Z is for Zen of Pressure

"Should I stack these on the back shelf?" a maintenance guy inquired of the librarian as he wheeled in several cases of paper on a hand truck.

"Yes please," she answered.

I was sitting in the library monitoring the few kids who had attended after school study hall when I happened to overhear their exchange.

"Have you ever seen what paper does under a hydraulic press?" he asked her.

"I can't say that I have," she responded.

"It explodes!" he told her.

"I would not have predicted that," she replied.

"There  must be something in it that reacts with the pressure," he explained. "But you should look it up! There's a whole YouTube Hydraulic Press Channel."

She might not have been impressed, but I opened a tab on my browser and typed a search right away. The first video I clicked on was a one hour compilation of greatest smushes. Paper does indeed explode, whether in reams, or books, decks of cards, or even toilet paper. 

The other results were not always predictable: although many items were smashed, only a few were pulverized, and most were extruded through the vent holes at the top of the press plate. The sponges? Were merely flattened, and they sprang back as soon as the pressure was lifted.

What was left of the hour passed quickly; there was something surprisingly mesmerizing about watching a random assortment of things subjected to about 10,000 pounds of force. And although I did not like or subscribe, I was definitely impressed by the press.

Life Lesson: Pressure is unavoidable, stress is optional.

H is for Here We Are Again

I clearly remember where I was in April 1999 when news of the Columbine school shooting reached me. Working after school in the same classroom I still teach in, I was at my desk when a colleague entered in shock and described what was then an unthinkable event. Back then, there were no regular lockdown drills and "active shooter" was a phrase associated with war zones not school zones.

When I am preparing students for the type of drill that is supposed to keep us safe in the event of such an attack, they often ask what the point of sitting quietly under tables in the dark is. "If all the rooms seem empty, then there is no clear target," I tell them before we dutifully turn out the lights and lock the door.

In the dark, I consider the room we're in: near the front of the school, it is constructed of temporary walls made of thin metal panels and glass. Sometimes I imagine putting sliders on the filing cabinets all the way across the room from the door, so I could easily pull them out and shepherd my charges into a corner where we might be more protected by two feet of paper, certainly more hidden than we would be if someone who wished to harm us breached the flimsy barriers. But when the drill is over, those thoughts vanish, too.

Since Columbine, there have been hundreds of school shootings that have left hundreds dead, and despite the fact that I work in a school, I have become numb to the violence and death toll. There are times when I don't even read the coverage of the latest attack. But the news that all of the victims of the school massacre yesterday were kids and teachers in a single classroom gave my stomach a sickening twist, and I had to close my eyes for a moment, wondering if the gunman found them hiding quietly in the dark.

Life Lesson: Lay down your arms, America.

Y is for You Got This

The warm up question the last couple of days has been How are you feeling about the upcoming state reading test? 

The students have been disarmingly honest, especially considering that they are sharing their feelings with the whole class. Many are confident, but an equal number of kids are, in their words, stressed, anxious, nervous, and really worried. 

I do my best to assure them that they are well prepared and to remind them that as long as they do their best, the rest is up to us. Pass or fail, we have them covered for next year. 

One student stated that he was "conflicted" and then proceeded to explain exactly what he meant. I nodded sympathetically, but then laughed. "If you can use conflicted to describe your feelings," I told him, "I'm pretty sure you're going to pass the test!"

Life Lesson: Reading is Fundamental.

X is for X That Out

The end of the school year is always full of disruptions, and this year is no different. A combination of standardized tests and other special activities upset the routines that we have all come to expect. With a group of over one thousand souls, the logistics of such events can be tricky, and the resulting disturbances can be positive, negative, or neutral, depending on how they are managed. 

It is hard to go all in on a proposition that you see as flawed, especially if no one has solicited your input or even worse, your input has been overruled. The plans we have before us for the next three weeks fall into that category for me and several of my colleagues, but there is no such thing as trouble shooting when you aren't in the loop.

Many years ago I unsuccessfully resolved to strike the word "should" from my vocabulary. Today I don't remember my motivation then; the best I can reconstruct is some realization that very few people actually want advice, but it might have been the consistent accusations of bossiness from my brother, too. 

Either way, I realized today that my next 100 day challenge might be some form of eliminating that word from my discourse. 

Life Lesson: Some languages don't even have the concept of *should*. Maybe they are on to something.

