Contrary

Something there is in me that wants to greet Black Friday with raised fist and resistance. It has long been my goal to not spend even a single cent on this, the most materialistic day of all. But dinner with friends and family has almost just as long blockaded me-- there was always fresh bread and salad greens to be purchased.

This year was promising-- a kind invitation to brunch and a bit of early holiday fatigue put leftovers on the menu tonight, but then I opened my email, and damn! There was a deal I couldn't? didn't? pass up.

Thanksgiving

I was the first one up this morning, and the neighborhood was still when I took Lucy for her first out. Later there would be parades and pies, wine and gravy and dear family, but now the sun filtered through the tall trees to the east turning the frosty air golden. High above my head a messy vee of geese honked through the clear blue, and even as my day began, the breath caught in my throat and gratitude filled my heart. 

Never Have I Ever

A couple of weeks ago, when I was on vacation, feeling relaxed, and everything seemed possible, I read an article that recommended brining my thanksgiving turkey. The technique has been popular with certain foodies for decades, but I had never given it a try. “I’m going to brine the turkey this year!” I announced to all within earshot, and so a plan was hatched.

Flash forward a weekend and an article in the NYTimes which made the case that brining was useless and dead. My resolve crumbled a bit at the edges, but I understand that intelligent cooks can disagree, and brining was still on the agenda.

“Are you doing anything fancy with the turkey?” My brother asked last night, and we launched into another conversation about the pros and cons and logistics of brining.

“Despite the recent turn about, people who have been doing it for years are committed,” I cited the article.

“Of course,” my brother agreed. “It’s their tradition, now.”

And that pretty much settled it for me. Perhaps Thanksgiving is not really the time to try something new.

Useless Knowledge

Back in the late 90s and early aughts I made a concerted effort to reacquaint myself with early adolescent culture. I had been teaching sixth grade for a few years, and I realized how out of touch I was, so I learned all the Spice Girls (Sporty, Baby, Scary, Ginger, and Posh) and the chorus of "Lose Yourself" by Eminem. I also taught myself to recognize all the members of The Backstreet Boys by name, face, and voice.

Over the years, all of these skills and knowledge have become less useful; not much evolves more quickly than middle school popularity. Imagine my delight this morning, then, when at our Pre-Thanksgiving Hot Chocolate Dance Party, my homeroom students requested not only the new Backstreet Boys single, but also the golden oldie, "Ain't Nothin but a Heartache".

You can bet I busted out my mad BSB skillz. "That's Nick!" I declared as the opening notes of the song floated from the speaker, "That's Kevin, then Brian, Howie, and AJ." I should have left it at that, because when we watched the video on YouTube, the students were much less impressed.

"They're so old!" one girl said.
"And ugly!" her friend added.
I must have looked a little crestfallen.
She patted my shoulder. "It's still a good song, though, Ms. S," she said kindly.

But the Kitchen Sink

The agenda item in our team meeting was student concerns. After at least 15 minutes of heavy conversation about strategies that were and (mostly) were not working to support some of our tougher students, we switched gears to more typical sixth grade problems.

I mentioned that a new student came to me three times a day all week last week. "Do I have your class now?" she asked every time.

"She was coming from elementary school," one of the other teachers pointed out. "She just thought you were her everything."

"Yeah," I winked, "I get that a lot!"

Close Shave

For the most part, I'm not much of a talker, especially with folks I don't know, and so things like getting my teeth cleaned, or having my toenails done, or getting my hair cut can sometimes be a little awkward. Where I am perfectly happy to sit in companionable silence, the person who is performing the service frequently has other ideas.

In the case of the dentist, it is literally impossible for me to reply, so that's not usually a problem. At the nail salon, you are free to move your head as you please, and so a magazine or electronic device can provide a distraction, but when you are in the barber's chair, not only is there nowhere else to turn your attention, there are also mirrors, so that the person behind you can make eye contact. that's where I found myself this morning.

"So are you ready for the holiday?" my stylist asked.

I smiled and shrugged. "Sort of," I told her. And then I used the trick that my six-year-old goddaughter taught me so long ago. "How about you?"

And I never had to say another word.

Deer Neighbors

Our housing complex is tucked into a pretty densely populated area: more than 20,000 souls reside in the two square miles surrounding us. Still, we are buffered with an illusion of nature provided by a thin strip of woods just across the way that separates us from the county utility lot and an elementary school right up the hill.

It was in this sparse little forest that I took a neighbor's dog to take care of her business this morning, and where the two of us had to hop over several big piles of fresh deer scat.

A little later in the day, another neighbor told us of her experience just last night. Taking her own dog out for the last time, the two of them strolled up the stairs by our unit, and making the turn past our door and into the courtyard, were confronted by a six-point buck. As they slowly backed up, retracing their steps, he continued confidently forward.

And then bounded off toward the woods-- obviously to poop!