Weren't We All

My dearest friend from high school is in Lugano, Switzerland, where we went to school, right this minute. How miraculous it seems to see the pictures she is texting me! 

Here is the hotel by the Funicolare, there the department store where we spent our pocket money on weekends, here the piazza we called Federale Square, and there the arcade of the Salumeria, still festooned with huge, hanging salamis. 

Modern technology allows me to see, almost in real-time, the place we lived and graduated from, a few days shy of 44 years ago. 

Downtown looks so different to me, even though the buildings are old, my friend texted. Basically, I didn't observe or appreciate the amazing surroundings here as a youth.

Don't be too hard on yourself, I responded. You were a great kid!

Still No

There is a particular fence post on a certain little walking route through our neighborhood that our first dog, Isabel, could not pass by without pausing to sniff. Once she had filled her nose, she always broke into a happy little trot along the fence line. For years, this was part of our morning routine. 

I clearly remember the first time I walked Lucy past the same spot: I was dismayed when she never even hesitated, just kept on her way as if there was no reason to pause. I guess I took it as a clear message to vary the route because it's rare that we find ourselves there. 

Today was an exception, though. I took Lucy for a little afternoon jaunt in the glorious weather, and as we meandered through the neighborhood, that fence post was on the way home. Even after seven years, I slowed my step in anticipation of a sniff and a trot, but of course, I was with a different dog, and she passed right on by.

As it Should Be

Maybe it's the fair weather, or perhaps it's the bond I am feeling with my students, but my realization this morning that there are only two more Fridays left in the school year was bittersweet. And as much as I am looking forward to a three-day weekend, this traditional start to summer seems almost too early. Could it be I'm not ready?

As I write, I am sitting in the sun shining through my classroom windows, watching the colleagues that can duck out a little early heading to their cars, and admiring the seedlings that the kids and I have planted over the last few weeks. The little plants are taking root and growing tall, and they are almost ready to be moved out to where they can spend the summer growing on their own. 

A Day in the Life

In the ever-evolving battle to drain some of the energy from my nutty 5th period class, I have alternately allowed puppets, soccer balls, wobbly stools, standing, and all manner of movement breaks. And yet, they persist in their good-natured rowdiness. 

When it is productive? I'm okay with the barely managed chaos, but when it is not, I move about the room corraling wayward writers and doing my best to refocus them. 

Today, a few kids noticed the seedlings on the windowsill that my homeroom had planted. "Can I plant something?" one asked. 

"Sure, as soon as you finish the lead paragraph for your profile," I told him, and he set to work immediately. Not too much later he was back and filling a small paper cup with soil and cilantro seeds. After watering it thoroughly and placing it on the window sill, he returned to the table where I was working with another student.

"What can I do now?" he wanted to know.

"Write your alphabiography," I pointed to the agenda on the screen. "How about 'S is for Seed'?"

His eyes lit up and he literally hopped up and down. "Yes!" he agreed and ran off to write his 100 words. 

I turned my attention to another kid who held up the hand exerciser that was part of the commercial production unit. "Can I use this?" he asked.

"As soon as you have three more sentences," I said, pointing at his lead.

"I'll do it right away!" he replied.

Fortunately, my room is full of little things my students often find fascinating, which another student in the class remarked on a little while later. "I'm going to walk around this room and find the most amazing thing in it!" he declared.

Since he was mostly finished with his work, I shrugged my permission. "That's a matter of opinion, though," I pointed out as he roamed the room.

He turned and nodded, then came back over and patted my shoulder. "I found it!" he called out to the class. "The most amazing thing in here is Ms. S!" He lowered his voice. "I hope I didn't offend you by calling you a 'thing'," he said.

"Not at all," I told him. "And thank you! I think you guys are amazing, too."

Top Dog

We were standing at Lucy's dogsitter's chatting when I noticed that her puppy, Teddy, was on the back of the couch staring intently out the front window. His tail was thumping, and he kept looking from the window to Marley, one of the other five dogs present, who was lying on the floor. 

At last, because Teddy so obviously saw something that he wanted badly to communicate, I stepped over to the window and crouched to his eye level so that I could see it too. There was Marley's person, walking from her car to the gate! 

At seven months? Teddy could recognize vehicles and people, and connect them to his canine buddies. 

How long will it be until he rules the house?

Aftermath

My afternoon class was antsy and unfocused today. The situation was hardly surprising: there was a new desk arrangement, a modified schedule, they were just back from lunch, and oh, yes, this morning was the state reading test. 

As such, I moved around the room as I taught and struck an even more animated demeanor than usual. At one point, after using my signature wolf whistle to refocus the group, I said, "Geesh you all! You act like you spent the whole morning sitting quietly and taking a state reading test!"

"We DID!!!!" they howled.

"Well," I opened my hands in an exaggerated shrug, "what about me?"

They looked blankly at me.

"That's right!" I told them. "You think it's bad to take that test? At least you had something to do! How would you like to spend all that time just watching other people take the test?"

At least one student laughed, and I knew they saw my point. 

It sure didn't matter though; they were ruined for the day. Which? Was hardly a surprise.

Mightier than the Sword

Back when I was in high school, I wrote everything in fountain pen. Call me pretentious if you will, but we were in Europe where they sold all manner of fountain pens from a twirly rack in every department store. 

My friend Amy shared my affection for that implement, and our pen of choice was a work-a-day model from Pelikan, the German factory. It was lightweight and inexpensive and made for students. The basic options when it came to ink cartridges were black and blue, but we sometimes entertained ourselves with turquoise and Fuschia. 

When we graduated, we both got fancy Mont Blanc fountain pens, which were heavier and of course, more expensive. Those pens also took a different-sized ink cartridge, one that was a little longer and that you could refill yourself from an actual bottle of ink. But the trade-off was that the smaller cartridges fit neatly two to the barrel, with one always in reserve for when its mate ran out. 

You can probably tell that I never did cotton to that fancy pen, but back in the States for college, I couldn't buy the right ink cartridges for my Pelikano, either, and so both pens ended up dry and in the back of my desk drawer, and over the years, I've lost both of them. 

Oh, I've found other stand-ins, and to be honest, I own three inexpensive fountain pens. The cartridges must be easier to come by now, in this age of easy, global mail-order. Even so, I never use those pens, and in fact, the ink cartridges I have are all filled with dried-up ink. It's hardly surprising: I think I probably purchased them when I visited Paris in the year 2000.

When Amy came to town for a visit back in April, she whipped out her fountain pen to sign the credit card receipt for her part of our "Raclette Experience." 

"You have to try this," she told me and handed it over. 

The thin and easy flow of ink on paper stirred a muscle memory in me, and I smiled in total agreement. 

Since then, she has sent me two handwritten letters, one of thanks for the small bit of hospitality I showed her when she was here, and the other a proposal that we hearken back to our younger years and become fountain pen pals. I do like that idea-- so much so that I dug into the back of my drawer and found those fountain pens, along with the one cartridge that still has liquid ink. Then I popped it in, wet my thumb and forefinger, and primed the nib, scribbling a bit back and forth on an index card until I was rewarded with a continuous flow of blue ink.