Small Dog in a Big City

The afternoon was beautiful, 60 degrees and sunny, but still with a bit of November in it, and so we decided to take Lucy and Beckett, the little dog we were sitting, down to the Tidal Basin for a nice walk. There were lots of folks with the same idea as ours, but we found parking without any trouble and started our stroll. Well, Lucy, Heidi, and I walked, but Beckett is a mini Australian Shepherd with limited leash experience, and he kind of danced along on the end of his tether.

A little while later, though, he was trembling as he pattered nervously along, clearly terrified of something. We paused at the Jefferson Memorial, and as my eyes swept over the scene, I tried to see it from Beckett's point of view. In addition to the traffic roaring over the bridge behind us, there were bikes and scooters and strollers coming at us, and lots of legs and feet in his face, not to mention at least 50 Canada geese larger than he was and honking proprietarily right along the water.

It seemed like it might be too much for a puppy from the suburbs, but he took advantage of the break to check in with Lucy, who was genuinely enjoying the outing. Some message must have passed between their noses, because he visibly relaxed and we continued on our way.

Over Under

On the final day of our family Thanksgiving Holiday we did one of our favorite things: we played a game. This was a trivia estimation challenge,  and we learned quite a few nuggets of knowledge that may [never] come in handy someday.

For example, How fast does a bumble bee fly? That would be 7 mph, or just about the same speed that a rain drop falls, but much faster than a centipede crawls and a lot slower than a porcupine can dash 50 yards.

But the most important statistic of the day was that we will all be together again in 31 days.

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!"