a flurry of activity in the hallway. "Wait! They're back already?" False alarm, they were sent up a little early.

7:15 Planning Time

I re-read the email I received earlier, subject line: Classroom Clocks may be a little off, still synchronizing to time change

Please not that some clocks are still adjusting to day light savings time. Please give it 24 hours and then let me know if it's not correct.

The notion that clocks need any time to adjust let alone 24 hours seems absurd to me. I send a terse message: The clock in room 275 is still stopped.

In return I receive an equally clipped reply in all caps: GOT IT. THANK YOU.

7:15

As the sun slants in through the western facing window, I pack my things to go home.

25 for 53

If there's anyone who deserves an extra hour to her birthday this year, it's my wife Heidi, tireless champion of kids and animals alike, and a girl who never met a battle she didn't choose.

Mwahhhh!

And, never fear! I'm all buckled up for another trip around the sun with that one.

Power of the Group

Since January, I have been practicing yoga and meditation most mornings. Courtesy of my sister, I have connected with a Kundalini yogi who offers a 45-minute live session at 6 AM. After tuning in and a few warm-ups, she leads us through 20 minutes of breath work, mantra, poses, and mudras (hand movements), and then 15 minutes of meditation. It has been a positive way to start my day, and I feel lucky to have found such a good fit. Sometimes the kriyas, or routines, are a little challenging, and that's okay, too; alone in our spare bedroom (cum-office, cum-guest-room, cum-yoga-studio) I do my best and give myself grace and props just for showing up. 

That's what happened on Friday when we were challenged to hold our arms straight out, one palm up, one palm down, for 5 minutes straight. We were balancing our energy, our hands representing the sun and the moon, (or the light and the dark, or the sky and the earth, feminine and masculine, and so on-- yogi's choice of opposites!), but I confess to dropping my arms a couple of times. 

And my shoulders were still a little bit sore a couple of hours later when one of my students complained of something being hard. "You want to try something really hard?" I asked, rubbing my upper arm. "Listen to what I had to do in my yoga class this morning!"

One thing led to another, and soon my whole class was standing at their seats arms spread open wide with a three minute timer on the board. "What do we get if we can do it?" somebody asked.

"Besides balance and a sense of accomplishment?" I replied, my own arms floating above the floor. "A piece of candy, I guess."

Well! They were in! And with the exception of one student, they all accomplished the challenge. A few minutes later, with jolly ranchers slipped in their mouths behind their masks, they settled down to work, and I was amazed at how quiet, focused, and productive they were.

Right before the bell, as the class was packing up to go, one of the kids asked me if I was going to do the "mindfulness arm thing" with my other classes.

"Yes!" I answered, "because you guys were so great at it."

"But what about your arms?" he responded with concern.

"I'll be fine!" I told him, because I knew there was no way I was going to drop my arms in front of the class. And by the end of the third time I did it? I knew that I could easily go for two more minutes.

Literally No Headache

"Did I really give you a headache?" one of my students asked this morning.

I looked at her confused. "What do you mean?"

"When I said reading so much was giving me a headache, you said my complaining was giving you a headache."

I had forgotten our exchange in homeroom earlier in the day. "No," I told her, "it wasn't a real headache; it was metaphorical, like yours."

"What does that mean?" she asked in alarm.

"Your headache wasn't real," I explained. "You were comparing the feeling of doing something you really didn't want to do, in this case reading, to having headache."

She shifted her eyes away.

"And I was doing the same," I admitted. "I really didn't want to hear you complain about something that wasn't real."

What I was saying was not a surprise to her; she knew what I meant in homeroom, but she was put out by my tone. When I was thinking about it later, though, I realized that her reaction was part of a pattern. The kids this year seem more fragile than in the past, less able to take negative feedback, whether it is constructive or not. 

Maybe it's because before this year started, the last time they were in a regular classroom was 4th grade, when they were nine. Middle school? Is a whole different dynamic; we expect the kids to have a bit of a thicker skin. 

