Good Deed Bad Deed

The pandemic has forced our dog walker to change her business model to make ends meet. In addition to walks, potty breaks, and trips to the dog park, she has added doggie day care and boarding to her services. At any given time, she might have between two and seven dogs at her house, including her own pair of mini-Aussies. She also is a SCUBA instructor and dive master, and occasionally her work in that field has her away for the weekend. Those times, she gets a friend or neighbor to look after whatever dogs she has, because she needs the money from both jobs.

Sometimes in the past year or so, when she has been in a bind, she has asked Heidi and me to stop by on a Saturday morning or afternoon and let the dogs out in her yard for some exercise and relief. I'm usually happy to help, although the dogs are often a little wild and anxious. As disconcerting as those circumstances can be to me, it bothers Heidi even more; she hates to see the dogs unhappy.

This weekend, it seems that all the other dog help fell through, and we were asked to let the dogs out a few times today and tomorrow, and feed them tonight. Making the job even harder was the fact that there were eleven (yes! ELEVEN) dogs staying at the house. We needed photos, descriptions, and feeding instructions to be able to care for them all.

We reluctantly agreed to help out, but today has been a very stressful day. Oh, Leo, Theo, Dory, Daisy, Brooklyn, Becket, Blue, Grady, Laika, Isla, and Harper are perfectly nice, but the guest dogs are away from their homes and families and their anxiety at being in an unfamiliar place ramps up with their excitement whenever we arrive. It's chaos, and as much as we want to be helpful and supportive, this situation doesn't fell right for us or the dogs.

Potato Potahto

We had just parked our car on the National Mall and were headed over to check out a couple of exhibits we had been talking about seeing all summer when a late model economy sedan rolled to a stop. The window slid down and a couple of about my age peered anxiously out. "Do you know where the parliament is?" the driver asked me in a thick accent.

I blinked. "The parliament?" I repeated.

"Yes! You know-- elections, Democrats, Republicans?" he elaborated.

"Oh!" I replied. "The Capitol?"

"Yes!" he nodded.

"Keep going straight," I gestured up Jefferson Drive. "You'll see it."

"How did you know what he meant?" Heidi asked.

"What else could it have been?" I shrugged. "He had the right idea."

Of Apples, Early Birds, and Worms

It's hard to believe that at this time next week, we will have completed our first day back at school. Teachers report next Thursday, even though the first day for students is not until a week from the following Monday. 

29 years ago, when I first started teaching, our preservice week was just that: we started the Monday before Labor Day and the kids came the Tuesday after that holiday. We weren't required to work on Friday of that weekend, either, but I usually did. Back then there never seemed like quite enough time to get ready, but maybe that was just me feeling unprepared.

Now, I can't decide if I think making us come back on Thursday and Friday is an act of kindness, or an act of unnecessary authority. Sure, there's plenty to accomplish in those seven work days before instruction begins, but there's also a lot of time to get it all done. Add to that an earlier opening date for students, for the past couple years, they have started the Monday before Labor Day, and it just kind of seems like my summer has been short-changed. 

But as early as August 18 seems to me, our first day is probably only going to get earlier for the next few years. We are scheduled to begin 18 days before Labor Day. This year, the holiday is September 5, but in 2025? If the pattern holds, they'll be calling teachers back on August 14!

I may just have to be enjoying my retirement by then.

The One Where I Try Not to Be a Wimp

I participated in another poetry workshop this afternoon. 

Even though it was offered free to anyone who heard about it, there were only 5 other people beside the poet and the coordinator from the museum. For me, that meant nowhere to hide. They asked us to keep our cameras on, and we were strongly encouraged to share our ideas and our writing, a situation I found very stressful. 

Of course I used my discomfort to empathize with my students when they are in a similar situation, especially one of my conception. I also used it to ask myself what the big deal was. I didn't know any of these folks, and they were super nice and very supportive. There were some amazing contributions from my fellow participants, and I learned a lot in an hour. 

Listening to the poetry they composed in 10 minutes humbled me, and it was constructive not to be the most accomplished writer in the room, an experience I usually only have when my writing group meets. (Since I spend most of my writing time with sixth graders and all!) 

There are still 2 more sessions, both on ekphrastic poetry inspired by the Reckoning: Protest. Defiance. Resilience exhibit at the National Museum of African American History and Culture, and I think I might be brave enough to do them both.

Gladiator 2.0

Back in the mid-90s, when almost all internet access was dial-up, I was invited by AOL to be a Beta tester.  I'm not sure why I was selected, but I gleefully embraced my job, which really just entailed downloading the test software, occasionally answering short surveys, and, in an age when you paid by the hour, more online time than I could ever use. 

