Ancient History

I was listening to a podcast about commercial jingles as I cooked dinner last night. Given the fact that my sixth grade classes recently finished a media literacy unit where they produced their own 60 second commercials, I found the content especially engaging. The show explored how jingles first came to be used for advertising and followed their history up to and through the "golden age" of jingles in the 1970s and 80s. 

After that, jingles faded when many companies explored licensing actual pop songs, in hopes that consumer feelings for the artist would transfer to the product. But while the use of those songs was good for the performers, it turned out that the association to what the companies were selling was just not strong enough. Plus, most licenses were only for a few years, which made establishing a long-term connection even harder.

They also explained how about 10 years ago, ads had to evolve to fit new media; think of those 15 second VRBO and Grammerly spots that air before many YouTube videos. With a shorter format, the time it took to cue up a jingle or song no longer made sense, so many commercials cut their musical signature to a half-dozen notes and a voiceover of the hook.

Given all that history, some of the most recognizable jingles today were actually written over 50 years ago, a couple of them by Barry Manilow. And here's where the producers of the podcast shocked me most:

For those of you who don't know Barry Manilow, they actually said, he was a singer-songwriter who was huge in the 1970s and 80s.

Who!

Is

their 

audience?

Patu

It was pajama day here at school, which is a little redundant for many kids who wear pjs to school all the time. Even so, old traditions die hard, and so when they were planning spirit week, pajama day was on the calendar. 

But as I looked around the hallway this morning, I noticed that the kids do actually have a more nuanced view of what constitutes pajamas than I do. Plaid flannel bottoms, a t-shirt, hoodie, and crocs are no longer even considered real pjs; that outfit qualifies as school clothes. This morning bathrobes, slippers, pajama sets, and cozies were all on display. 

"Can I go freshen up?" asked one of my students after lunch. I looked at him, resplendent in his Baby Yoda onesie with a pointy-ear hood, and considered his request, so odd for a sixth grader to make.

"Freshen up, you may, youngling, " I told him.

Field Trip Calculus

32 kids,
2 teachers,
3 chaperones, and
6 miles 
across the National Mall,
around the Tidal Basin,
through the cherry blossom tourists, and
12 blocks back to the bus--

now that adds up to a [fun] day!

Contagious Enthusiasm

I was dressed out and on my way down to the gym for a little pickleball last Thursday when I passed a friend and colleague in the hall.

"So you're one of them," he teased. 

I knew what he was referring to: our community is wrestling with a turbulent pickleball situation. In an attempt to provide more courts for the fastest growing sport in the country, Parks and Rec offered to convert a few tennis courts outside one of the rec centers. 

On my! By the neighborhood reaction, you would have thought they were recommending a nuclear power plant across the street. Accusations of public nuisance, excessive noise, bullying children, and even public urination were among the slings and arrows targeting the proposal.

"I just play downstairs," I told my friend. "But it is really fun. Have you ever played?"

"Nope," he answered.

"Well," I said, "I dare you to try it. I double dare you!"

He met my eye and raised his brow. "Maybe I will," he conceded. "But not today-- I'm too busy!" And he made a quick left down the hall and away.

I was surprised a little later when he texted. 

When do you play?
                            Every Tuesday and Thursday.
Good to know!

I was even more surprised when he met me at the court this afternoon. After a quick overview of the rules, we played doubles in a three game match. Which we won-- And another pickleballer is born.

The Works

I had a dentist appointment after school today. "You're due for x-rays," the hygenist told me looking at my chart. "Do you want those today?"

"I never knew it was an option not to have them," I answered.

"We can't force you," he laughed. "It's always your choice."

"I know they're uncomfortable for a minute," I mused, "but who goes against the recommendation?"

"You'd be surprised," he said. "In fact, when I asked my client right after lunch, he said, 'No thanks, not today.'"

I was stunned. That level of dental non-compliance had never occurred to me. Sure, maybe skipping flossing every now and then when no one was looking, but to refuse x-rays? And so casually, too? Crazy talk!

"Do you want the safety glasses?" the hygenist asked.

Did I? I wondered.

"Of course!" I answered. "I'll take whatever you're offering!"

Goods and Services

 From October to March on any given weekend day you might see pickup trucks laden with firewood idling in the parking lot of our Northern Virginia condo complex. 

Built in the mid-80s, our clapboard townhouse-style units are classic products of their time. Back then, natural gas prices were at an all-time high, so our community is completely electric. In addition? Each model has a fireplace. Consequently, where other homes have converted their hearths to gas over the last 40 years, ours have remained wood burning.

I am not complaining. Back in 1999 when I was shopping for a home my one must-have was a fireplace, and I have enjoyed mine considerably over the years since. In the coldest months we have a fire every night, but unlike those in single family homes out in the country, we don't have a ready supply of firewood. Nor do we have storage for more than a small rack on our front stoop, so our choices. are to buy pre-packaged bundles at the garden or grocery store, or purchase in small bulk from the people who drive those pickups.

It used to be a first-come arrangement. If our rack was running low, then we would do business with whoever rang our bell. Prices and quality were always negotiable, but the business card was not. "Y'all call me when you need more," they always said, pressing the rectangle of cardstock into our hands. But why call when somebody else would just knock when we needed it?

And that was how it went until about five years ago. One day, a painfully thin woman in a ragged jacket rang the bell, and Heidi answered. At first, it was business as usual, but as she and her cousin, Gay, returned again and again, we forged a bit of a bond with them. And although we have never actually called for more wood, we haven't purchased from anybody else either.

Last weekend when we were out of town, we returned to find our empty wood rack slightly replenished with some dry oak and cedar kindling. Tucked inside the door was a card from G&L Trees and Landscaping. Here's a little bit of wood. I will be back Saturday if you want more. Didn't want you to run out. Lisa, it read.

And when that cold snap came at the end of the week? We sure appreciated the gesture.

It's How You Say It

It was the second day of the Rock, Paper, Scissors tourney (block schedule, don't you know) and the B Day kids were equally enthusiastic as their A Day fellows. The excitement rose as we made it to the quarter finals with a few wild card entries coming from behind.

"This is actually fun for a change," a student caught my eye  to comment. I raised my eyebrows, but he missed the cue and continued. "Can we do things like this more often?"

"Since you ask like that?" I answered. 

He smiled expectantly.

"No," I finished.

"It was worth a try," he laughed.

"I'm glad you're having fun, though," I told him, and we both turned back to the action.