Record Keeping

I don't even remember why I decided to start saving the Oscar ballots, but when I mentioned that I had them as we were cleaning up at the end of the evening last year, my brother told me I should definitely bring them next time. Last week I spent some time collecting them from the two or three different places I squirreled them all away, and carefully placed them in labeled ziplock bags, one for each year, and packed them up for our annual Academy Awards Getaway.

We spent some time this morning going over the archive. Stretching back to 2003, there was a record of all our pools and parties, with the exception of 2004 and 2011. Our initial data analysis determined that Victor is the current grand champion, with 3 wins and 2 ties, but Bill is in second with 3 wins and 1 tie. The ballots are so much more than just records of right and wrong predictions, though.

For example, they remind us of all the people who have celebrated and played with us over the years. Early on there are ballots for both of Emily's parents, Vic and Judy, who have since passed away, Kyle has joined us twice, Josh is in and out, my mom has several ballots, both in person and remote, and our friend Mary has also played along 3 times. (In fact, Bill considers Mary his spoiler-- he would have had one more win and the current overall crown, if not for the year she took home the prize!)

It is clear what a primary source these simple sheets of paper are when you consider some of them individually. Treat was 7 when he filled out his first ballot, and the tiny, lower-case scrawl of his name at the top might suggest how unprepared he felt to enter such an enormous competition. Even so, he did pretty well, out-preforming half of the adults at the party. The pages also show the transition from Riley to Victor; Heidi's have flowers and hearts on the years she does well; Josh artfully scribbles semi-solid blocks around the categories he misses; Judy primly Cs and Xs her hits and misses, Kyle signs his name "Mr. Moo" in honor of his job as the Chik-fil-a cow.

When we were finished with our artifact review, there was one ziplock bag still left on the table. Labeled 2019, it contained a crisp stack of blank ballots, patiently waiting for history to be made.

Friday Night Lights

It was crazy-hectic packing up and getting out of town for a weekend away on a Friday evening. Dashing home from school after making sub plans during the deafening din of Anime Club, we threw 3 days of clothes and toiletries into our duffles, packed the cooler with essentials (beer, coffee cream, and ragout for dinner) and then huffed all our stuff out to the car.

The map app confirmed what I already knew-- it was rush hour in DC, but I obediently piloted the car into the gleam of brake lights and stop and go traffic, along the twinkling tree-lined streets of Old Town, and under the incandescent gauntlet of lights lining the Wilson Bridge, and past the pulsing red, white and blue of the Capital Wheel, and down through the suburban glow of Fort Washington and Waldorf.

When at last the roads cleared, we found ourselves on country roads so dark we almost (almost!) missed the starless glimmer of city nights we were accustomed to. Along shadowed farm fields, over unlit bridges, and finally onto a pitch-dark rutted dirt road, we drove on. And at the end of the trip there was warm light spilling from the windows of a house and family and fun waiting within.

Fantasy Avenue

It was planned chaos in my classroom today. After analyzing and evaluating commercials, students were now ready to apply all they knew about persuasive techniques by forming groups, choosing a product to brand and market, and creating a commercial of their own.

An array of three dozen colorful, if perplexing, gadgets were laid upon a table and ceremoniously unveiled. A spin of the wheel determined when each group got to choose, and when the selections were through, trades and additions were welcome.

The kids didn't need to know what each item actually was; in fact it was better if they didn't. Imagination is a premium for this project, and so the sooner you believe a silicone dish rack is a portable grill to be sold with the slogan You go grill!, the better off you'll be.

Snow Goggles

Sometimes when I take Lucy out in the morning our one-on-one time is interrupted when she slams her nose to the ground and pulls me in the direction of some invisible trek. So single-minded is she that even treats can't break her concentration; I hop along scooping up the expensive, "high-value" nuggets that she spits on the pavement. "You don't understand!" says the look she gives me when I tug sharply on the leash, and I have to admit she's right.

This morning when we stepped out our door the world was hushed and muffled in the snow that had begun falling at dawn. No one else was about, and ours were the only footsteps in the powder that covered our way until we got to the hill in the back of our complex. This time, when Lucy's nose hit the ground, I saw what she was after. Boot prints and dog prints meandered along the edge of the woods and up to the bushes.

"Who is that?" I asked her, and she wagged her tail and came over to me.

A little further down it was a set of rabbit tracks hopping up to the pool gate that drew her attention. "Bunnies!" I said, and she was ready to keep going.

Next a bright spray of yellow snow caught her nose, and she turned to look at me. "I know!" I told her. "Someone peed!" And it was clear to both of us that we were connected by more than the leash.

President's Day

One of my favorite presidents has always been Abraham Lincoln. Before I was 9, I knew his entire life story from reading every biography in the school library. Even today, odd facts about him occur to me now and then, almost like remembering something about someone I really knew. Just last week, the path from the movie theater to our dinner reservation took us up 10th St, past Ford's Theater and the house where Lincoln died. "I wonder what the street was like in 1865," I said, looking across the 4 lanes of traffic from the box office to the steps of number 516. "Was it this wide? Were there hitching posts? Did this house have a yard?"

One of my favorite purchases in the last year or so is a cylindrical cast-iron doodad a little smaller than a breadbox. Forged in America, it has an open ring at the top connected to a sturdy base by two solid columns. Welded in the center is a fan-shaped wedge, and the idea is to put a log through the hoop on top, balance it on the wedge, and knock it straight down to the ground and split it in two.

Oh, it makes a lot of racket, and yes, you have to swing that mini-sledge like you mean it, but the effort it takes to split wood is really minimal.

But?

The satisfaction of cracking those logs in half with a single blow (or two)?

Is not. 

Out of the Office

Today was a holiday, tomorrow I'm out for doctor's appointments, and they are calling for snow and ice all day on Wednesday.

When will I ever get back to school?

(Oh, and did I mention that I am out next Monday for our annual Oscar Holiday Weekend?)

For the Record

A question occurred to me as I sat watching the five Academy-Award-nominated short documentaries this afternoon. Is the job of a documentary simply to document or is it something more?

I considered the first of the five, the story of young man of Nigerian heritage whose parents had moved him from London to a city 35 miles away in attempt to shield him from the violence that claimed the life of a child from their neighborhood. Confronted by racism in his new home, his survival strategy was to do whatever he could to get the thugs targeting him to accept him, and he was so successful that he eventually became a member of their violent gang.

The next entry followed several terminally ill patients, their families, and caretakers as they negotiated end-of-life situations and decisions with as much dignity and empathy as possible. Mini-doc three consisted of 7 minutes of archival footage of a rally held 80 years ago in Madison Square Garden where 20,000 Americans showed up to support the rise of Nazism in Europe.

The fourth was on refugees fleeing Northern Africa on perilous rafts and boats bound for Europe, a topic that has been addressed by other films, also recognized by the Academy, over the last few years. The final entry told about women in India who, held back by the inconvenience and stigma of menstruation started a pad manufacturing factory that gave them and their clients more freedom to pursue education and employment.

When the last credits rolled and the lights came up, I imagined that my fellow movie-goers were also wondering how best to appraise what these various films were documenting. Was it simply some aspect of the the human condition? Was it a problem? A solution? Or something else?