A Poor Substitute

I debated long and hard when a friend and former colleague asked me to take the long-term sub job when she goes out for a month to recover from a hip replacement in April. I would be teaching science on my old sixth-grade team in the room right next door to mine, which is as tempting an offer to substitute as I can imagine.

In fact, that very room was the site of my first ever substitute job, back in the spring of ‘93, when I was subbing and looking for a full-time teaching position for the next school year. That particular sub job was not memorable other than being the first and also being located on the team at the school where I was eventually hired and stayed for my entire career. 

The same cannot be said for other sub jobs I took. There was the one where the 8th grade at another middle school girl lied about her name, pretending to be somebody else. That was hardly surprising, but the lack of support I got when I reported the incident did take me aback. “That’s unlikely,” said the teacher next door. “It really doesn’t sound like her.”

Another memorable interaction happened when I was encouraging a student at the alternative high school to do his U.S. History assignment, which was using crayons to shade a map, basically coloring. He refused to even take the handout. "This seems like a pretty easy job," I told him, "and you're here, so why not just do it?"

He sucked his teeth. "I'm here because it was this or jail," he scoffed, "but I'm not doing any work."

Three decades later, I have a broader skill set, but I'm not sure if I could do anything other than what I did then, which was to nod and walk away. A substitute has limited leverage, and students know it. 

That brings me back to the deliberation at hand. As much as I detest the idea of trying to teach with all the drawbacks of a temporary position, I wanted to help my friend out, and her co-teacher, another good friend, was applying intense pressure. I also liked the idea of being back at my old school for a few weeks and having the chance to catch up with my former students, now in 7th and 8th grade, and I was curious to see how the ephemeral nature of such a job might change my perspective on being in the classroom. 

And so, I agreed.

Feed the Cold

Yesterday, we hunkered down and fought the frigid weather by staying cozy by the fire. However, after sleeping in this morning and finishing a jigsaw puzzle in the early afternoon, I couldn't stay inside for another minute. I tried to get Lucy to walk with me, but she gave me a serious side-eye and put the brakes on before we were even out of the complex. 

It was cold, 22 degrees, but after bringing her back in, I snapped my trapper hat and headed back out for a walk on my own. It didn't take long after climbing the stairs and moving briskly through the neighborhood hills that I removed my hat. Soon, my jacket was only three-quarters zipped, and my scarf loosened. By the time I hit mile one, I was carrying my scarf and mittens in my hat as my coat waved behind me. 

"It's getting colder," a fellow walker admonished me with raised eyebrows, and I nodded in agreement as I passed her. As I continued along, I thought about ways to combat the cold. Hibernation is always a temptation, but action is effective, too, and so invigorating to boot.

Not That Hungry, Man

Heidi was talking to her mom on speaker this afternoon. "I got myself a frozen pizza to have during the game," her mom said.

"That's festive!" Heidi answered.

"Yeah, but you know what I was looking for and couldn't find?" her mom continued. "TV dinners. What? They don't make those anymore?"

The conversation continued on about the convenience of such a product. "Sometimes I just don't feel like cleaning up after cooking," her mom said, "and those are the perfect solution."

"I don't know," Heidi responded. "Honestly, I haven't looked for a TV dinner in years."

"When I was a kid," her mom recalled, "we used to love them because they came with a dessert."

"You used to get them for us," Heidi reminded her, "especially when we had a babysitter."

"Right," her mom agreed, "I would always ask the sitter what she wanted and get her one, too."

As they talked, I remembered the exact situation unfolding at our house when we had a babysitter. But I also remembered hating those TV dinners. Besides the fact that the food wasn't very good, they were always cooked unevenly-- something was scalding and dry, and something else was cold or mushy. One part of the meal always stuck to the foil tray, and not only did the dessert always taste a little like the entree, but the vegetable (which was usually yucky peas and carrots) always had some of the dessert on it. 

