It Took a Minute

It’s taken me all summer to reconcile the notion that I will not return to school next week with everyone else. 

When she sighed in dismay because she had received her welcome back to school letter from the principal, I asked Heidi to forward it to me so I could live vicariously. I was a bit deflated when the link to the agenda for the staff meeting didn’t work for me. But soon, I realized that maybe, just maybe, not sitting in the theatre all day was a good thing. 

Then, today, for some random reason, I checked my school access again. I suppose I wondered if the start of the new school year would bring further restrictions to what I could and couldn’t see of the virtual infrastructure of my old life. Everything seemed as it had been all summer until I clicked on my grade book for the hell of it. 

There, I was stunned to see six new classes. Curious, I clicked around, just as I would have if I were returning. My homeroom was 17 students, too many for that type of class, and I remembered how much I disagreed with the model our school had put in place for remediation. 

The drop-down menu indicated two intensified classes, which had the smallest enrollment. A quick scan of the faces and names showed me groups that did not represent the school's demographics. The other classes were overloaded with English Language learners and kids with 504s and IEPs. Minimal checking also revealed many students with homerooms on other teams, which meant the middle school model was pretty loose.

I didn’t see any co-teachers or assistants listed, but it is still early in the scheduling process. (Obviously, because my name is still on the classes!) The room number had been changed to reflect that the new guy was getting an interior classroom, though. 

 “Woof,” I shook my head at the challenges facing the person who was actually going to teach those classes, and suddenly, retirement seemed like a pretty good idea after all.

No Problem

I'm always shocked when I see a shattered screen. My reaction may be improbable, given the number of young people with devices I used to spend most of my time with. Even so, the response of the person with the damaged screen is usually inverse to my own.

Years ago, I read an essay by David Sedaris about a time when he tried to put an injured mouse he had captured in his country house out of its misery. When he looked down at it in the bucket where he was attempting to drown it, it was swimming lamely, but gamely, around, despite its injuries as if to say, "I can work with this!"

I often think of that mouse when I see the lengths people will go to to avoid having their screens repaired. "You can't use the right half of the keyboard," they might shrug, "just use Siri for those letters."

As a teacher, I would deliver the hard blow without hesitation. "Give me that!" I'd tell the student, "I'm going to put a ticket in to fix it." Soon enough, the sting of being without their device would be salved by a repaired screen at no cost to them.

Out in the world, I don't have that power, and so, as I stated at the top, I'm shocked by the number of folks who use their device with a damaged screen until, well, they can't anymore. "It's fine," they routinely tell me, adding that they either don't want to pay or be without it for the repair. 

Of course, there is also the phenomenon of creeping inoperability. A couple of weeks ago, Heidi tripped and landed on her phone. She wasn't hurt, but the screen did suffer some damage. "We should have that fixed," I suggested.

"It's fine," she assured me. "Everything works."

That's no longer true, although I will hand it to her—she has found many workarounds. "Let's get that fixed tomorrow," I said a little while ago as she was scrolling through her address book to find a contact whose name she couldn't type on the broken keyboard.

"Okay," she agreed, "but I think it's probably good for my brain to have to find new ways to keep everything working!"

Name That Jet

One of the gifts we gave to Victor for his birthday was a set of tree identification cards, and we had fun at the beach going through them and quizzing ourselves and each other. I thought of those today when we visited the Udvar Hazy location of the National Air and Space Museum.

The place has been open out near Dulles Airport since 2003, but I had never been, despite the draw of Space Shuttle Discovery and an Air France Concorde. And, in fact, those two crafts were my only must see exhibits when we arrived after the 30-minute drive. 

We started in the section of the hangar with military aircraft, but they quickly became a bit overwhelming and tedious. I liked seeing some of the planes I'd heard of: fighter jets and helicopters I knew from movies, a Blue Angel jet, the record-setting Blackbird, but the sheer firepower made me a little sad.

In the end, it was the commercial airliners that made my day. At lunch, I told Victor and Treat how when we were kids, we used to be able to identify almost all the planes at the airport by make and model. Such knowledge only made sense for an airline family, but we were kind of nerds about it; geeking out with our other airline friends whenever the clock turned 10:11 or 7:47.

