Well Spent

The wind was already picking up, and the sun was sinking when we pulled into the pay station at Point Lookout State Park. After fumbling with unfamiliar technology and three dollar bills, the entry gate lifted and we were on our way to where the Potomac meets the Chesapeake. 

There were a few scattered cars in the parking lot, but it seemed that we had the park to ourselves as we we walked on the rip-rap scanning the bay for migrating birds. A cold, steady wind blew from the north. "We only have to stay until we get our money's worth," I teased Emily and Treat. "Three people? That's a dollar each-- let me know when you've had your fill."

As we walked on a sandy path, I raised my binoculars and spotted some bufflehead ducks and a few coots floating on the choppy water. We meandered past the little lake and over to the Potomac side beach, combing the sand as we skirted the river. There were a few nice pieces of beach glass in my pocket when Treat found the speckled tail feathers of a solitary sandpiper. 

We agreed to turn back at the Civil War fort, and on our return, we gathered pine fascicles and juniper sprigs, attempting to identify their species as closely as we could. Right before we reached the parking lot a small dark bird flew past, alighting on the wire overhead. With my binoculars, I could see the brilliance of its blue plumage and its rusty breast as well-- it was a beautiful eastern bluebird, surely a sign of better times.

"I think I got my dollar's worth," I said as we climbed into the car and headed back to our warm beach house filled with family and the promise of another day of vacation to come.

That Side

As I went walking, I saw a sign there 
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.” 
But on the other side, it didn't say nothing, 

That side was made for you and me.

~Woody Guthrie

This Land Is Made for You and Me

I had reached the end of the short beach when I heard a raucous avian clamor coming from the inlet on the other side of the scrubby stand of pines. Hoping it was a flock of migrating Arctic Swans, I followed a wide path into the woods only to hit a chainlink fence topped with barbed wire a short way in. Confused, I bushwacked a bit to see if I could find a view of the birds, but the leafless thorns of Greenbriar that lined the way held me at bay. 

On the other side of the fence, I could see a road, and, sure it was the same one we had followed to get to our rented beach house, I turned left on a deer trail and continued until the fence ended and I had access to the road. It was then I saw the signs. Private Property, they proclaimed. No trespassing, hunting, or fishing. Violators will be prosecuted. 

I realized that all along the fence had been keeping me in, not out, in the interest of discouraging those prospective trespassers. So enlightened, I followed the road to where I could finally see the wetlands, but by then, the birds were gone.

Youthful Optimism

I ran into a former student and one of his buddies while walking the dog the other day. I spotted the duo from afar; they were climbing the steps to a porch and knocking on the door. I watched as they spoke to whoever answered and saw their shoulders slump slightly as they retraced their steps and started down the sidewalk towards me, pulling a heavy wagon behind them. I waved as they approached, and they greeted me with huge smiles.

"Whatcha up to?" I asked, pointing at the wagon, which I could now see was loaded with a hose, buckets, sponges, and rags.

"We're trying to do car washes to earn some money," my student told me.

"To buy pit bikes," his friend added.

"That's very enterprising!" I said. "How much are you charging?"

"Twenty-five," they told me together.

"How much are the bikes?" I asked.

"A thousand twenty-five," the other kid said, and my student sighed.

"Each?" I clarified, and when they nodded, my eyes grew wide. "That's 82 car washes!" I tried not to sound too discouraging, but it seemed pretty daunting to me. "How many have you done?"

"None," he reported.

"But we just started," his friend shrugged confidently.

"Well," I said, "I better let you get back to it. Good luck!"

"Thanks!" they replied and rolled their wagon on down the hill.

Resist the Invasion

I noticed her right away.

The woman was blond, in her late 40s, and looked for all the world like a former neighbor, but she was also standing in a patch of brambles with a ratty ball cap and frayed backpack, scanning the ground in an unexpected way. I decided to avoid eye contact and walk on by with Lucy.

"Tracey?" she said, and I stopped and turned around.

"I thought that might be you!" I said, "But then I also thought, Why would she be doing that?" I laughed, and she did, too.

"I'm looking for evil, invasive honeysuckle," she told me, "so I can cut it down and yank it out!"

"That sounds therapeutic," I commented. "Especially in these fraught times."

"Oh, it is," she answered. "It really, really is."

Impressions

When Mary introduced me to her first class yesterday a hand shot up in the front of the room. She nodded at the boy to let him know she saw him but didn't stop speaking. His hand waved and he made intense eye contact with me until she reached a point where she paused and called on him. "You taught my mom and my uncles!" he said breathlessly.

"I did?" I replied. "What's your mom's name?" 

"Farhana," he told me, and I laughed and told him the names of his uncles. 

"Do your grandparents still live on Barton Street?" I asked, and he said they did.

"How did you even know she taught your mom?" Mary asked logically since I haven't worked at the school since he's been there.

"They just told me about her," he said.

In contrast, this morning Mary texted me from her all-day meeting. "Did you teach M-- H--?" she asked. "She's my sub today."

"I did!" I replied, trying to calculate how long ago it had been. "She must be pretty young."

"She looked young, although she said she was here a long time ago. She only remembered P-- A-- so that wasn't all that long ago."

As it turns out, she was in sixth grade 12 years ago, which is half her life, so understandably seems long to her. But? She didn't even remember me!

Service Teaching

My friend Mary asked if I would be willing to come to school as a volunteer and help coach the young writers in her class as they work on their children's book projects, and I happily agreed. The assignment was one I am well-acquainted with, having developed and taught it with my sixth-grade CLT over the last 5 or 6 years, and I was eager to see how the new historical fiction spin they added this year was working. 

This morning, I stationed myself at a table in the back of Mary's room, and she explained to each class who I was and what I was there to do. Business was slow at first, but Mary sent a few kids my way and then asked them for reviews of the experience, which were positive and encouraged a few other students to give it a try.

The conferences were set up so that I could see their work in progress on my laptop as we talked, and I asked clarifying questions and made suggestions in real-time as they sat next to me and wrote. To me, the meetings seemed helpful and productive, and they were fun, too. 

"Awesome!" I answered when anyone asked how it was going. "It's like a dream job-- I just get to listen to kids tell me about their ideas and writing and make some suggestions, and then they say, "Thank you!" and it's on to the next kid. No planning, no discipline, no grading, just straight-up teaching."

"It really is the best part," noted Mary. "You're welcome."

What Are We, 12?

A group of friends organized a game night this weekend at 6 PM on Saturday. On the text chain, someone offered to bring pizza, and I said I'd bake a cake since there was a birthday to celebrate, too.

Who knew that would be all we had for dinner?

The games were fun, though.