On Second Thought

"Do you have your iPad?" I asked my Gracie Allen homeroom student this morning. She had tried to borrow a laptop earlier, and I had put the ix-nay on that, but it seemed as if she was now absorbed in something below table level, and so the question.

"Yes!" she told me brightly.

"Then bring it over here so I can show you what we are working on," I directed her.

Her face turned stormy and without even looking up she snapped, "No! I don't want to!"

My eyebrows shot up in surprise, for she is usually quite cooperative. "Uh oh!" I said.

She raised her head and looked at my face. "I mean," she responded breathlessly, "Coming right away!"

And she did.

Read It and Weep

As my brother and sister and I sorted through my mother's condo this weekend, my sister held out the slimmest of hopes that we might find some notes to us, and I clung to any scrap of writing that revealed and preserved the remarkable person she was.

Five years ago my mom downsized from a three level 3 bedroom townhouse. As vigorous a 75-year-old as she was, the process of organizing the material trappings of 20 years or more, even though carried out over several months, took a toll on her. Once she adjusted to condo living Mom was very happy, but she had learned her lesson, and she was ruthless when it came to hanging on to all but the most useful, valuable, and/or sentimental of objects.

My brother and sister and I have always appreciated her practical sensibility, but now that she's gone her pragmatism has been an immense relief to us us we sort through her estate: it has made an unbearable job a little more manageable.

And we have no doubt that what is left was truly valuable to her-- the handmade cards from Riley, Treat, Richard, and Annabelle, the thank you note from Emily written in the early 90s, and the email from Heidi in 2003.

Even though the three of us sat by sobbing as she called her closest friends to say goodbye, my mother had no final words for any of us in the last days and hours of her life. She resolutely believed that we all knew how vast and unwavering her love for us was, and so there was nothing to say. 

Fresh Weather

"How are you doing in the cold?" all my mom's Minnesota friends have asked.

They were referring to the snowy single-digit conditions that have been the daily standard since we landed on Friday.

"I kind of like it!" I tell them.

And when they tsk, I continue with a shrug, "It's a novelty for us."

"Right!" my brother agrees. "Plus? We're leaving tomorrow!"

To Cushion or Not to Cushion

The two estate agency representatives were of different minds when we asked if it would be best if at least one of us was present when they came to pack and parcel my mom's belongings. The 10 o'clock women, who were warm and personal, told us that it would probably be a good idea, if possible. They asked about some of my mom's more remarkable possessions and encouraged us to write up descriptions of them for the prospective buyers they were sure would love them.

The noon woman, who was all business and photographs, said, "Absolutely not! In fact, we actually charge more if someone's here."

We looked at her quizzically.

"Not really," she clarified, "but so often people follow us around, picking things up, telling us their stories. That takes time, and we are on the clock."

Maybe she thought she was being a little too harsh. "It's also really hard for you," she continued in a softer tone. "We're very organized and professional. Right now? This place is a home, but when we are done? It will be a house-- four walls. That's what you want, but it's hard to watch it happen."

Ride Share

"I don't think I've ever had a pick-up as my Uber before," I noted as I settled myself in the back of the king cab on my way to the airport this morning.

"Yah, I get that a lot," William, my driver, told me adjusting the volume on the sound system.

I fiddled with my phone as soothing meditation music flowing from the speakers elevated the familiar landmarks we rolled past. High rises gleamed, gulls swooped, and golden rapids riffled the wide urban stream outside my window as the music swelled in the Ford F-150. Even the water treatment plant and metro bus lot were transformed by the light and music as we glided past. I set my phone aside and took a deep breath.

Arriving at the curbside check-in 10 minutes later, I felt refreshed and renewed, which was really not what I had expected at all. "Thank you for the ride, William," I said, climbing out of the truck.

He nodded, and I stepped forward into my day.

Consensus

It was an early release with a winter concert assembly today which left limited time for a few other items like locker clean outs and the "Know Your Rights" presentation that all secondary school students are required to see. Even so, my homeroom was quick enough to have time for a movie after lunch.

Students suggested a few films some reasonable (Home Alone), some not (It), and they were debating when an idea occurred to me. "Hey you guys!" I said. "What about Toy Story 4?"

There was mild enthusiasm, but it wasn't a clear winner by any stretch. "It's just that I haven't had a chance to see it, yet," I explained, more to myself than to them as they returned to their discussion.

One student heard me, though. "You haven't?" she asked.

I shook my head a little ruefully, for I haven't seen very many movies at all this year.

"I vote for Toy Story 4!" she said. "Ms. S. wants to see it!"

"I do, too," said another student, and one by one they stepped to the white board and erased their tally marks under the movie they had voted for to place them under mine.

"Aw... thanks you guys!" I told them. "I'll make some popcorn!"

Karma Thrash

I was in a snit when I scooped up the lollipop stick from the table in my room and marched out the door after the girl who had left it. The hallway was packed with a throng of students changing classes, but I spotted her right away one door down. "Hold out your hand!" I demanded and when she did I dropped her rubbish into her palm and spun on my heel. I didn't get far however, because as I turned toward my room, 120 pounds of sixth grade boy hit me and body slammed me into the wall behind me. My head whiplashed back and hit the window of the classroom as he bounced off me and back into the mosh pit of the class change. Seeing both stars and red, I staggered forward and glared at him in disbelief.

"I didn't do it! I was pushed!" he explained desperately and pointed to a culprit clad in red and orange sweat pants snaking his way down the hall and toward the stairs. His mistake was in looking over his shoulder, for it was then that I locked eyes with him and waved him back.

I was cross; he was defiant; it was an unbridgeable gap.  Fortunately I spotted the assistant principal down the hall and handed off the situation to him.