But they don't right now, so I'm going to have to be more mindful of my sharp tongue (at least for a while).

The Zillion of Lights

We laughed a little last year when the proposed school calendar included a day off in observance of Diwali. Maybe it seemed a little over-responsive, but who were we to turn down a day off? 

Yesterday, though, one of our homeroom activities was to watch a short video explaining the holiday to students and, in my case, staff, too. I knew it was a festival of light, but I was genuinely moved by the symbolism and beliefs behind the celebration. 

"Diwali tells us we will make it through these dark times by our internal light," said one of the narrators. 

"It's a reminder that you must nourish your own inner flame," said another. "Diwali is a symbol of hope for humankind. May it bring universal compassion, inner joy of peace, love and awareness and unity to us all."

Joy, radiance, acknowledging the sweetness of life, the triumph of light over darkness, and letting bygones be bygones? I'm in! 

And, how, just how, have I missed Diwali until now?

I May Know a Thing or Two about Writing

In sixth grade English, the first assignment of the quarter is always a reflection on the writing done in the weeks behind us. In order to help the young writers analyze their own writing critically, I take some time to give them my own perspective on areas of strength and places to improve. I put my observations in writing on the comments of their last summative assignment of the quarter, and I invite them to consider my perspective when forming their own evaluations. 

Some do, some don't. A few are actually very perceptive and take the time to offer evidence and reasoning, without prompting, to support their judgments. And it's a good thing they do, because they will be assessed on their analysis. 

One particularly serious student shook her head in wonder this morning as she reviewed her writing. "I think I'm going to get a better grade on my reflection about my writing than I got on my actual writing!" she marveled.

"That's a good step toward better writing in the future!" I told her. "What's your goal going into the second quarter?"

"I'm going to dig deeper and find more meaningful topics!" she declared.

I smiled. That's just what I suggested.

Doctor My Eyes

I took the car in to get it serviced today, and so I had a couple hours in the waiting room. I brought my laptop and graded essays as I sat there, but the TVs on the walls were a little distracting. To my right, a line up of game shows filled the screen, subsiding to soap operas in the afternoon. To my left, it was cable news and entertainment shows.

When I was a kid, daytime TV was targeted at stay-at-home moms, and the ads were full of sparkling kitchens, wholesome food, clear skin, clean laundry, and cute kids. Now it seems like most of the people watching are those who are interested in Medicare supplements, cheap life insurance, and easy to use "Smart" phones. And the contestants competing for the showcases, new cars, and cash are not the fun, excited folks I remember from summers on the couch, but rather desperate, manic people trying way to hard for a windfall.

Or is it me?

The Political is Personal

In advance of election day tomorrow, we had a voting activity today in homeroom. "I don't care about politics!" an eleven-year-old sneered, and I sighed and readied myself for argument. To be honest, his attitude is not uncommon and never has been over the many years I've been teaching. 

And it's hardly a surprise, either. In the last 50 years, voter turnout in the US in presidential election years has been below 60%, and a little under 67% of eligible voters was considered a record in the 2020 presidential election. Here in our little county, (inside the Beltway, mind you) the turnout in 2020 was 79%, a bit below the 82% in 2016. But in an off-year like our gubernatorial race always is? It's only somewhere between 40 and 49 percent of the electorate in Virginia who participate.

Civic engagement can be fostered by schools, but ideally it begins at home, because although there aren't many issues that directly affect middle school students, the same cannot be said for their parents. A little dinnertime discussion about the issues would go a long way in sparking the interest of kids in elections. 

Even so, the roadblock that I often find myself up against when trying to instill the notion that it is important for all of us to pay attention to the issues and the candidates as best we can was removed today. 

"Remember when COVID started and all the schools were closed from March to June?" I asked the student who didn't care about politics. He nodded and so did everyone else. "You know who made the decision to do that? The governor. The same person some people don't think is important enough to vote for." 

