Orderly

I felt lucky that the math teacher I was subbing for yesterday had a planning period before her classes, because I needed it to review linear equations, particularly plotting parallel and perpendicular lines. But once I recalled how to determine the slope, I was feeling much more confident. It also reminded me of how fascinating I found the perpendicular rule when I first learned it —the whole notion of using the negative reciprocal of the slope for the new line just tickles my brain the right way. It also reminds me that there is an elegant order for so many things, if only we recognize the patterns. 

I had the same feeling last week in a sixth-grade science class when the teacher explained how the early periodic table was stumbled upon by Dmitri Mendeleev in the 1860s. Mendeleev was a chemist and card collector who designed a set of cards based on the known elements. He arranged his cards by atomic weight and then in columns by common properties. As he played with the arrangement, he saw gaps in his table, predicted they would be filled by elements yet to be discovered, and described the characteristics of those future elements. 

Mendeleev is widely considered a genius not for creating the order, but for recognizing it.

Every Day Can't Be the Best Day

"Didn't you retire?" an eighth grader asked me this afternoon in the middle of a particularly rowdy math class. And when I nodded, he added a salty little follow-up, "Then why are you back?"

"I was just asking myself the same question," I laughed.

To his credit, he looked abashed, but unfortunately, it didn't make him any more productive.

Weekly Bowling Report

 

The Pro Shop

I'm not sure what I expected a few weeks ago when I walked into the pro shop on a mission to purchase a bowling ball of my own. I did not enter the chore blindly; as a citizen of the 21st century, I YouTubed it first. There, I found a video of a kindly avuncular gentleman in a bowling shirt and cardigan guiding a young woman as she chose her first bowling ball. 

He asked her all sorts of questions about her game and experience before revealing that he had seen her bowl a few times. Then he offered her some suggestions, "Don't go too light," he had advised her, "that's a rookie mistake." In the end, she chose a flashy little 14-pounder, and they cut to her rolling it down the lane for a strike.

The next day, I pushed my way through the plate-glass door into the pro shop and stood uncertainly in the middle of the deserted showroom. As I scanned the three rows of bowling balls lining the wall to my right and the shoes displayed in the rear, an owlish man in a craftsman's apron hurried out from the back. "I'm the only one here!" he informed me, "I'll be with you in a minute." Then he disappeared.

I was looking more closely at the balls when he returned, wiping his hands on a bright orange cloth. "What do you need?" he asked.

"I'm here to buy a bowling ball," I said and paused, waiting for the guidance. 

Perhaps I expected him to say something like, "The ball chooses the bowler," or "Every ball here at Carmen-Don has a core of a powerful magical substance," but instead he gestured impatiently at the shelves and said, "Which one do you want?"

"To be honest," I confessed, "I have no idea. I'm a beginner. But I'm in a league, and they recommended I get my own ball."

He sighed impatiently. "What weight do you usually use at the bowling center?"

"Ten or eleven," I answered.

"I'd recommend at least a 12 then," he said. "Does it go straight or curve when you throw it?"

"I have a bit of a natural curve, I think," I told him.

"Pick one from the bottom row," he waved. "You should just choose one you like the looks of, you don't need anything specific," he shrugged. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

I scanned the half dozen balls he had indicated. Most were garish swirls of neon colors, and I recognized the siblings of some of my fellow bowlers' balls. But there was one at the end that spoke to me. It was classic black with a single orange dot and a matching hammer. "I'll take this one," I told him when he returned.

He nodded thoughtfully. "That ball does have a little action in the core," he said. "It's not much at 12 pounds, but it will be something to work with." There was a grudging note of respect in his voice. "Let's measure your hand."

He led me over to the glass counter and pulled out a set of cylinders. "Hold out your hand," he directed. I splayed my fingers wide, and he took my wrist. "Interesting," he commented. "Have you ever broken your fingers?"

"No," I shook my head.

"They're crooked," he noted. "Bend your knuckles." I did. "Interesting," he said again. "Would you ever consider a finger tip grip? Your middle fingers bend at the first knuckle."

I laughed and shrugged. "Maybe for my next ball. For now? Let's go traditional."

He measured the distance between my fingers and thumb and then slid them into some of the cylinders and wrote the measurements on a small pad of paper. And it all did seem a little magical, especially when he withdrew into the back again, calling over his shoulder that he would be back shortly.

