This moment I am in my chair looking at the fire, dinner in the oven, a glass of beer on the table beside me. Today I practiced yoga, baked bread, read a book, coached Annabelle on ratios, and sketched Bulbasaur for a rock I've been requested to paint. All good.
These days at home have been comfortable and restorative in so many ways, but they sure make it hard to find anything new to write about.
Does the queen like The Crown? I googled last evening. Admittedly late to the tea party, we have been watching the popular Netflix series about the English royals for a couple of weeks now, and the first season Queen Elizabeth is so smart and likable and sympathetic that I couldn't imagine the real queen could object. I also wondered what it might be like for a person in their 90s to see the life they led when 20-something recreated in such detail.
My research indicated that the queen did indeed like season one quite a bit, although Prince Phillip would have none of it. Later episodes were not quite so appealing to Elizabeth, and word has it that this past season, the one about Charles and Diana is scorned by the whole family, except, of course, Camilla.
Seasoned teachers know that it frequently happens that a new student will come mid-year and disrupt the whole class dynamic you've been patiently nurturing since September. It makes sense when you think about it-- that kid doesn't have any allegiance to you, and they really want to connect with their peers. Taking on the teacher in even the smallest way is an effective technique to make an impression on everyone.
So I shouldn't have been surprised at all when, even though we are still virtual, both of the girls who recently joined one of my classes gave me a little bit of a challenge yesterday.
As I've mentioned before, every class starts with a question of the day, and students are expected to post their answer in the chat. I read their replies out loud and usually engage each student in a very brief conversation which is meant to be a way to build our personal connection before we dive into the lesson.
The question yesterday, What is an important lesson you have learned in your life? was crafted to serve the dual purpose of conversation and springboard into writing a fiction piece where the main character learns something important. As I read through the replies, I praised the ideas and encouraged the students who hadn't answered yet to do so.
idk wrote one of the new kids.
I reminded the class that there were no wrong answers, that everyone has learned lots of lessons, that no example was too small.
i can't think of anything she posted.
"No problem," I said. "You can stay on the call once everybody gets started and I'll help you."
The chat dinged immediately. i thought of something, she wrote.
"Great!" I replied. "Go ahead and put it in the chat."
its okay not to know something, she typed.
Ouch!
Later as I was giving directions, the other new student was busy in the chat posting greetings to her classmates. I was still explaining when she started writing questions. What do we do? Where do we go? and when I didn't answer immediately, she followed up with a hellooooo?????
I let it slide and explained what she needed to know. Later on, she ran into another problem and again began peppering the chat with questions, finally ending in HELLOOOOZZ???!!!
I replied to her in the chat. The helloooo thing is a bit disrespectful.
Sorry she responded. I needed to know if my messages were getting through!
You can always unmute and say "Excuse me" I reminded her.
The sun was an orange smudge blazed low in the eastern sky this morning when I took Lucy for her first out. The air itself seemed to chirrup and trill, and swags of robins festooned the bare branches of every tree, while hundreds more hopped about on the candied snow.
So many birds!
They seemed to know they outnumbered us: they barely made way as we walked into the round of them, and all the while they piped a tiny tune. And then in a whoosh and a sharp-winged cloud of rust and gray, they disappeared.
So strange!
Continuing on I spotted a hawk hunched on the lowest limbs of a locust, its gaze turned intently eastward, where late the robins had been, and I understood.
"Well, there goes snow days," we all joked back in August and September when distance teaching was new. And today, as we entered the third semester of doing our jobs remotely, that vaticination came to pass. Fat flakes drifted lazily through the gray day and all along, teachers taught, and students presumably learned.
It helped that this was actually the 3rd day of winter weather in a row; many of us had already had plenty of time to play outside. To be honest, I didn't mind getting to work this morning: not having to dress for the cold or drive on icy roads made sitting down in my comfortable chair in the warm dining almost appealing.
But it turns out you really can't please everyone-- a few parents in our district were soon voicing their regret that the kids were missing out on that time-honored tradition of the snow day.
"Can you believe that Tuesday is Groundhog Day?" I asked my sister last night on Zoom.
"Every day is Groundhog Day, man!" she scoffed, and we both sighed because we knew how right she was.
Lately, the weekends have been tougher than the work week for me: more often than not I find myself sitting in my chair trying to think of something fun and engaging to do that I haven't already done 25 times since we've been staying at home.
This evening I heard a piece on the radio about what we lose when we lose acquaintances, people who aren't close enough to for us to seek out, yet whose company we enjoyed all the same. The loss of those chance encounters with a colleague in another department at a meeting, or someone at the gym, or a favorite waiter or bartender, or another fan in the bleachers at a school sporting event is also a lost opportunity for serendipity and the joy it brings.
Yesterday a couple of our neighbors texted to see if we had any interest in coming out to play in the snow. As it happened? We had about 25 minutes before we were scheduled for that Zoom call. So we pulled on some layers, leashed up Lucy and headed out to the big hill in our complex. There 8-year-old Elijah and I climbed to the top and slid down on our bottoms at least 10 times; no sled needed to enjoy the snow slide created by the icy conditions.
It was completely unplanned and by far the most fun I have had in weeks, if not months.
So the cats remained non-committal about the whole mouse-removal part of their job description and meanwhile I kept seeing the little critter scurry over and behind the TV. "What are we going to do?" demanded Heidi, and in response I shook my head.
"It'll come to me," I said.
Heidi knelt on the floor with a flashlight. "I see it!" she reported. It was sitting on the cables and wires in the 2 inch hole in the back of the TV stand. "Oop! There it goes!"
The mouse had retreated through another cable pass-through into one side of the stand with a closed cabinet. I grabbed some packing tape and sealed the hole, trapping it behind the door. As the mouse explored its new situation, its increasingly panicky jumps and scampers finally attracted the attention of the cats, who were riveted to the TV stand for the rest of the night.
"At least we know where it is," I said, "and it can't get out of there. We have some time to figure it out."
An hour or so later, the solution finally came to me. "I know what to do!" I told Heidi. "We can take all the stuff off and out of the cabinet, drag it outside, and open the door. Then it's up the mouse,"
Satisfied that we had a plan, I slept soundly last night and woke this morning with determination. It would be good to organize all the devices and wires and what-not, and it would be great to be rid of the mouse. I set to work unplugging cables and dusting shelves and moving the turntable, the DVD/VHS player, the DVR, the game system, and the pair of streaming cubes. At last the cabinet was empty except for the side that held the mouse.
Heidi and I lifted and dragged the awkward triangular-shaped piece of furniture up over the step to the dining room and then through the entryway to the front door. Snow was falling and a frigid wind blew. I convinced myself that instinct would lead the mouse to find shelter far away from this house where it was threatened and trapped.
At last we were on the front stoop and Heidi untaped the door and opened it. Her eyes widened. "It's right there!" she said and started banging on the cabinet to get it to leave. Something small and gray landed at my feet. It was a dead mouse.
"Seriously? After all that?" Heidi said. "I guess we must have scared it to death.
