The Myth of Scheduling

The programmers who created our electronic grade book included the convenient feature that whenever a teacher launches the information system it lands on the class that is scheduled for that time. It may seem minor, but it spares us a few clicks when taking attendance, and time in the classroom is a precious commodity.

With asynchronous learning, as we’ve had for the last three months, such a common schedule is an anachronism. Some mornings I startle to realize it’s only 2nd period when I’ve already baked bread and walked three miles. Likewise, it can be strange to look at a clock and think that my teaching day would be over, even though I’ve been sitting at my dining room table participating in virtual meetings for hours with several more to go.

I went into school the other day to pick up a few things from my classroom, masked and gloved of course. I was sitting at my desk, peeling off the pages of my word-a-day calendar which had been frozen on March 13, when the bell rang. I literally jumped, but then my head swiveled automatically toward the clock to see what was ending and what was beginning.

Sixth period already? I thought. Where has the year gone?

Kaboom

Lucy gave a low growl this afternoon, but before it turned into a full bark there was a crash from outside. When I flung open the front door, all the dogs in the neighborhood were barking and all the neighbors were stepping outside. "A tree!" called someone from her balcony, pointing at the narrow strip of woods across the way. "I saw it fall!"

Hearing her words, I realized that I had known what it was, even as I dashed outside to make sure nothing was damaged. And it wasn't. Despite the enormous boom, the tree we found tangled and dangling from its brethren was not even 12 inches in diameter, although it was at least 100 feet tall. Perhaps it was our collective imagination, but there seemed to be a discernible gap where once it stood in the tree line. And when we were all done marveling at the event and heading back into our houses, the neighbor across the way voiced the obvious. "Well," she said, "I guess we know what sound a tree makes when it falls in the forest."

Dog Talk

Our first dog, Isabel, was well acquainted with the phrase No dogs allowed on account of all the school fields and other places we walked past that looked so inviting to a fun-loving dog like herself but were forbidden. Whenever she would tug the leash or look longingly at such green space as if to say Wouldn't that be a good idea? A simple No dogs allowed would snap her back to reality.

I would wager that our current dog, Lucy, also knows that phrase but chooses to ignore it. She is much more willful than her predecessor, and her response to No dogs allowed is more along the lines of la la la la I don't hear you. 

Unfortunately for Lucy, there is a sentence that she cannot ignore these days. Whenever we pass one of the several dog parks where she spent many happy hours before the pandemic, all we have to say when she pulls toward the padlocked gates is It's closed, and then like Isabel before her, she droops just a bit, before trotting resolutely on.

Just Hair

I went to the grocery store and got my hair cut today. In other times, neither of those would be big news, but these times are not those. Although I will say it is beginning to feel normal to be aware of and step away from anyone closer than six feet.

It is not beginning to feel anywhere near normal to wear a mask, however, and in the hair salon I worried as the stylist snipped around my ears, concerned that she might accidentally clip the elastic. In fact I was so preoccupied with the ear bands that I barely noticed when she nicked my neck with the straight razor, and it wasn't until the end, when she sent me out into the world with wet hair (no hair dryers allowed), and a blue bandaid on my neck, that I realized my mask was full of my own hair.

I know I wear the mask to protect others from me, but the sprinkle of fine blond hair that floated away on the wind as I uncovered my nose and mouth was a confirmation and a reminder that we all must safeguard each other.

Zine Machine

Years ago we were in Philly for a long weekend when we stepped into a coffee shop for breakfast. We made ourselves comfortable in overstuffed chairs that would have fit in perfectly at Central Perk on Friends. Yes, it was a hipster place, and we were totally digging the hipster vibe, when I spotted an old cigarette vending machine across the room.

It was so retro, and I hadn't seen its like in a long time, so I went over to check it out. Inside were copies of self-published Zines, little mini-magazines by local artists and writers. I dug in my pocket for some change, bought a couple, and was utterly charmed as I read. "We need a zine machine at school!" I told Heidi.

Back at school, for a while anyway, I pushed to find an available vending machine that we could use for student writing, but as is the way of many of my good ideas, it just never happened. And now, for the last assignment of the year, I have borrowed a feature published on NPR (and found by my colleague Matt)-- a little how-to cartoon about creating a zine. I just know the kids who do it are going to make something special! Now about that vending machine...

Wardrobe Dilemma

"You have a farmer's tan," Heidi told me, giving my outfit of tank top and shorts the once over.

I was not offended, but I knew it was not a compliment. The days I spent in my tie dye t-shirt working in the garden last weekend had literally left a mark.

"So you don't like the tank top?" I asked.

"It's fine, but the tan lines have got to go," she answered.

"So I have to wear it all the time or none of the time?" I clarified, as we walked through the 90 degree heat. "I'm going to need some more tank tops!"

Do Not Open Until...

One of the last online assignments I offered to my students was a letter to their future selves. If we must be distant in space, why not consider a distant, or not so distant, future? At least that's what I thought, and so I provided an organizer, a review of friendly letters, and the promise that any student who submitted a final draft would get their letter sealed in an envelope with a reminder of when to open it.

Today was the day that I did the grunt work of printing letters and labels and stuffing and stamping envelopes. I was happy to have received 35 letters, which is a little under 45% of my students. Heidi was an invaluable assistant, stamping and stuffing, as I printed, addressed envelopes, and added the Do Not Open Until... date. As she worked, she was quite charmed by the content of each letter, so much so, that she read every single one of them out loud to me, lending an audible voice to those very earnest writers, and reminding me how funny and wise they are.

It was a wonderful hour or so! And at the end we had a stack of letters and the anticipation that all the writers would not only feel the thrill of getting mail in the next day or two, but also some time in the future, have that sweet experience of revisiting their former selves, and a reminder of who they were and who they hoped to be.