C is for Cooking

I don't know why people think cooking is hard. I love to cook--you just get your ingredients and slice, chop, dice, toss, saute, grill, bake, season, marinate, dress, flambe, and/or sauce them, put them on the plate or in the bowl, grab a fork, spoon, knife and then enjoy. What could be hard about that?

Now writing on the other hand... that's hard!

Life lesson: When the going gets tough, the tough sit down and have a nice meal.

M is for Milkweed

When I was a kid we used to call the silky puff balls that would occasionally float by on the wind "wish bugs." We believed that if you caught one, you could make a wish on it and then blow it gently back into the sky. Your wish would come true as long as it didn't land on the ground.

Later I found out that those silky little parachutes are part of the milkweed plant and worked just as the puffs on a dandelion do to carry the seeds. But even now I still feel a strong impulse to chase after any wish bugs I might see, despite the fact that I'm pretty sure most of them end up on the ground, especially since that's what they are meant to do.

There's a poem called The Milkweed by Richard Wilbur that I really like:

Anonymous as cherubs
over the crib of God
white seeds are floating
out of my burst pod.

What power had I
before I learned to yield?
Shatter me, great wind:
I shall possess the field.

I love this poem because of the second stanza. The idea that sometimes you have to yield or bend to be successful is something that I find easy to forget. I also like the image of all the milkweed seeds floating over the field: it makes me think of teaching. The seeds are our students going off into the world in all different directions, and even though we might not know where they land, they "shall possess the field."

Life Lesson: Sometimes you have to yield to be successful.

Y is for Yeah, I've Got That

"The table is squeaking!" three girls in my first period class complained this morning.

"Keep writing," I told them, "I'll fix it when the timer goes off." To be honest, after seventeen years in my classroom with these ancient tables, I rarely notice the annoying ee-ee ee-ee ee-ee anymore. Soon, the beep beep beep beep of the timer broke the quiet. Everyone shared the title of the Alphabiography chapter they were working on, and then I told them it was time to go back to writing. I brandished the timer. "Ready?"

"Um? The table?" one of the girls reminded me.

See? I don't even hear it, but I opened a metal cabinet and got out my can of WD40 and affixed the red plastic straw. I gave the metal plates where the legs are screwed into the wooden table top a couple of quick squirts, and the irritating squeak was gone. "And now back to your writing!"

The time that I've been in my classroom is longer than I've lived in any house, and to say that I'm settled in would be an understatement. Over the years, I've collected almost anything I might need in most imaginable situations, this in addition to the usual trove of school supplies. The WD40 is a good example, but last year when I had to pack up everything and move out of my room for two months because they were renovating the building, I had the chance to inventory what I have:

spare socks
a screw driver
an electric tea kettle
lotion
hand sanitizer
several rolls of duct tape
static guard
a lint roller
thank you notes
plastic knives, forks, and spoons
band aids
air freshener
a can opener
batteries
nail clippers
a flashlight
antacids
aspirin
a new toothbrush
toothpaste
dental floss
eye glass repair kit
glasses cleaners
latex gloves
needle and thread
saline solution
spare contact case
paper cups
napkins
paper plates
plastic table cloth
cough drops
tic tacs
tissues
pencil lead (three sizes)
a large supply of chocolate
a bag of dum dum pops
pliers
allen wrench set
dream catcher
corn husk doll
gavel
and a magnetic felt figure of myself

This is only a partial list, and my co-workers know it. They all come to me sometime and ask the same question: "Tracey do you have...?"

Life Lesson: There's no such thing as being too prepared.

Z is for Zoo

On a warm sunny afternoon the laughter of children fills the air as they excitedly run from one exhibit to the next. I want to see the lions! I love the gorillas! Let's go to the elephants next! But there is an unseen cloud overshadowing this seemingly perfect day-- in my opinion, the zoo is nothing more than a prison for animals.

