Count on Buffalo

And...

cue the snow:

Merry Christmas everyone!

Essential Switch

Perhaps I posted too soon yesterday. Not ten minutes after I hit Publish, the generator whined to a stop, abandoning us in the midwinter murk of 3 PM. I was the first to notice that the other half of the house was powered on, the "non-essentials," but the limited power we had been enjoying, boasting about even, had vanished.

Of course we adapted. Bright lights flooded the rooms that had been abandoned all day, and baking became a possibility, although we had to move lamps into the kitchen to cook. It didn't take long for us to miss the heat, though, and we were relieved when the electrician agreed to come out on a Sunday.

The problem was a tiny spring. Meant to flip the switch from generator to utility, there wasn't enough bounce in the coil to do so, and so while the generator shut down because there was power, those so-called essential circuits stayed stayed closed, waiting for their very own generator juice.

The electrician was able to reset the power so that the whole house was humming, and should there be another outage, the generator will kick on. Once the power's back, though, the essentials will be shut down again, all for the want of a wee bit of spring in the winter...

(which, is under warranty and should be repaired by Friday.)

Some Say in Ice

I confess that I only listened with half an ear at Thanksgiving to Heidi's dad telling me all about the new generator they bought. I caught something about expensive rewiring and an upgrade to the main panel, and I thought it was interesting that it runs on the natural gas already piped into their home.

This morning the details became much more relevant to me. We knew something was wrong when the overhead lights in our room wouldn't work. The wall outlets were fine, though. Once upstairs, we saw a world encased in ice and heard a steady droning out in the yard.

It didn't take long to figure out that the circuits had been prioritized for the generator-- not everything was on, but the refrigerators, the heat, the hot water, the sump pump, and the internet (yes!) were all operational. It took a bit of trial and error and an extension cord or two, but soon I made coffee and sat at the table admiring the treacherous beauty glistening just outside the windows.

Six hours later, the ice is mostly melted, but the power is still out with not even an estimated time frame for restoration. The generator is humming away, though, we're all safe and warm, and it's nowhere near the end of the world.

Clean Finish

It is a lovely tradition to bring a host or hostess gift to a household when visiting. Likewise, it is exceptionally thoughtful to bring back a small token of appreciation to the folks who have fed your cat, watered your plants, picked up your mail, etc., while you were away.

Over the years we have both given and received many such niceties-- wine, cocktail napkins, candles, flowers, and so forth, but a few years ago, I realized that we had accumulated quite a stockpile of soap as a result of this practice. At that point, we must have had well over a dozen bars of very high quality, artisanal soaps of so many shapes and fragrances that we were running out of places to keep them. It was on that day that I vowed never to buy another bar of soap until we had used up every single one we already owned.

I have been fastidious in my determination to use that soap, but it hasn't been easy. In addition to sheer quantity, the fact is that far from being some fast-dissolving down-the-drain detergent, that kind of soap is made to last. Some bars have literally lingered for months in the shower, even with daily use. 

Today as we prepared for our trip to Buffalo, I asked Heidi to grab a new bar rather than pack the wet one that is currently in use, but much to our astonishment there was none to grab; we had finally exhausted our soap supply.

What will we ever do without it?

Holiday Swag

Our school system is considering imposing a limit on teacher gifts. The current proposal will set a cap at one hundred dollars per family, per teacher, per year.

I have to laugh at that. I have written before about the disparity in socioeconomic status in our tiny county, and I have also explained that our school lies on the boundary of million dollar homes and affordable housing, drawing from both types of neighborhoods. I have certainly received my fair share of gifts over the years, and I treasure the appreciation they have expressed, but nothing has ever come close to a hundred bucks. (It's fair to point out that the same can not be said for some teachers at other schools in our district.)

Just today, the assortment of wrapped packages and cards on my desk drew many envious comments from students, and I laughed and shrugged them off for what they were-- the wishes of children at Christmas. At the end of the day, when everything was unwrapped, logged for thank-you notes, and packed neatly into a bag to take home, I had received a candy cane, a loaf of pumpkin bread, hand lotion, shower gel, hot cocoa mix, scented soap, four chocolates, a jolly rancher, and a Starbucks card.

Actual value? Thirty dollars?

(You know what's coming next...)

Making meaningful connections with kids and families every day? Priceless.

Oh No he Didn't!

I ran out this afternoon to have my car serviced before our big road trip to Buffalo on Saturday morning. I took some papers to grade and hoped that it was enough of an off time so I could make it back to school for writing club at 2:30.

I was in luck. There were only a couple of cars ahead of me, and I took my place in the waiting room ready to get a little work done. The flat screen television on the wall was tuned to some channel showing a TV movie that, judging from Christine Lahti's hair and clothes (not to mention Alison Pill's age) looked to be about ten years old, and although I tried to ignore it and read the student letters I'd brought along, the melodrama unfolding drew my attention.

The woman across from me was watching it, too, in between emails and texts. Just when I was thinking I should find the movie to rent or stream,  a draft of cool air announced another customer. The man entering looked briefly around and then chose the seat next to her. He glanced at the TV as he sat down. "You seen this movie before?" he asked.

She shook her head no.

"Oh, it's a terrible story," he told her. "Her husband is a pilot who's living two lives. He has a whole other family in England, and the other wife is a terrorist who put a bomb in his suitcase, but you don't know that until the end."

AND... back to grading those papers.

If I Had a Hammer

The word "tool," used pejoratively, has never been in my vocabulary. Sure, I've heard it, and of course I know what it means, but it was just never an epithet I felt I needed.

Something I read today, however, totally changed my mind. It was an article about, what else? the current state of teaching and education in the United States, and although it was a couple years old, it did a good job expressing some of the discontent that I, too, feel:

We spurn real teachers—those with the capacity to inspire children to think, those who help the young discover their gifts and potential—and replace them with instructors who teach to narrow, standardized tests. These instructors obey. They teach children to obey.

Yeah. They're tools.