Minimart

Before the pandemic, we would regularly drive half an hour or more to shop at our favorite grocery store, Wegmans. But along with a lot of other folks, our shopping habits have changed over the last two years, and now we generally buy our groceries much closer to home now, usually at a store we can walk to. Even so, there was excitement in our household when a couple of weeks ago a new Wegmans opened only 20 minutes from us. 

Today was the day when we made our first visit to that new store. The route was familiar; 22 years ago a huge movie theater opened in the same area, which was then the end of the yellow line of the metro, and for over a decade it was our go to. Over the years that outpost became more desirable and it no longer made sense to have a three acre parking lot for a theater, an office building, and a few restaurants. So that's where they built a 15 story apartment building with a Wegmans on the ground floor. 

Founded in 1916 in Rochester, the chain expanded slowly throughout Western New York. Their first Buffalo location opened in 1977, and it is through Heidi's family that I first became aware of what can only be described as the amazing grocery shopping experience they offer. For most of their history, their stores were big and sprawling, indicative of the inexpensive commercial real estate in those locations. 

When Wegmans first arrived in our area, the stores were in the far outer suburbs, hence the drives we were willing to make. A couple of years ago, Wegmans opened a smaller, store out at Tysons Corner, also on the metro line. The design of that location was scaled back and curated to accommodate a smaller space, but it is not the same shopping experience. 

And that is the layout we found today at the newest Wegmans. Heidi was very disappointed, despite the fact that we can get most of the items on our list, she missed the wide selection that we have come to expect. On our way home, we passed a few neighbors and rolled down the windows to chat. "We were at the new Wegmans," Heidi reported. "It was stinky!"

They looked surprised, especially the guy from Rochester. "So WegMANs wasn't very manly?" asked another of them.

"Definitely not!" Heidi answered.

"More like Wegboys," I said.

Crazy 8s

 Most of my homeroom had other things to do this morning: a couple were absent, others had SOL remediation, running club, math help. I invited the few kids who were left to play cards with me. "What games do you know?" I asked. 

"Uhhh," one student hesitated, "Spoons?"

I had taught a larger group that game a little earlier in the year, but to me, Spoons is the word search of card games-- an empty exercise, lacking any challenge or necessary skills. It is easy to teach, though, and kids love it.

"What about Crazy 8s?" I suggested. "Do you know that one?"

They did not, but the fact that Uno is based on Crazy 8s made it another relatively easy to teach game. We began with a shuffle and a deal, and I watched with interest as kids arranged their cards in several ways both in and out of their hands. "You hold all 8 cards so that only you can see them," I explained, and we were off.

As we played, it became clear that determining suits and face cards was another challenge, as was noticing when they picked up an eight. Even so, we played on. The student to my right was very into the game, but she was too candid in her verbal processing. "Oh no!" she cried when the suit was changed to spades. "I only have two cards left and they're both hearts!"

"I don't think you want to tell us that," the kid on the other side of her said, changing it to diamonds. Still we played on; I modeling the best demeanor and strategy I could, often asking if they had the same number or an 8 in their fistful of cards when they expressed dismay at not having the same suit at their turn.

At last someone, not me, won. "That was fun!" everyone agreed. "Can we play again?" 

Fortunately, the next game was a lot smoother, a little more like the thousands of hands of Crazy 8s I played with my brother and sister and neighbors and cousins and friends when I was growing up.

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.