I saw by their expressions that I had personalized the election for them. 

"Who are you going to vote for?" someone asked.

"I can't say," I answered. "Go ahead and vote for the candidates you think would do a good job. "

"I hate this guy's commercials!" someone laughed pointing at a name on the mock ballot.

"Oh yeah," I nodded. "My sister went to high school with him."

The class was incredulous.

"Is she going to vote for him?" a student asked, wide-eyed.

"She doesn't live in Virginia," I told them, "but if she did? She would never vote for the guy."

They gasped. "She knows him and she wouldn't vote for him?" somebody shook his head. "He must be pretty bad."

When the Spirit is Willing

For a number of reasons (no trick-or-treaters, no time, no interest) it's been a while since I've carved a pumpkin. A couple of weeks ago, I resolved that this year would end the drought, but to be honest, I've made and broken that promise to myself before. Even so, last night at around 5:30, when dinner was warming in the oven, and we were waiting for our neighbors to join us for our annual Halloween Light Crawl, it seemed like the perfect time to bring that big ol' pumpkin in off the porch and carve a proper jack o'lantern. 

It occurred to me then that I needed the right tools for the job, and I started with a Sharpie and an idea. Next came the utility knife-- the razor gave me more control of cutting than any implement I've used before. Once I had incised my design on the front, I took my keyhole saw and opened the pumpkin at the top. The insides were far stringier than I remembered, more like a spaghetti squash than a pumpkin, and I started excavating them with a big kitchen spoon like my dad used to use for the job. 

It quickly became clear that an implement with a shorter handle would give me the leverage I needed, and I tried first a rice spoon and then a scraper that fit in the palm of my hand. This last was a champ, and I soon had the insides down to a smooth shell. Then it was back to the saw to cut the eyes, nose, and mouth all the way through. A votive on the bottom, and before you could say oogie boogie, my jack o'lantern was lit and on the stoop. 

Later, as we strolled through the neighborhood admiring lights and decorations (but so many fewer than last year-- the stay at home orders really inspired folks last year, and we may never see that level of holiday decor around here again), I noticed how few real pumpkin jack o'lanterns there were. "It's a lot of work to make a real one!" my neighbor said when I voiced my observation.

"I guess you just have to be in the right mood," I agreed.

What Scares You?

In the spirit of Halloween, I asked students to share something they were afraid of. As always, their answers were a combination of predictable, cute, off-beat, and alarming. 

In addition to bugs and spiders, snakes and worms, death and the dark, jellyfish, sharks, roller coasters, heights, clowns and dolls, and their parents when they were mad, these sixth graders were also afraid of disqualifying in swim meets, having a worthless, boring life, how the universe goes on forever, the word 'moist', loneliness, no one loving them for who they are, and me (but I'm pretty sure that was a joke).

Another choice of activity for the day was to write a scary story, with the provision that it had to be appropriate for school. As she was working, one of the students raised her hand and asked if it was okay to have sex in her story.

"You want to have sex in your story?" I asked incredulously.

"IN-sects!" she corrected me with a gasp.

"Oh!" I said with a laugh. "Sure, why not? Bugs are fine! Definitely no sex, though." I wagged my finger and laughed some more.

She was not as amused as I was, though. "Ew, Ms. S," she wrinkled her nose, "just ew."

Maybe I should be afraid of losing my hearing!

Age Related

I was on the fence about dressing up for Halloween this year. I had a few options, but when it came down to it this morning, nothing really seemed right. It was just as well anyway-- at 6:45 am our friend Lauren was in the bathroom with Heidi working on the make up for her magnificent Maleficent incarnation. That being the case, I grabbed a pair of jeans, a turtleneck, some short boots, and a new sweater I bought last weekend and went over to the spare room to get dressed. 

