But for the Grace of God

As I approached the gate to leave our community garden early this evening, I noticed a gentleman standing on the sidewalk near the fence. He seemed to be depositing some sort of trash on the narrow strip of grass between the two, and I waited for him to finish before I exited, because I had a big box that I wanted to drop there, too. 

When he saw me waiting, he hastily concluded his business, although he did pause at the fence a little further down the walk way. My attention was drawn to him then, and although we have a large community and I don't know all my fellow gardeners by sight (especially with the COVID restrictions of the last two seasons), it seemed to me that he was not a member. 

He carried two grocery bags, one plastic and the other canvas, and I saw that he was filling them with whatever vegetables he could glean from the trash or pick through the fence. I considered my own bag, then, with a quart of cherry tomatoes and a half-dozen or more heirloom tomatoes, too, as well as the squash, beans, and pumpkins I had left in my plot for another day. 

And as I lifted my head to call to him, a metro bus pulled up, and he pulled up his mask, shouldered his bags, and was gone.

Off Again On Again

The brain is a funny thing: so strong, yet so easily affected by circumstances and situations

A few weeks ago, my brother and I were talking seasonings: comparing our own blends of herbs and aromatics and discussing some of our store-bought favorites. "You know what mix from Penzey's I really like?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, waiting for me to answer my clearly rhetorical question, but my mind had suddenly gone blank.

"Neither do I!" I finally admitted, and we had a good laugh at the expense of my senior moment.

Today, I was in a meeting with some other English teachers talking about the new standards-based grading that our school is transitioning to. We were brainstorming assessments we could use to make sure the students have enough opportunities to demonstrate mastery and discussing how the two language arts classes, reading and English, might fit in the big picture. 

"Maybe we should combine the results and give just one overall ELA grade," I said. "That kind of makes more sense since both classes are assessing the same standards, right?"

"Let me look into it," our department chair responded, thoughtfully. "I never thought of that."

"Neither did I!" I said. "Until right now."

Repurposed

When I checked out my classroom for the first time this school year, I was genuinely pleased to see that those vintage trapezoid tables had returned. By my reckoning, they are original to the building, circa 1971, but they have been in my possession since 1993. Already 22 years old when I got them, at 50? They have been with me much longer than that, but last year, COVID social distancing requirements meant every classroom was equipped with single-seat desks, and I had to trust that the trapezoids were in safe storage.

There was something missing from my room, though. An abandoned typing desk that I adopted many years ago to provide a little technology dogleg to my teacher desk must have been moved out with the student desks. To be honest, I was a little at a loss for how to finish setting up my room without that small but crucial surface, and so once the bookshelves were moved (Teflon sliders!) and the tables and chairs were placed in their customary positions, I started a treasure hunt through the building.

Along the way, I began to feel like the little red hen, but in reverse. Everyone I asked was kindly willing to help me find my table, and by the time I ended my search, I was surrounded by 3 custodians, the director of facilities, and my sister-in-law the art teacher, all offering solutions to my dilemma. When the head custodian wasn't quite sure what piece of furniture I was looking for, the facility director tried to describe it to him. "Ms. S is old school, like me," he said. "She wants a table like they used to put typewriters on,  long, long time before they had computers"

The other guy looked blankly at him. "What for?" he asked.

"For her computer!" his boss told him.

An hour later? They brought a table to my room.

Say What You Want

When I was a kid there a lot of games whose very names were warnings: Don't Break the Ice! Don't Spill the Beans! and even Kerplunk! whose premise was not to let the marbles fall. I never really liked those games; the fact that nobody actually won because somebody lost, was not fun, and trying not to do what the rules directed was very stressful.

As a teacher, I learned back in grad school to phrase directions positively. For example, rather than tell students not to be late, it's more effective to remind them to be on time. That construction takes the whole idea of tardiness out of the conversation. Likewise, stop talking becomes please listen quietly, and so on. We remove even the thought of what we don't want and focus on what we do.

I thought of that today in my garden as I chose to shell the beans there and compost the husks right away. It was an exercise in mindfulness as I stood in my windswept plot under swirling skies with only the goldfinches for company and strung and split each pod, emptying the beans into a pint container I set on the little storage unit by the compost bin. More than once I knocked the square bin with my wrist, threatening to tip it over and into the top of the shed. 

"Don't-- !" I warned myself, and then paused and reframed my thinking. "Keep the beans in there!" I encouraged myself. And you know what? With the exception of a few errant legumes, which I quickly retrieved, I did it!

Not Gonna Lie

After 18 months of COVID chaos, going to school in-person, five days a week? Will be a tough adjustment.

Fortunately? With holidays and what-not, that won't happen until the week of September 20, three full weeks after the start of school.

So, maybe I'll be more ready then.

Nah.

My Kind of Party

It was a bit of a drive to get out there, but the invitation to wish Victor well on the eve of his departure for Iceland as well as celebrate his partner Emily's birthday was impossible to turn down, and Emily's parents were generously hosting the party on their farm in PG County.

There were steamed crabs that our host had caught the day before on the table when we walked in, and our hostess brought us seltzer water garnished with frozen blueberries to go along. As we picked the crabs, fresh salsa made from homegrown tomatoes, roasted summer squash from the garden, pears from the orchard, and a wheel of brie made an appearance. 

Later, as our hosts grilled local lamb and potatoes and okra to accompany the fresh green bean and potato salad, watermelon and feta, and orzo with fresh pesto, we were invited out to the blueberry patch to pick and chat among ourselves. After that fine meal, plenty of conversation, and a dessert of fudge-oatmeal bars and blueberry cake, we said goodnight, but not before we were handed a bag with our fresh-picked blueberries, and cantaloup, summer squash, and tomatoes.

Dread Days of August

I know I should be savoring these last days of my summer vacation, but it's tough. There was a meme going around a few years ago that went something like For teachers, the month of August is just one long Sunday night. It is sort of true; along with the excitement of a new year, there is a little sorrow at saying good bye to sleeping late and being productive in entirely different ways.

This year, of course, there is also apprehension around COVID and how it continues to impact our lives and routines. In fact, a recently retired friend emailed me the other day, subject line: A new word for your vocabulary. The word was paraskevidekatriphobia, or fear of Friday the 13th. 

Rather than boast that I already knew the word, I replied instead This year? I'm more afraid of Thursday the 19th!

And she reassured me that, like Friday the 13th, 2021 only has one Thursday the 19th, too.