Not SAD at All

I heard earlier this week that there is a counterpart to seasonal affect disorder. Some people grow restless when the days lengthen and warm; they prefer the the slanting sun and long nights of winter. I recognized myself in this description and felt a little validated. I have always felt a little out of a place in our sun-worshipping culture.

I didn't realize how I have missed the crows until this evening their raucous cries filtered in through the windows. I stepped outside and looked up at the dark silhouettes shifting and darting through the deep purple gloam. Brisk air filled my lungs; it was not yet 5:00, but the sun had set. I was exhilarated.

24 Little Hours

Yesterday was Heidi's birthday and I think she had a good one. She was showered with birthday love at home, and via mail, text, Facebook, and FaceTime.

One of her more goofy qualities is a total lack of time awareness. Oh, it can be a bit contentious when we're constantly running late, but it can be endearing, too. "How old am I?" she asked me in the morning.

"46," I told her.

She shook her head in surprise. "I could have sworn I was 45."

"You were," I assured her, "yesterday!"

Miller, Mann, and Edmunds

We saw Christopher Nolan's latest movie today, Interstellar. At 168 minutes, the concepts of gravity and time took on an authentic meaning, especially if you ask my butt. I really wanted to love it, too, but I came away with a jumble of feelings, among them being a bit dismissive of the paradox at the heart of the movie. Still, when I got home and clicked on a few reviews, I read that they filmed on location in the harsh landscape of Iceland. It was then that I realized that where they actually were never crossed my mind as I was watching; to me it was another planet. I guess I was pretty engaged, after all.

Like a Month Without an R

Sometimes I wonder if Josh even recognizes the people he lives with. Up until now, for his whole life, the only time he has ever spent with us has been during the summer and on weekends when we were off from school and focused on one of our favorite house guests. Where are those care-free people who fill their days with swimming, hiking, movie marathons, board games, road trips, and camp?

Those are always some fun times, and they must stand in stark contrast to these 7 AM to 6 PM days where dinner and a single hour of TV precede bedtime. Certainly, a bit of crankiness here and there is unavoidable. Fortunately, our good-natured boy seems to roll with it, especially since he is busy with other things, too.

And on those days when we all take a break, to go to the mountains, or to celebrate Heidi's birthday, we pick up the fun right where we left it.

An Observation

I don't think they really got me.

Tuition Check

We were talking with a younger colleague last evening before leaving school. This particular teacher was also a student at our school, back in the day, and although I did not teach her, I was a teacher there. "What year were you in sixth grade?" I asked her to remind me, and when she did, a litany of names rushed out. She smiled at each, remembering her friends and classmates.

Today it came up in conversation that another colleague was born in 1984, so she was in sixth grade the third year I taught it. It was funny comparing her with those kids then, and wondering what sort of adults they had become.

And so it goes, more and more frequently lately. My dental hygienist? She was in sixth grade fourteen years ago. The checker at the grocery? Maybe five. All those kids I've taught are making their way in the world... they are becoming the world.

Thank goodness their teachers did a good job.

A Secret Life

Dinner was finishing all on its own, and I was relaxing by the early November fire when an insistent buzzing drew my attention away from the Urban Farmer magazine on my lap. (I know, I know, I read it for the articles.) I considered ignoring the sound; a single housefly would not last 24 hours before perishing, but the drone became more frantic as the creature flew back and forth from the kitchen to the lamp over my shoulder.

Something there was about this buzz that made me think it could be no ordinary pest, and when I turned to examine it as bumped against the light shade, I saw that I was right. It was a honeybee. Perhaps she had hitched a ride on the last of the zinnias I had cut from the garden earlier, or maybe she was hidden in the tangled twists of the rosemary log we brought home for the fireplace. Whatever the case, the cold dark night beyond the window panes held no attraction for this tiny soul; all she wanted was the light and warmth of the bulb behind me, even though it held no real satisfaction for her.

Into the kitchen I went to fetch a plastic cup. The rounded form of the lampshade proved to be quite a challenge as I tried to capture the errant bee: there was no flat surface to trap her against. Soon she began to tire of eluding me, and she slowed but never quit. "Come here Sweetie," I whispered. After a couple of near misses, at last she paused long enough that a quick flick on the other side of the shade dropped her into my cup.

It was the copy of Urban Farmer itself that I used as a lid to keep her safely inside until I could open the front door. It was cold, yes, and she hesitated a moment and then flew back toward the door before finally heading off into the night.

I knew she could find her way back to the warmth of her sisters.