The day was damp and gray, and I was looking forward to wearing the calf-length gray cardigan, despite the fact that Heidi had told me it was a little "old ladyish". Truth be told, I was drawn to all the long sweaters on display because they reminded me a bit of my mom, but I also thought that this particular sweater looked good on me. As it was, I was dressed and ready for some time before Heidi and Lauren finally came down the stairs. Heidi looked amazing, and I said so as I rose to go to school. 

"You're not wearing a costume?" Lauren asked.

"Yeah, I am!" I replied. "I'm going as an old lady."

I was only half joking. Last night I ran to the grocery store after a busy afternoon. After school I had walked up to the garden and worked for an hour before walking on to the house where we pick up our CSA. Loaded down with about 10 pounds of produce, I made the return trip home, and then hopped in the car to run to the store before cooking dinner. At the grocery, I filled a hand basket and quickly scanned my purchases at self-check. My four bags were ready to go when I called the attendant over. 

"I have a coupon and some beer," I told her. 

She took my coupon, but waved my ID aside. "I don't need to see that!" she assured me. "Let's make sure you get this discount, too!" she said and scanned a barcode she pulled from her pocket. 

"Thanks!" I replied and pulled the little wallet attachment off my phone to pay. My stomach twisted when I saw nothing but my driver's license and shopper's card in there. I remembered giving my credit card to Heidi the day before so she could return something, and I knew for certain that right now? I had no way of paying for my groceries.

"I'm in kind of a bind here," I confessed with more than a little embarrassment to the attendant once she returned. 

We went through my options, and she kindly agreed to take my groceries to customer service while I went to get my credit card. "You won't have to check out again," she assured me, and I dashed down to my car and sped home.

When I returned to the store about 15 minutes later, she waved as I passed and motioned to the customer service desk. But the manager there couldn't find a receipt, and it turned out that the kiosk I had used was out of paper, so they opened a register for me, and a cashier began unbagging, scanning, and rebagging my stuff. 

"I had a 10 dollar coupon," I told her, "is there any way I can get that applied again?"

She called the helpful lady over, and she brought my coupon and apologized that I had to be rung out again.

I thanked her again for all her help, and she turned to go back to her own station.

"Oh, and don't forget," she said over her shoulder to her coworker, "she gets the senior discount!"

A Wing and a Plan

I looked up from the announcements when there was a soft thump on the window during homeroom this morning. A puff of tiny feathers stuck to the glass and a cloud of the same floated, suspended on the air beyond. 

"That was a bird!" cried one of the students as the rest of us sat stunned. 

I went over to the window to see if I could triage the situation, but the sheer angle of the wall made it impossible to see anything. Still, it was all we could talk about, and a little while later, when some other birds attracted my attention, I told my first period class about it. Then I picked up the old binoculars I have sitting on the sill and focused on the roofline of the other school across the way.

"Wait!" one of the students said in astonishment, "are you actually using those binoculars to look at birds?"

"It's what they're here for," I shrugged.

"We should totally have a bird-watching club!" the student responded.

"Really?" I turned. "Would you be interested in that?" 

Several kids said that they would. "It should be Monday," one suggested, "because there aren't many clubs meeting then."

"Maybe we could get a grant for binoculars and field guides," I mused, surprised and a little excited by their enthusiasm.

"I'd love to draw birds," said the first student so wistfully it tugged my heart a little.

"Ms. M likes to photograph birds," another student reported, mentioning the science teacher. "Maybe she would teach us how to do that."

"We could ask her," I said, the tiny millet seed of an idea sprouting and taking root. I imagined Mondays spent walking through campus, starting with basic identification of common birds, maybe putting up some feeders, checking off our sightings, moving on to learning about migratory birds and their patterns.

"This is a good idea!" I clapped. "Let's see what we can do!"

Press 6 for Fresh Air and Chubby Cheeks

 There has been a professional difference of opinion around school lately as to whether the kids should *ever* be able to use their phones during the instructional day. It is our long-standing policy that phones should be powered off and put away from bell to bell, but times have changed, and attitudes have, too. 