F is for Fifty Years Later

"I first started Waltoning about ten years ago when I was in my late 40s," answered the round-faced blonde woman who had a few minutes earlier admitted us to the six-room farm house built in 1915

After she had collected our ten dollar admission fee and given us her introductory spiel, we were free to wander the house. "I had guests here last night," she shrugged. "I have to clean! But do let me know if you have any questions."

It was then that I asked her how she had come to own this house on Schuyler Mountain where Earl Hamner, Jr. and his seven brothers and sisters had grown up. The place was our last stop of three on a relatively bustling crossroads in the middle of not much else. We had already been to the Walton's Mountain Museum and also the general store, but this was the actual house where the family who inspired The Waltons had lived until 1990.

Since it was a mere 20 minutes off the highway, I thought visiting this landmark on our way home from Lynchburg was a no-brainer, and I only questioned my resolve slightly when the waitress at breakfast, a delightful young woman in her early 20s who was friendly enough to ask about our plans for the day, had never heard of our destination (never mind the TV show!) despite the fact it was less than an hour away. The rest of the graduation group was also less than enthusiastic when we shared our plans with them before our farewells. "That sounds like a classic Tracey plan!" one of them actually said. 

"We'll report back and let you know if it's worth the detour!" I replied cheerfully.

And my optimism never flagged until we were inside the museum and looking at photocopied photos of the actors and articles about the show. A 30 minute, poor quality video from the late 90s did nothing for my enthusiasm, and we moved quickly through the iffy replicas of the set (John Boy's room, the living room, the kitchen, the Baldwin sisters' parlor, and Ike's store, which was also the gift shop) stopping briefly at the photos of the real Hamners. Our next stop was a general store with a bored clerk and very little inventory, heavy on tin Christmas ornaments and mason jar accessories. 

My hopes were not high as we climbed the steps onto the front porch of the tiny white national historic landmark, but seeing the actual house that this family of 10 had lived in during the depression and beyond seemed as if it might be a little more meaningful than the other two stops. And it was and it wasn't. The house was surprisingly roomy, given its appearance. There was a big open kitchen, a large living room, 2 bedrooms downstairs (one that had been converted to a full bath, and two upstairs, one for the boys and one for the girls. 

In the end, I didn't regret stopping, but I can't recommend it either. The whole place is as faded as the photos in the museum. The TV show was a cultural phenomenon when it first aired 50 yers ago, but memories of it are dimming as the folks who watched it age. I do believe the site could be reimagined as a history of the depression in rural Virginia, generalizing the experience and capitalizing on the show, but unless a re-visioning happens (and is funded)? I can't see how the place can be around for very much longer.

Life Lesson: Evolve or die.

E is for Extended

We gathered today in Lynchburg for the high school graduation of Heidi's goddaughter. The last time we were in this little city on the James River was nearly 18 years ago, when the same child was born. Shortly after that, her family moved to New Jersey, and over the years we've attended christenings and first communions and other milestone events of hers and older sister's where we have met her grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and other close family friends. It's been about 10 years since the last celebration, though, and in that time the family has returned to the same private school where her dad  worked when she and her sister were born, and it was from that school that she graduated today. 

How strange it is to spend the day with people that we know and keep up with through our mutual acquaintance but have only met a few times and haven't seen in ten years. Dining on sandwich wraps and cookies, the quality of interaction shifts from superficial to friendly to almost intimate. But then the conversation flags and we stand awkwardly to throw our paper plate in the trash, refill a solo cup with ice tea, and repeat the ritual with another partner until it's time for good byes. There will be the decision to hug or not to hug. "Safe travels!" we will say. "It was so good to see you again."

"Until next time!" they might answer, 

And because it occurs to us that these meetings are most definitely numbered, we nod and lean into that hug.

Life Lesson: Live in fragments no longer. Only connect! ~E.M. Forester

L is for Lynchburg

We are headed out on a pre-summer road trip this evening. A goddaughter is graduating from high school down in Lynchburg, VA, and we are off to cheer her on. The ceremony will be held tomorrow morning at 10:30 out on the lawn of her school. Far from calling for rain, tomorrow's forecast is sunny and 95. 

Of course we hope that the day will heat up slowly, but it is 97 down there right now, so there's a chance that it will be warm and muggy from the get go. Even so and despite leaving the dog behind in the good hands of my brother, I'm looking forward to going somewhere, being somewhere, and seeing somewhere other than this old town. 

We were talking about the upcoming trip with a colleague whose son graduated from college in Lynchburg yesterday. "It is a pretty little town,: she declared, "despite the unfortunate name."

Life Lesson: Sometimes a change of scenery will do you well.