Hand Me Down

There was never a day that went by in the many that we spent with my mom at the Mayo Clinic that someone did not make a comment about her beautiful finger nails. They were indeed a point of pride for her, and she was scrupulous in their upkeep, even going so far as to follow her nail technician to several commercial spaces, the last at least 20 minutes away, for 20 years.

And I might have feared the worst, were I not so committed to hoping for the best, when, a few days before her surgery instead of getting her nails repaired after a run in with her ice maker, she opted instead to have them restored to their natural state instead, no color, no filler, no tips. "It's probably for the best," she said. "It will just be easier."

One of the things I remember most about my my grandma was her bright red nail polish; her nails, too were always impeccable, and I think that was one reason why my mom took such good care of her own. As for me, family legend has it that when I was 6, my mom left me and my brother and sister with my dad for a long weekend in Paris with a cousin and her mother-in-law. (As an airline family in the 60s, that kind of thing was wildly possible, but we kids were little, so this trip was a first of its kind.) When she returned, all was well, but I had developed an terrible nail-biting habit, one I wouldn't break for over 52 years.

In fact, it has only been since my mother passed away in October that I have stopped biting my nails. And so today, instead of just a holiday pedicure, I splurged on a manicure, too, and the color I chose? Was the brightest red I could find! Heidi says it looks shocking, but I really like it, because now my hands look like my grandma's hands, and a little like my mom's hands, too.

There's No Place Like Here for the Holidays

"This is the 20th Christmas I've spent with your family," I told Heidi this morning.

"I'm sorry," she said, and we both laughed, even though she was only half joking. The first Christmas Eve I spent here in Buffalo was the first Christmas Eve I had ever been away from my own family, and I shed a few tears after talking to them on the phone even though I knew I would see them the next day.

I didn't choose the arrangement; both of our families did our big holiday celebration on Christmas Eve, but it seemed more important to Heidi's mom to keep their tradition as it was. And so my side of the family switched their routine, and Heidi and I traveled early on Christmas morning from Buffalo to DC and then Atlanta to be there with them.

Despite all the driving and flying, I never minded the arrangement: we got two Christmases with the people we love most. Over the years, though, I secretly preferred spending Christmas Eve with Heidi's family, for even though I love them dearly, even after the holiday toasts were made and all the gifts were unwrapped, I always had my own mom and brother and sister to look forward to.\

More than anything else, these last months have taught me that the old ways cannot last forever. Everything ends and everything must change. Two Christmases with beloved family is a blessing that I've had for 20 years, and I'm only just now appreciating how wonderful it has been.

The Journey and the Destination

The day was fair, and, after a bit of metropolitan congestion, the way was clear. The trees in the mountains of Pennsylvania were glazed in ice, set on white fire by the low angle of the late December sun. Further on, light snow flocked the evergreens and covered the ground in a patchy blanket. A little over halfway there the sun set, turning the sky orange and then crimson and then plum. The evening star shone in the west, and Christmas lights guided us ever north up and down hills, through forests, over rivers, and around bends until at last our station wagon rolled to a stop in the driveway of Heidi's parents' house.

Voice of Reason

This week, to much excitement in the neighborhood, a great pizza place opened its second location just up the hill from our house. Our plan today was to pick up a couple of pies for dinner, but even on the way home from school around 4:30 the parking lot was packed.

"I want the pizza, but I'm not sure I want to fight the crowd," I sighed.

"It's the holidays," Heidi pointed out. "Pizza is a heavy meal, and we? Are. going to be. eating."

I nodded.

"Plus? They will be there in January," she continued.

Can't argue with that.

Penultimate

When the last student left from my last period class today I breathed a sigh of relief. Straightening the chairs and tables as I always do to clear my mind and reset the room between classes, I remarked, "I think I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel!"

One of my co-teachers was sitting at a table checking her email. "Yeah, I think they really are starting to get it," she agreed without looking up. "The lesson today was pretty good."

"Thanks," I told her, "But I'm talking about Winter Break-- one more day!"

The Debate is Real

One of the stories we read for our literary essay unit is "Your Move" by Eve Bunting. A tale of two brothers, one 10 and one 6 who, left alone by their working mother, skip out on the watchful eye of their nextdoor neighbor so that the older one, James, can prove himself to a "club" of boys who call themselves K-Bones. It's undoubtedly a bad decision, but over the course of the story, it becomes clear that James's priority is protecting his brother, who looks up to him, and in the end he realizes his mistake and redeems himself.

At least that's what I think...

My co-teacher finds James completely irresponsible and somewhat reprehensible.

When we talk about the story in class, we each stake our claim and defend it with the text and reasoning, conceding and countering the argument of the other, each convinced we're right.

The students watch like it's a tennis match, and in the end we shrug and laugh, because it's fun arguing with someone you respect.

Literally

"Do you know what D did today?" one of my colleagues asked at lunch about a student who is very distractible and more than a little inattentive. "She needed the password for the quiz, and I told her it was "yellow jackets, no spaces," and she typed y-e-l-l-o-w-j-a-c-k-e-t-s-n-o-s-p-a-c-e-s!"

"In my class," another teacher reported, "I was helping her write her essay, so I told her to write down the chicken foot [a metaphor for a claim with 3 supporting reasons] and she wrote 'the chicken foot' on her paper!" he shook his head.

"Well, in my class," a third teacher chimed in, "I said, "Write your name on the top of the page," and she wrote 'your name'!"

C'mon!