I've been reluctant to begin this year. Our fearless leader hit us with a scolding over our school grade on Monday and most of the faculty were not pleased. Imagine if we told kids that they had to do better when they scored a B! Needless to say, the data did not go down well. Morale was not great and I was right there with my colleagues albeit with a knowledge that none of it really mattered.
Today was orientation. I met about 25 or 30 of my 87 Pre-IB English students and 4 of my journalism students. They are charming, smart, and ready to go to work. I remember why I do this. I hope all, or at least most, of my colleagues are feeling the same way. If so, we'll be just fine. Thank you, God, for youth and energy and another year in the classroom immersed in language.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Music and my mom
I'm a little out of sync today. According to the calendar, I should be writing a tribute to my dad. But since I spoke to him this morning, all I can think of is my mother. She took another fall in the bathroom the other day. Thankfully, she sustained only bruises and a few scrapes, but it's another sign of her decline. My mother turned eighty in February; Dad will be eighty in July. She's recently been diagnosed with lupus, and the symptoms are piling up. Decline is inevitable, but so difficult to witness, especially from many miles away. They'll be here next month for our daughter's wedding, and I've already committed to spending more time with her then. Time--such a precious resource, always slipping away.
Today I watched an American Masters episode about Pete Seeger. This little clip tells only a piece of the story. I love these shows because you find out about so much more than just one life, you see the forces of our history. My mother taught me to love history and to pay attention to it, to think about how our lives are built on the lives of those that came before us. And while she was no Pete Seeger, she also knew the power of song.
When I was a child, we sang a lot. Even outside of church, which we attended several times a week, my mother loved singing. She sang to wake us up, she sang as we worked around the house, she encouraged us to sing with her. We were all hams and didn't need prodding. We sang four-part harmony in the car on long trips. She would switch from the soprano to the alto line whenever it suited her. My father would pat his leg because he can not carry a tune. He'd join us only for the comic renditions of strange little ditties from the past. "Deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum." Yes, that really was one of the choruses, don't ask me why. In between the nonsense choruses were made-up-on the-spot verses that went something like: "I'm a girl, I'm a girl, and the time is spring, I like to dance and I like to sing." Any variation that fit the rhythm was permissable and rhyming was the goal, but totally optional.
Mom always loved music. She knew it could motivate, unite, strengthen. She sang a passionate rendition of "Hand me Down my Silver Trumpet" in a soulful style that was more like Ella than the choral version I've linked to here. I remember how she would patiently point to every word in the hymnbook for me as we sang in church, an action that no doubt had a role in my early reading. Her singing voice is quieter now, and I'm not around enough to know, but I hope she's still singing.
Like Pete Seeger, she also believes in the power of protest, the idea that true Americans speak out, even when their opinions are not popular, even when they are dangerous. She taught us about women's rights while rarely bringing the topic up, taught us tolerance by example, taught us the value of loving others through everything.
I wish I could spend the day with my dad today, but for reasons stated and unstated, I miss my mom.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Two steps forward, three steps back
After a bout with knee pain, I bought an assortment of orthotics to put in my shoes to improve alignment. The knee pain was gone almost immediately, so I set out a reasonable exercise plan, increasing my steps by using a pedometer, doing some stretches and yoga most days. Earlier this week a new pain began in the opposite ankle. Unfortunately, this wasn't an unfamiliar pain; I'd felt it for many months in the other ankle before giving in and having it "fixed" surgically. It was one of the most difficult, horrible experiences of my life. The doctor told me it would take a year to completely recover. He was right. Needless to say, I don't want to do this again. So, I've been taking it easy, ice, heat, anti-inflammatories. I've even ordered a kit for a custom set of shoe inserts from these folks. All this because of flat feet! I wish I had known years ago about the consequences for not wearing good arch support. Not sure that would have made me do it, but at least I could have said I knew better. But now I've seen some improvement and refuse to let this curtail all the fun this summer. I have better things to do than worry about what hurts and why. How inconvenient to be a flimsy human!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Beginning of the End
Today is the first day of final exams. Today is the last day I will see my first and second period classes. Today is the day I say goodbye to Mike--not this boy's real name, but it might have been if he had been born when I was. Mike has greeted me at my door at whatever time I've arrived since day one of the school year. There were less than a handful of days when he was absent. Mike, as he is eager to tell you, has Asperger's syndrome. Extremely high functioning in some areas, he is woefully blind in others. Mike gets the work in English class. He is learning to have something to say about literature and support it from the text, but it's not an easy task for him. He wants things nailed down. Concrete answers don't just seem like a good idea, you can sense his discomfort when they don't come.