Shortly after that conversation, we found a display case of models of vintage commercial airliners, and I demonstrated my knowledge by correctly naming most of them. Right before we left, we went up to the museum's observation tower, and I found it unexpectedly thrilling to watch the planes landing on the two runways at Dulles as we listened to the live chatter from Air Traffic Control and the cockpits. 

Although I scanned the livery to name the airline as soon as possible, I was stumped by the type of plane, and a set of fancy flashcards would have been just right.

At the Old Ball Game

It was a gift of an August day in Washington—82, breezy, and low humidity at 11:45 this morning when Mackenzie Gore threw the first pitch of the Nats-Angels game. We were up in the third tier, right above the first baseline, with a clear view of the plate and our free jerseys in hand. 

The park was nearly empty, and not even the organist was playing. It might have been that this is a prime vacation week in this town, our team is out of playoff contention, or most of the starters were second-string. Whatever the cause, we enjoyed practically having the section to ourselves as we watched the game progress. It was scoreless until the top of the fourth when the Angels put five runs on the board. 

When the Nats could not answer them for a couple innings more, Heidi grew disgusted and went off in search of water and popcorn. She missed seeing LA bring it to 6-0 in the seventh, which was probably just as well. There was a rally in the 8th; the home team scored 2 and had the tying run at the plate with the bases loaded. Improbably, the same scenario occurred in the bottom of the ninth. The Nats had a real chance to tie or even win, but the game ended abruptly at 6-4 after the Angels turned a double play.

We were filing out with the rest of the light crowd when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Three of my 6th graders from last year folded me into a big hug. We spent a happy few minutes catching up and basking in our mini-reunion before we went our separate ways.

"Now, that was a great day at the ballpark!" I told Heidi.

Someone Who Knows

"How's retirement?" a friend's mom in from out of town asked this afternoon.

I gave my standard answer. "So far, it's just been like summer break," I laughed.

She is a former teacher and nodded knowingly. "You won't really feel it until school starts."

I knew what she meant. I definitely felt a twinge of uncertainty when Heidi got her back-to-school letter from the principal yesterday, and I eagerly read over the pre-service week schedule and agendas, wondering all along if perhaps I had made a mistake. 

"I'll be honest," she continued, "I did go through a period where I questioned my purpose. After being a teacher for so long, how could I not?"

I nodded in recognition. 

"But you know what?" she told me. "That did not last long, and I'm here to tell you that retirement is wonderful!"

It's a Wash

Tropical Storm Debby did not ruin our beach vacation. Sure, there was a little rain and some overcast skies, but there was also quality beach time and pool time. And, to be honest? We went for the company, and that did not disappoint. Neither did the food, thanks to local produce, fresh seafood, and my brother's great cooking.

Tropical Storm Debby did, however, make our trip home rather hellish. Torrential rain, blinding road spray, a 40-minute delay due to a horrific accident, and Treat's phone blaring tornado warnings all added up to a long and grueling drive. Although the company was, once again, delightful. 

Tropical Storm Debby might have ruined our day today with drenching downpours and flood and tornado warnings, making ducking out for anything the equivalent of a cold shower. But we needed the rain so badly that it was impossible to be upset.

Walking Lucy just an hour after the sheets tapered to a drizzle, we ran into a neighbor with his own dog. "I can't believe how dry the ground is after all that rain!" he marveled, standing in the middle of a grassy common in flip flops. "My feet aren't wet at all."

But at least the grass wasn't brown and crunchy anymore.

Over Confidence

I recently read that professional table tennis players are often challenged by amateurs who are confident they can offer a competitive game. Of course, it's rare for such players to even score a point on the pros, but there's something about how commonplace ping pong tables are in basements and rec centers that makes the sport seem unrealistically accessible to the casual paddler. 

I thought of that today as I watched Lucy chase seagulls on the beach. She was confident that she could catch one, and they seemed to indulge her—swooping low before flying away so that she raced in large loops around and down the shoreline. She really believed she had a chance, but in the end, she didn't even get a feather.