In Formation

I heard the clattering honks before I saw them. It was impossible to ignore the raucous spectacle, and so I stopped to appreciate the ragged vee of fifty or so geese flying over my head this morning. As they flew, three or four of them detached from the rear at the same time the others slowed the pace to first swallow and then follow the new leaders. In the brief time they were in my line of sight this exchange happened twice.

Flying seems like hard work; how could it be otherwise?

I wondered why human beings don't use such a method more often. We are so focused on specialization that leadership has become a thing of its own, rather than a shared responsibility for the good of the group. And instead of being fluid, our hierarchies are often so rigid.

Soon enough, the geese were gone, efficiently winging their way to their common destination, and I returned my attention to earth.

Mirror Mirror

I pulled out one of the workhorses of my kitchen tonight. A high-end, 12-inch stainless steel sautoir pan, I use it for everything from searing to sauteeing to braising. I can even whip up a pretty nice stew for two in there, with a little leftover to pack for lunch. Tonight I was making winter succotash, a ghost of its full-flavored summer self, but with frozen vegetables, still a satisfying side dish at any time of the year.

As I sauteed the onions, I observed a sticky spot, where the onions were browner, near the edge by the handle. It was easy enough to deglaze, but it was a flaw in the pan I'd never noticed before. I might need a new one of these, I thought, and then laughed, because that was silly. I can save myself a couple hundred bucks and scrape that spot whenever I need to.

As it happens, just this weekend my brother and I were watching old videos we had found when we cleaned out my mom's condo. The first was Christmas '96, and although it rightfully focused on my young nephews, the rest of us made cameos. I especially scored screen time because I was holding 18-month-old Treat, and though the actual unwrapping has been lost to posterity, he and I do spend quite a bit of time admiring our reflections in the brand new finish of that very sautoir.

Treat was an adorable child who has grown into a handsome man. The skillet and I? Have seen better days!

Willing Participants

The students in my morning intervention period are there to write: they have 30 minutes to get their daily independent writing done, and that is the clear expectation. It is true that I make it as pleasant as possible for them, creating a little writing cafe atmosphere with music and snacks, but it is also true that they are 12 years old and we start at 8 am. Add to that that they were chosen because of their general reluctance to put words on a page, and there is the occasional clash of wills-- mine and theirs.

At those moments, when a hood goes up or a head droops down or an iPad is clearly tuned to an unauthorized site, I call the unwriter over to my desk.

"We're here to write," I whisper quietly, keeping my voice neutral, waiting for the nod of acknowledgement.

"But..." I shrug, "if you're not interested in that, I can probably find you another intervention class," I add kindly, waiting for the widening of eyes.

"Should I do that?" I finish helpfully, raising my eyebrows in rapt attention.

Bless their hearts! They always say no, and then sit down to write. It helps if they feel they are with me by choice.

Plus, the snacks!

At the Crossing

I decided to forego my heavy duty back pack this morning and instead grabbed a string bag to take with me to an all-day training. I have fondness for these lightweight sacks and the hands-free carrying convenience they offer, and so I have quite a collection of them.

The bag I chose this morning has the added feature of an outside zip-pocket which is a good place for keys and a wallet. I hadn't used it since late last summer, and uncinching the drawstring, I peered inside. There was some hand-sanitizer, a grocery list (peaches, blackberries, tomatoes, and corn), and four flattened pennies, that I had placed in my bag in Rochester, MN when my mom was a patient at the Mayo Clinic.

Walking over the tracks every day on my way from our rented condo to the hospital, the twin notions of transformation and survival prompted me to lay a line of pennies along the rail just past where it crossed my path.  At first, I wanted to give a flattened penny each to my mother, my brother, my sister, and me to remind us of our strength even under the enormous weight of this ordeal, so every time I crossed those tracks, I checked the coins.

Despite the fact that I heard and saw trains running by there several times each day, whenever I passed by the coins remained untouched. At first, I was annoyed. As the days went by, though, it began to seem miraculous, but I cautioned myself from reading too much into it. Still, I thought that if I could scoop them up, undamaged, on our last day in town, it could only be a good sign.

The morning my mother was going to be discharged, I walked down to the hospital one more time. There in the gravel that lined the railroad tracks I found four crushed pennies. With a catch in my throat, I tossed them in my string bag and kept going.

And that's where they stayed, until today. I laid them in my palm and remembered my hope and disappointment. Then I closed my fingers and jingled them lightly together, listening to the quiet music of four ruined coins, emblems of the inevitable.

High and Low

This school week is kind of a chopped up one for us. In session today, kids are off tomorrow since our schools are used as polling places for Super Tuesday. Back on Wednesday and Thursday, students are out again on Friday for conferences.

It's not as disruptive as it sounds, but when my wife, the social skills teacher, asked her students for their highs and lows today, one sixth grader said, "My high is that this week there are, like, two Fridays! Today and Thursday." He paused. "But my low? Is that there are also two Mondays."

WAH
Wah
wah

Happy first Monday!

The Preservation of Fire

Next Friday, my aunt is moving out of her home of nearly 60 years. Since my family moved around a lot when I was growing up, that house is as close to a childhood home as I have, so yesterday I made the hour drive over there both to offer my help and to see the place one more time. They were very well-organized, and I didn't actually do very much at all in the three hours I spent.

I did take some family photos to add to the archive that my brother and sister and I are organizing and caring for, pictures of my mom and grandparents that I had never seen before. I also got a box of Christmas ornaments that belonged to my grandparents.

The last time they put up a tree was 1971, and we lived far enough away that it wasn't every year we spent the holidays with them. Even so, I recognized a few of the decorations. Most of them were from the 1940s and 50s, vintage glass with metallic paint and glitter designs, and several were in the original boxes, safely resting on a little nest of yellowed tissue paper and the odd sparkling strand of tinsel.

There was also a separate set of round turquoise ornaments, some faded glass and others still vibrantly wrapped in bright silk thread. I remembered the story my mother used to tell about how, when she was nineteen, she decided that their tree should be white-flocked with all blue ornaments. With her sister married and in a home of her own, her busy parents allowed her to execute her mod, mid-century vision. "But you know what?" the story always ended. "I hated it!"

And although we always had one or two blue ornaments hanging among the angels, santas, teddy bears, stars, snowmen, and everything else on our Christmas tree, I think they were only there to remind us that although change is unavoidable, and innovation has its place, some traditions are well kept.

Every Day Another Story

"I really like reading your blog," my aunt told me today. "I like knowing what's going on, but I really like the stories about the kids."

She spent her career in education and retired from a middle school, and so I especially valued her appreciation.

"You know it's been so long since I retired," she continued, "that I forget how nutty they can be sometimes."

"Sometimes?" I replied. "You have been retired a while!"