Even so, I found it hard to believe that food companies had actually come to their senses and discontinued such an iconic, if profoundly flawed, product. So, as the two of them continued their conversation, I did an online search of the grocery stores near Heidi's mom. Don't worry, dear reader, Hungry Man is still a thing; they just changed the packaging, which is why she couldn't find them. 

You can still have your sliced turkey and gravy dinner, or fried chicken, or even your Salisbury steak, along with several more updated options, like boneless rib-shaped pork patties. These days, the foil has been replaced by black plastic, and you just have to pop the meal in the microwave to heat and eat. 

And yes, they all come with a brownie.

Reading the Signs

I handed the clipboard with the candidate petition on it back to the volunteer standing outside the station vestibule. "Thanks," she said and, turning to the teenagers with me, asked, "Is this your first march?"

When they nodded, she continued. "Have fun! Pay attention to the signs-- you'll see some great ones!"

A little while later, the woman sitting next to me on the Metro asked, "Are you going to the march?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"We are too," she said.

"I figured," I replied. "I noticed your sign."

"I made it for the last one," she sighed. 

"I can't believe you still have it eight years later," I told her.

"I can't believe I need it again." She shook her head, and the train pulled into our station. "Have..." she paused and shrugged. "Fun? At the March." Then she smiled wryly and joined her group.

"You too," I called after her, but she had already disappeared into the crowd.

Wonderland

A trace of snow had fallen last night when I took Lucy for her last out of the day. Our weather has been so unseasonably cold that most of the snow from the storm 10 days ago is still on the ground, and this new dusting cleaned it all up, making it sparkle and gleam in the moonlight. 

This is the type of winter I want every year! I thought. One or two big storms and weather cold enough that there's never any slush. Then, a little sprinkle of new snow every week or so to keep things looking clean. It's perfect!

I took a nice deep breath of the frosty air and tromped back to the house in my warm coat and boots, determined to enjoy it while it lasts.

What's the Name of this Blog?

I'm in the habit of using my smartwatch to track any outdoor walking I do over a mile or so. I'm interested in my pace, but I also like seeing my route on a map along with other features, such as elevation gain. (We have enough hills around here that I try to include some good ups and downs in every walk.)

These days, however, I do most of my walking with our dog Lucy, and she's more interested in her own data, like what other animals followed this trail recently and where they peed and pooped. She also enjoys leaving a calling card for those dogs who will follow, and so there is way more squatting than nature demands.

As such, we are often at cross purposes. I don't mind a little sniffing, but I'm out for the walking. Lucy couldn't disagree more, and she is perfectly content to let me know that keeping her nose down, putting on the brakes, and pulling hard off to the side. It can be maddening, but she probably feels the same way about being jerked along.

Today, when my watch announced that our split pace for mile one was over thirty minutes, I let out an agonized groan of frustration and then made Lucy sit. I told her that we were not there just to sniff, sniff, SNIFF! We had to walk, too, and do so together. Did she understand!? 

Perhaps the pep talk worked, or maybe her nose was tired, but the split pace for our second mile was 22 minutes. 

And although it wasn't as fast as I wished, it was a compromise, and I was, after all, walking the dog.

No Dogs Allowed

When it comes to meditation, our cat Milo is my guy. He offers consistent companionship; whether I am practicing live, online, or with a recording, he is usually by my side. Our other cat, Tibby, is the opposite. When she hears the slightest hint of mantra or meditative music she runs from the room. Lucy, the dog, is ordinarily otherwise indisposed because I most commonly practice when she and Heidi are on their morning walk.

That was not the case yesterday, however. It was around 10 a.m. when I clicked the link to catch up with what I'd missed earlier that morning. As usual, Tibby fled and Milo moved to the mat, but when Lucy heard the sound of activity coming from the next room, she came to see what the fuss was. That was her mistake: Milo charged the door, claws out and hissing.

Never mind light and love. Apparently? This was our special time.