We've had many interesting conversations this year. Well, that's overstatement, we've had many peculiar conversations that he may have found interesting. Recently, when the rain didn't seem it would ever stop, we had one like this:
M: So, exactly how long does a N'reaster last? (Proud of the knowledge he has, as always)
Me: Well, Mike, there are many factors contributing to storms...(some rot about high pressure and low pressure and the big cloud that covered the state). Maybe you should ask a science teacher.
M: (Weak smile) So, we don't really know, right?
Me: Yes, that's about it.
Mike has read the required number of books independently this year. Every book has been about Asperger's or autism. Every single one! I was impressed that he was able to find this number and variety on the topic. Perhaps he thinks one of those books will hold the key to understanding his own brain. If only we all could have the field of inquiry on the craziness that happens inside our heads whittled down to a few managable texts. I am sure at age 16 I would have wanted to get through them all, too.
Earlier in the year the sight of him huddled in his sweatshirt on my ramp would dig at me a little. I always have a short list of things that must be done between the time I get to my classroom and class begins. I've always treasured those few minutes of peace to assemble my day. I haven't had that this year. Instead, there was a steady, polite stream of questions, ranging from those with answers he should have known (Yes, there is a vocab quiz on Friday; it's on the board), to the truly esoteric. In the last month or so, I've come to love Mike and his uniqueness in a new way, probably just from knowing that this time would soon be passing. In just over eighty days he'll be sitting on some other teacher's ramp, waiting for that unsuspecting soul to arrive. A science teacher, I hope.
We've had many interesting conversations this year. Well, that's overstatement, we've had many peculiar conversations that he may have found interesting. Recently, when the rain didn't seem it would ever stop, we had one like this:
M: So, exactly how long does a N'reaster last? (Proud of the knowledge he has, as always)
Me: Well, Mike, there are many factors contributing to storms...(some rot about high pressure and low pressure and the big cloud that covered the state). Maybe you should ask a science teacher.
M: (Weak smile) So, we don't really know, right?
Me: Yes, that's about it.
Mike has read the required number of books independently this year. Every book has been about Asperger's or autism. Every single one! I was impressed that he was able to find this number and variety on the topic. Perhaps he thinks one of those books will hold the key to understanding his own brain. If only we all could have the field of inquiry on the craziness that happens inside our heads whittled down to a few managable texts. I am sure at age 16 I would have wanted to get through them all, too.
Earlier in the year the sight of him huddled in his sweatshirt on my ramp would dig at me a little. I always have a short list of things that must be done between the time I get to my classroom and class begins. I've always treasured those few minutes of peace to assemble my day. I haven't had that this year. Instead, there was a steady, polite stream of questions, ranging from those with answers he should have known (Yes, there is a vocab quiz on Friday; it's on the board), to the truly esoteric. In the last month or so, I've come to love Mike and his uniqueness in a new way, probably just from knowing that this time would soon be passing. In just over eighty days he'll be sitting on some other teacher's ramp, waiting for that unsuspecting soul to arrive. A science teacher, I hope.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Fascinating!
I'll use this quote in class today:
Politics in a literary work, is like a gun shot in the middle of a concert, something vulgar, and however, something which is impossible to ignore. -Stendhal
It's a fine place in our curriculum for it as we're into "The Crucible" now. I'm reserving judgement on Miller. But the quote helped me discover this compelling bit of trivia. Who knew there was a name for the euphoria/fatigue of travel?
Politics in a literary work, is like a gun shot in the middle of a concert, something vulgar, and however, something which is impossible to ignore. -Stendhal
It's a fine place in our curriculum for it as we're into "The Crucible" now. I'm reserving judgement on Miller. But the quote helped me discover this compelling bit of trivia. Who knew there was a name for the euphoria/fatigue of travel?
