Frances

We were shopping for Bill's birthday yesterday when we came upon a small shop at the foot of King Street in Old Town Alexandria called "Fat Face". The place turned out to be a brick and mortar location for a British "lifestyle brand" that is self-proclaimed to "reflect the happy, healthy lifestyle of our customers." Slogans aside, the place had some cool stuff, and a gift was procured. 

On the way back to our car, Courtney and Heidi and I bantered about the name of the shop, until my sister and I made the connection between Fat Face and a song my mom taught us when we were kids. The song was aimed at a classmate of hers that she and her friends considered to be condescending, mostly because her father was the mayor of their town. This girl also boasted about their summer home, which chapped my mom and her friends so much that they gave her the nickname Fat Face and sang mockingly about her behind her back.

It is a terrible ditty, bur my mother would laugh uproariously every time she belted it out it, and the three of us can sing it to this day, which we did this evening at Bill's party. Could there be any doubt who was there in spirit?

Get Over It

My brother is turning 60 and our little sister flew up from Atlanta so that we could all celebrate together. And the party started last night with takeout, games, and a lot of laughter. 

One of the old family stories we revisited was when about the time Bill and I ate the neighbor's strawberries. When she discovered the larceny, my mother sent the two of us, just 4 and 2 years old, next door to apologize, but we never made it. A little while later she found us crying on the tiny hill that separated our yards, and so she personally marched us over to confess our theft. I'm not sure who was more uncomfortable at that moment: me and Bill or Mrs. Huddleston.

Every year during April my students write parodies of the classic William Carlos Williams poem This is Just to Say, and having read 30 or so over the last week, my response to the tale of the stolen fruit was such:

This is just to say
I have eaten
the strawberries
that were
in your garden

and which
you were probably
saving
for shortcake

Forgive me
they were delicious
so warm
and so sweet

Circles

My classroom phone rang and reaching for the receiver I saw on the display that it was the principal. As I answered, I felt more curious than anything else, especially since she's called me perhaps twice in the 11 years we've worked together. 

"I'm looking at your intent to return form," she told me.

"and I wrote that I'm not sure," I finished for her.

"Right," she agreed. "I was hoping you might be a little more sure now?"

I took a sharp breath. The conversation was unexpected, and I felt put on the spot. "Um," I hedged.

"There is paperwork we have to do if you're not," she continued, "and I'm really hoping we won't have to do that paperwork!" 

"I'll be back," I said. 

"I'm so glad," she replied.

"I guess I just needed a personal invitation," I laughed awkwardly.

But after we hung up, rather than feeling relieved that the question of next year was settled, I had that sense of remorse that comes with choosing too quickly.

And, since my verbal agreement is not binding, I'm right back to where I was before the call.

Candid Camera

I was looking out my classroom window at the end of the day, watching the stream of students and their families pass by on their way home from school when one of my current students joined me. She was there to make up a test, but like me, she was temporarily captivated by the people outside. 

Our attention was drawn to a student and a man who I knew to be his parent. The boy was agitated and the man quickened his pace and stepped in front of him several times in an attempt to slow him down. At last, they stopped right in front of us, and it was clear that there was some conflict between them.

"Should I record this with my phone?" my student asked in all sincerity.

"No!" I answered. 

Outside, the two came to some uneasy agreement and hugged briefly.

"Awwww," said my student. "That was one of the most touching things I have ever seen. I wish I had it recorded!"

"But that would be an invasion of their privacy," I pointed out.

"True," she shrugged, "but they are right there in front of everyone."

She was right, of course. In public, we should have no expectation of privacy. Even so, our conversation stuck with me long after she was gone. Recording people, especially strangers, without their consent never occurs to me, but it was this youngster's first thought. 

Of course, it's generational, but it's also a huge paradigm shift.

Validation

I'm one of those people who put off having my hair cut. I go faithfully to the dentist every 6 months, and I have my physical annually, but haircuts? I postpone as long as I can. When I do go, I generally get a pretty short clip, and then let it grow out. The change is so gradual, that it hardly seems necessary to take any measures.

Recently my scheduling situation has been further complicated by the fact that my regular stylist has moved away, and so I don't even have a go-to. My last haircut was months ago, and both the person who cut it and the style itself were nice enough, so I decided to go back for a second time. The new stylist greeted me warmly when I arrived and showed me to her chair so that we could discuss options. "You're hair looks great!" she told me. "Who cut it last?"

"You did!" I laughed as her eyes widened in the mirror. "I haven't had it cut since October! That's how I always do." I shrugged.

"Well," she nodded, "it works for you!"

Of Carrots and Sticks

I heard recently of some teachers so frustrated by their charges that when the guidelines for participating in a special event were issued stating that any student with three or more referrals would be excluded they sat down and referred the most troublesome kids three times. 

As veteran teachers, we sigh at such folly: those students have nothing to lose and we have 2 months left in the school year. "They have to at least give them a chance to earn it back," one of my colleagues commented today.

"And a little support to do that," another added.

"Right! It's all stick and no carrot," someone else concluded.

I agreed. It wasn't until I realized that the stick should be a lever rather than a lash that I (pardon the pun) got a real handle on classroom management.

Turn Around Bright Eyes

I was almost 8 in March of 1970 when a total eclipse was set to obscure 95 percent of the sun over our home in South Jersey. The details are vague, but I remember they involved shoe boxes and pinholes, and stepping not even one foot outside. My parents closed the living room curtains, leaving a slight crack through which a ray of sun shone through the tiny hole in the viewing contraption they had rigged. I don't recall being particularly awed by the actual eclipse, but the precautions for it made a huge impression on me.

When I talked to my younger brother about it a couple of weeks ago, his recollection confirmed mine. "All I remember is being terrified of going blind," he said. "I thought even one little look would burn my eyes permanently!"

Times have changed. I was at the grocery store 7 years ago when an 80 percent eclipse passed overhead. Then, I looked at it in the reflection of the dark tinted windows of my car until a kindly stranger offered his eclipse glasses for a moment so I could see the bite the moon was taking from the sun.

And today, our school system distributed free eclipse glasses to all students and staff, and I was able to track the progress of our 87 percent obscuration during my planning time, from the comfort of my classroom. Then, at around 3:15, I stepped outside with some friends and colleagues and peered at the peak of the spectacle, the sun a glowing claw in the amber sky of my glasses.

Without the protective shades, the light was strangely dim and golden, the shadows oddly short given the gloam we stood in. It was magical, and I wished our family had ventured outside for just a moment or two all those 54 years ago.