Some of our staff feel quite strongly that it is unreasonable to ask students, especially 8th graders, to give up their phones for the whole day. These teachers point out that there are valid instructional uses of the devices, as well as the opportunity to use them as incentives and breaks as we all navigate our return to both full-time school and block scheduling. They mention that some parents, too, want to be able to reach their students during the day.

Those on the other side of the debate feel that phones are nothing but a distraction at best and opportunity for mischief and malice at worst. They remind us that our district provides each student with a device to use in school, and so phones are technically not necessary. And in the event of family emergency, they say, every classroom has a phone, and parents can call the main office at any time to reach their student.

There seems to be a generational divide on the issue. Younger teachers who have grown up with phones themselves are more likely to favor a more flexible policy. In high school, students are allowed to have their phones and use them at the discretion of the teacher, so why not have a rule more closely aligned to that one?

Older teachers seem to value consistency, especially when it comes to undercutting student resistance to any rules they don't like. They are more comfortable operating in loco parentis and setting unpopular boundaries in support of what they feel are the kids' best interest. What 11-14 year old can resist the buzz of a text?

It is a dilemma indeed, and in the midst of this disagreement the sixth grade planned a mini-field day activity for our students on early-release day today. After a quick review with administration of some school rules that have slipped a bit (phones included-- our policy still stands, for now), kids headed out into the cool morning and played a variety of old-fashioned games, then had some free time to socialize and play some more with all of their sixth grade peers. 

Because we were outside, masks were optional, and it was a wonder to see some of the sixth graders I've come to know over the last 2 months from the nose down for the first time. Another teacher and I stood marveling at their baby faces. 

"It's so weird!" she said.

"I know," I agreed, "but I sure could get used to it!"

Version of Events

As an extension to the personal narrative assignment we offered writers a chance to create a graphic version of their stories using an online app. The results have been charming-- kids are so visual and so technology-savvy, and I have thoroughly enjoyed reading the distillations of their memoirs. 

I especially got a kick out of one that featured me, in avatar form:

I feel so seen!

Bring on the Rain

 My watch buzzed as we were stepping out the door for our walk to pick up Lucy. Rain starting soon in Arlington, VA, it warned. 

"Should we drive?" I asked Heidi.

"We need the walk," she reminded me. "I'm going to bring an umbrella."

"I'm going to wear a hat," I said. "I don't care if I get a little wet. I"ll shower when we get home."

And off we went: down the winding steps, across the condo complex at the bottom of the hill, left at the corner, jaywalking (or jogging) across Walter Reed, down the bike path, up the winding hill, through the high school campus, across George Mason, around the corner, and up the street.

We heard the first rumbles of thunder a mile and a half in as we made our last turn. "I didn't see anything about thunder!" I said to Heidi. "Because that might have changed my mind."

"No kidding," she nodded as we climbed the steps to get Lucy.

"Do you guys want a ride home?" Sarah, our dog walker offered.

"Do we?" I asked Heidi.

"We need the walk," she reminded me again, and we quickly leashed up Lucy to head home.

"Call me if you need to," Sarah said helpfully.

We were just past the stadium, which had been full of athletes practicing three different sports on our way, but was now deserted when the wind almost turned Heidi's umbrella inside out and the skies opened. "Run for the snack bar!" I shouted over the storm, before my hat blew off and I had to reverse course to retrieve it.

We were both soaked by the time we got to the covered space. "I think it's going to let up soon," I said, pointing to the noticeably lighter sky to the southwest. 

We stood dripping for a while, but just when we were about to call for help, the torrential rain turned to a very manageable downpour. "Let's go!" I said, and out we stepped into the rain. 

Heidi's umbrella was fully protective, and my hat? Well, it stayed on my head, and to be honest I didn't care that I was wet. The wind was fresh and the rain was too.