Thursday, April 2, 2009
A discovery from down under
While surfing and reading poetry I found this treasure. I don't have time to be a true poetry fanatic, but I'll be spending some time there next week, as spring break gives me what feels now like a mountain of time.
I arrived at Jacket by way of Jack Spicer, a poet whose work I had not encountered before. So many poems, so little time. Here's the Jack Spicer poem I shared today:
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
--------------------------
Poetry still does it for me. I'm in love again.
I arrived at Jacket by way of Jack Spicer, a poet whose work I had not encountered before. So many poems, so little time. Here's the Jack Spicer poem I shared today:
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
--------------------------
Poetry still does it for me. I'm in love again.
Do I dare to eat a peach?
April is poetry month as many of you are surely aware. This year I decided to do what I've only considered doing in years gone by. I'll begin each class in April with a poem. There isn't room in my curriculum for all the poetry I'd like to teach, but this should be enough to satisfy my own need and give me a way to keep myself fully engaged. Today was day one--I know I'm a slacker and missed the first real day--and we read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. I chose it because English Journal sent me a poster in the latest edition with the phrase "Do I dare disturb the universe?" This provided a nice beginning to the month--even better is that T.S. Eliot's ruminations on life and impeding death match up with some of the circumstances in our text The Grapes of Wrath. With the challenge of teaching teenagers about the vicissitudes of birth and death, Steinbeck's tendency to allusion is catching. I feel as though I am casting pearls before swine, but maybe a few of them see the value.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I hate fundraising!
I did not go into sales for a reason. I think the current method for funding schools is insufficient, but I do not encourage my students to become peddlers or money-raisers of any variety. Teenagers have more important things to do than beg for money to give to their school, particularly one that is not doing such a great job. There's not enough paper! Is this a student problem? A teacher problem? Should it be?
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Reflections on my current brood
Begin here: My students are...
It's frightening how many ways I could finish that statement this time around. This year's bunch is the most recalcitrant group of smart pseudo-scholars I've met yet. That's saying not much really as this is only the second bunch of tenth graders I've taught, but I am surprised at the amount of cajoling, threatening, and pushing that it's taken to get this bunch moving. And still, as we approach the week in which we conference and counsel students and parents about entrance into the oh-so prestigious IB program, I have qualms about many of them. I don't like this part. I try to back up, knowing that I have little at stake and the family we're talking with feels like it's life-changing. For many, I expect it is. Even if a kid has done poorly in my class, I won't be the one to say he or she can't be a part of the program. I'll report the student's performance as objectively as I can; the grades tell most of the story, but I won't make a recommendation. I act like a politician and say something vague; I vote present. Who am I to say they won't get their heads together in the next six months? It could happen. I recall how incensed I was (two angry letters and a phone call) when a counselor looked at my genius son's pitiful GPA in the beginning of the ninth grade and said, "Well, you know college is out of the question." Maybe I needed a son like that to make me fully aware that grades don't tell the whole story.
And thank heaven that I don't have to measure my teaching by the FCAT! As grateful as I am that my students do extremely well on standardized tests, it makes seeing growth even more difficult. Just now I am seeing some progress with these kids, but before the test they were all just playing the game. To me, playing the school game means doing every assignment with little engagement or enthusiasm and then anxiously tending your grade in each class. These kids say things out of the blue like, "You wouldn't happen to remember my grade in your class, would you?" Nearly every assignment discussion is focused on quantity, how many words, how many sources, how many points. Of course, they focus mostly on the points. AAUUUURRGGH!
The progress that I'm seeing coincides with our long journey westward with the Joads. Yes, I lead/push/bribe/drag them through The Grapes of Wrath. Many are reading with interest, many are reading out of duty, but it seems even the few who have not been reading may be doing so now. On the discussion board I've asked them to find their own connection to the novel and it's great to finally see them encouraging each other to read and to begin seeing the novel with different eyes. And we're not even to California yet.
Grades are due Monday. As usual I have more to grade than I can do, but that is because I make them write so much. Aren't they lucky? I wish I had had a teacher like me.