I thought about those days this evening, when the NYTimes notified me that I needed to update my beta version of their audio app, which I was also selected to pilot. I'm not sure if I am the ideal candidate for this job; their content has substantial competition from my other audio feeds, a combination of podcasts, audio books, and NPR, but I must say that I am impressed and enjoy whenever I listen to one of their productions. Many are feature articles recorded by the reporter, and they combine solid journalism with excellent writing and an authentic voice. Nothing to complain about, there.

Last week I listened to a trilogy of articles about the history, culture, and puffins (!) of Iceland, which made me feel closer to my nephew who is living there for a few years, and tonight I heard a story about the doctors who sit ringside during mixed martial arts competitions. Like the Iceland pieces, I chose this one because of personal connection. One of my former students, both homeroom and English, is a rising star in MMA.

It just so happens that one of our assistant principals is a former marine and devotee of the sport, and it was he that shared Sam's Instagram account with me. After a bit of hesitation, I followed him, and I was happy when he acknowledged my support. Most of his posts are training and weigh-ins, but there is definitely footage from his fights.

In the Times piece, they focused on the ethical dilemma of physicians who participate in a sport where the object is to harm your opponent. Some doctors wonder if their presence legitimizes actions which contradict the oath they take to do no harm, but others rationalize their role. "We're like pulmonologists who treat smokers," says one. "We don't condone smoking, but people have free will."

I wondered, on a much smaller scale, about my own culpability in supporting Sam. I remember responding to an email from his mother when he was in sixth grade about his irritability and lack of focus. She told me then it was because he wasn't eating so that he could cut weight to make his wrestling class. "Oh no!" I wrote, "We don't encourage that in middle school competition." But I was wrong. I found out later that the wrestling coaches did tell their athletes to skip meals before competition days. 

It was clear then that the sport was counterproductive, if not harmful, to Sam. I can't say what his situation is now: he's very successful, but according to the article, unless they suffer a career ending injury, most MMA fighters suffer traumatic brain injury later in life. That's not surprising, given that the object of the competition is to physically disable your opponent. Of course the athletes are playing the odds, testing the system, sure that they will be the exception who comes out on top and unscathed.

Our society is forever evolving. I left AOL behind decades ago, and I know that part of the NYT Audio app is in response to print media's adapt or die mode. But blood sports? The only beta testers there are the athletes themselves.

Fly Away

We are six years late to the party, but finally into Stranger Things. Over the weekend we finished the first season, and I have little doubt the show will be at the top of our play list until we catch up with all of you fans. 

It's hard to say why I have resisted the series for so long, other than its main hook, that 80s thing, is a little off-putting to me. I did not love the 80s. Gasp if you must, but a combination of challenging personal situations made it a very tough decade for me, and so I don't have much nostalgia for it. 

But if there was one detail in Stranger Things of life back then that resonated with me, it was not the music, or the fashion, or the clunky technology, and even though I love a banana seat bike, it wasn't those either, it was the simple presence of a mix tape. Just seeing the hand-lettered cassette took me back to those pre-playlist days when, if you really cared? You spent hours finding the perfect songs and meticulously putting them in order: dropping the needle on the right track on the vinyl LP while simultaneously hitting play AND record on the tape deck. 

It was an art. And the products of that labor were treasures. In certain situations, you couldn't give a more meaningful gift. Even if the tape was for yourself, listening to it later it was always like a little time capsule, a trip back to who and where you were when you made it.

When we were kids in Saudi Arabia, western music was not readily available to us. We could hear British pop traveling 17 miles across the Arabian Gulf to us from Radio Bahrain, and once a week we might hear American Top 40 on our nearest Voice of America station. In any case, we had to wait until we went back to the States to buy records, but it didn't stop us from making mix tapes. We would record from the radio, or from another tape deck snugged up to ours, or borrow records from our friends, but we had mix tapes. 

And in the late 70s and early 80s? All of our cassettes had at least one song by Olivia Newton John. I was so sad to hear the news that she died today. Maybe it was nostalgia that made me search her discography, but when I did I found the last thing she released, The Window in the Wall, a song she sang with her daughter last year. Even at 72, having battled cancer for decades, her voice was as strong and warm as ever. I will miss knowing she is in the world. 

How Life Goes On

The babysitting request came just as Delaney dropped her packed bag in the dining room. Her dad was on the way to drive her home when Heidi's phone chimed. Would we be available to watch our friends' little girl, Olivia, for a couple hours? 

Would we!

And as it turned out, Olivia's dad dropped her off a few minutes before Delaney's dad picked her up, so our 18-year-old guest got a chance to meet and hold our 5-month-old guest, and so did her dad. 

"I think I'm ready for the next generation!" he smiled, bouncing the baby.

I raised my eyebrows. "Right now?" I asked.

He shrugged, obviously enjoying the infant endorphins. "Whenever it happens," he answered. "Whenever it happens."