"But I love the zoo!" you might say, and sure, some people also say that zoos conduct valuable research and protect endangered animals, but that doesn't necessarily benefit the animals that are actually stuck in the zoo. How would you like to be the individual forced to suffer for the good of your species?

The gorilla house is a perfect example. Anyone with a shred of empathy can see that those great apes are miserable. And why shouldn't they be? Think of how they live-- trapped in a small, glass-enclosed space where not only is there very little to do, but hundreds of people gawk at them every day.

And what about the elephants? In the wild an adult elephant might walk up to 40 miles a day, but at the zoo they spend their time in a space smaller than a soccer field. This unnatural confinement causes foot problems and arthritis in many older elephants, as well as other health problems that can lead to their early deaths.

While there may be some animals whose needs can be more appropriately met by the zoo, I would still argue that these individuals would be better off if allowed to live their natural lives in their native habitats.

Life Lesson: It's wrong to sacrifice an animal's quality of life for our entertainment.

9 is for 9 Lives

One of our cats is almost 18 years old. His name is Bingo, and he has had quite a life. Besides the hundreds of mice and birds he's stalked and killed, he's been hit by a car, overcome diabetes, coughed up a two foot piece of grass, nearly died twice, and caught a bird right through the second story window screen. (Yes, through the screen!)

In his glory days he weighed sixteen pounds, but now, at 17 and 3/4, he's super skinny and feels as hollow as a little bird when you pick him up. His long hair sticks out all crazy, too, like the old dude he is, but he hasn't lost any of his spirit. Long ago, Heidi told him he wasn't allowed to die, and it seems like he took those words verrrrry seriously. Every day, he eats like a horse and he can still jump up on the counter to find more food. His favorites are waffles and green beans. In fact, he was pestering me tonight (actually climbing up my leg in the kitchen!) as I cooked dinner, and why? Because I was fixing beans.

Life Lesson: Go for it every single day!

S is for Substitute

Why is that kids always misbehave for a substitute? I remember when I was in school and our teacher was out-- the kids in my class turned into people I barely knew. The day was always full of chaos and I soon came to dread the sight of some strange adult sitting at our teacher's desk on any given morning.

Once when I was in fourth grade, we had a substitute. As usual, my classmates were like the rabid zombie versions of themselves, but I just kept my head down and tried to get through the day. Right before the bell was going to ring, the sub asked me and the girl who sat next to me to come over to the teacher's desk. She seemed frazzled and annoyed, and I was sympathetic-- the kids had been awful to her. She frowned and held up our spelling tests: both were 100%. "I do not believe that these were written by two people!" she accused us. "Look at that handwriting! It is exactly the same. You obviously both cheated!"

We were stunned. First of all, our penmanship was not that similar. Secondly, we got A's on spelling all the time. We tried to tell her that, but she didn't believe us. She scolded us in front of the class until the bell rang and we could go. I felt humiliated and angry.

When our teacher came back, she knew we hadn't cheated. She recognized our writing and she knew us well enough to know that cheating wasn't our thing. She shrugged it off as no big deal,  but that didn't really make it any better.

For a long time, I was mad at the substitute, but now I don't think it was really her fault. She didn't trust us because most of the students she tried to teach did not behave in such a way to earn her respect. If I wanted to hold a grudge,  I should have blamed the other kids.

Life Lesson: Hey! Students! Leave that sub alone!

H is for Hoe

After one year, I would not say that I am an experienced gardener, and lately, when I have driven by our community plot and seen how the weeds have done their best to take it back, I almost want to give up. Enter the hoe. A little internet research convinced me that this tool should be my best friend, and today it was. I found the sharpest one in the shed, and just as I had read, I let the hoe do the work, swinging it lightly at the tangle of weeds aiming just a fraction of an inch below the surface. Soon I had piles of weeds strategically located all throughout the garden. We scooped them into those big brown paper gardening bags, taking care not to overfill them. After three and a half hours of chopping weeds, though, my forearms were shot, and carrying the bags to the curbside was out of the question. Enter the wheelbarrow...

Life Lesson: There's a tool for that... use it!