A few minutes later, he reappeared in a cloud of urethane and oil scent, bearing a simple black bowling ball. He draped my hand over its crown and fit my fingers and thumb gently into the still-warm holds. "How does it feel?" he asked, turning my hand palm up and releasing the weight to me.

I bent my wrist, feeling the heft of the ball. My thumb slid neatly in and out. "Nice," I nodded, as he stepped across the room.

"Roll it to me," he instructed.

I took a step and bent, releasing the ball in one smooth gesture. It rolled directly to him, and he clapped once. "Bravo!" Then he scooped up the ball, replaced it in its box, and stepped to the register.

It seemed my ball had found me.

Straight On 'til Morning

"Isn't this the hike we took Pauly on?" Heidi asked as we crested the hill and turned onto the Ridge Trail.

I nodded. That was years ago, maybe even fifteen, but it had been several years since we had been there ourselves. As we walked along Difficult Run, I thought of the many times we had followed this route and all the good company we had had along the way: Bill, Emily, Riley, Treat, Eric, Josh, Pauly, Jessica, Tom, Amy, and so many others.

I picked up an enormous sycamore leaf and fashioned it into an angular green Peter Pan cap and placed it on my head. We laughed, remembering the autumn day we had brought our goddaughters, Allyn and Delaney, hiking here. When the skies had opened up, we all made rain hats from the sycamore leaves to keep our heads dry as we made for the trailhead.

Heidi snapped my picture and texted it to the girls, now grown women. They were quick to reply with hearts and a question. "Who is that Diva?"

Churl Talk

I was searching for the hours to the community center, which is attached to my former school, when a link to an online discussion forum caught my eye. An anonymous author had posted a question about the quality of the school, particularly compared to another middle school in the northern, more affluent section of the county. The other school was Heidi's new school, and I clicked to the discussion with interest. 

The conversation took place over several hours on an October evening two years ago, when we were both still teaching there. At first, I was a little appalled that people were actually having such a public, if anonymous, discussion about me, my colleagues, and our students without our knowledge. There was also quite a bit of mis- and perhaps some disinformation. There were a couple of compliments, as well, but the two comments that broke my heart were these:

Yes, there are more poor kids than several of the other neighborhood middle schools but good discipline and stable teaching force manage the poor kids well enough for us.

And

I’m sure there is a bright cadre of kids [at my school] but there are way more kids on balance who are going to have needs just due to demographics. [the other school] is going to have — again on balance — a much larger group of very bright, very motivated kids. It’s my belief that kids are some of the strongest influences on each other and while you could find your way into that group at [my school] for sure you are much more likely to have that opportunity at [the other school] plus the overall dynamic is going to be less needs driven.

The second remark drew a sharp response:

My students have a large enough peer group of "very bright, very motivated" kids to rub shoulders with at school. Believe it or not, some of these kids aren't from well-off families. Heaven help us, they're from hardscrabble recent immigrant families where academic success is paramount. Their parents may have been professionals in Afghanistan, Syria, Venezuela or Mongolia, but some of them are janitors or Lyft drivers in VA for now. Needs-driven peers who put nose to the grindstone and don't compete to have the snazziest stuff seem like good influences on my spoiled children.

To which somebody replied:

Agree 100%. Uptight parents who boost for [the other school] are a drag. [My school] remains a solid choice for the mildly adventurous.

I was glad the thread ended so long ago, because after that? I was speechless. 

Last Hurrah

I spent a couple of hours this afternoon cleaning out the garden for the winter, but I made a final harvest first. In addition to a ton of blackeyed peas, there were still a lot of cherry tomatoes and peppers, so I cut a couple of healthy sprigs from the rosemary shrub and tucked them in the bag with the veggies. 

Back at home, I crushed some of the garlic I grew earlier in the season and sauteed it in a big glug of olive oil. Then I shaved a Marconi pepper into the pan and added some rosemary. A little while later, all those tiny tomatoes were popping and blistering in the oil, too. Once they started bursting, I added some sea salt and a jar of crushed tomatoes I had canned back in August. 

As the sauce simmered, I roasted a spaghetti squash, also from the garden. And in a few moments, with the addition of some fresh basil harvested from the deck? Dinner will be served!