It's frightening how many ways I could finish that statement this time around. This year's bunch is the most recalcitrant group of smart pseudo-scholars I've met yet. That's saying not much really as this is only the second bunch of tenth graders I've taught, but I am surprised at the amount of cajoling, threatening, and pushing that it's taken to get this bunch moving. And still, as we approach the week in which we conference and counsel students and parents about entrance into the oh-so prestigious IB program, I have qualms about many of them. I don't like this part. I try to back up, knowing that I have little at stake and the family we're talking with feels like it's life-changing. For many, I expect it is. Even if a kid has done poorly in my class, I won't be the one to say he or she can't be a part of the program. I'll report the student's performance as objectively as I can; the grades tell most of the story, but I won't make a recommendation. I act like a politician and say something vague; I vote present. Who am I to say they won't get their heads together in the next six months? It could happen. I recall how incensed I was (two angry letters and a phone call) when a counselor looked at my genius son's pitiful GPA in the beginning of the ninth grade and said, "Well, you know college is out of the question." Maybe I needed a son like that to make me fully aware that grades don't tell the whole story.
And thank heaven that I don't have to measure my teaching by the FCAT! As grateful as I am that my students do extremely well on standardized tests, it makes seeing growth even more difficult. Just now I am seeing some progress with these kids, but before the test they were all just playing the game. To me, playing the school game means doing every assignment with little engagement or enthusiasm and then anxiously tending your grade in each class. These kids say things out of the blue like, "You wouldn't happen to remember my grade in your class, would you?" Nearly every assignment discussion is focused on quantity, how many words, how many sources, how many points. Of course, they focus mostly on the points. AAUUUURRGGH!
The progress that I'm seeing coincides with our long journey westward with the Joads. Yes, I lead/push/bribe/drag them through The Grapes of Wrath. Many are reading with interest, many are reading out of duty, but it seems even the few who have not been reading may be doing so now. On the discussion board I've asked them to find their own connection to the novel and it's great to finally see them encouraging each other to read and to begin seeing the novel with different eyes. And we're not even to California yet.
Grades are due Monday. As usual I have more to grade than I can do, but that is because I make them write so much. Aren't they lucky? I wish I had had a teacher like me.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I'm not "that kind" of English teacher,
but I find this hilarious. Okay, maybe hilarious is stretching it a bit, but funny.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Frailty and Doubt
Now this isn't going to be a whining rant, I hope, but I can't get this stuff out of my head, so I might as well write it.
I have been discovering the wonders of yoga. I've attended a few sessions at a studio close by and truly enjoy it. Yes, I said it, it's exercise I really enjoy. That hasn't been true since I discovered racquetball, which I no longer play as I blew my ankle out with quick stops and lateral motion. When the orthopedic surgeon put it back together he said racquetball was no longer for me. It was a crushing blow.
Today, after three sessions of yoga, my knee is injured. I hate a pain I can't pinpoint, diagnose, and preferably treat. Despite my best efforts at treatment after last night's session, I'm still walking like I'm about eighty years old today. Reading websites about knee injuries didn't make it feel a bit better. More ice, heat, elevation, etc. are in store for later today. And yes, I'd like a small miracle so that the pain is gone tomorrow before I go back to the yoga studio. So, I'm focusing on body mechanics, keeping that knee lined up and right over the ankle when walking or bending. etc. Remember the days when such concerns were non-existent? I do. I miss them. I am not afraid of the passing of time and am enjoying some of the benefits that come with age. But the continuing degeneration of the body and all the pain, incovenience, etc., that go along with it are not welcome. Not at all!
Now, the doubt. I love my job as a teacher and most of the time I think I'm pretty good at it. Today I am giving an assessment on Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. I don't really like giving tests, but the role requires it. But it's odd that even after working together since August, my students have a hard time understanding exactly what it is I want them to demonstrate. At least, it seems that way today. When my best students are reading the questions with a look of total confusion, it worries me. Several students came into the classroom quizzing each other on the minor details of the text, character's last names, who did what job, etc. as if I might ask them about that. Come on! As if knowing the tiny details of a story represents understanding! And these kids are "advanced"-- "gifted" even. I think many of them would love it if there was simply a long list of details to memorize about each text. Wouldn't that be fun? No. And it wouldn't help them a bit in future studies, either. The other thing I can't seem to get right is the length of an assessment. I had hoped the test I wrote might take about 2/3 of the class period, leaving me with a few minutes to give background on the next text. But no, I wrote a test that most kids need every one of our fifty minutes to complete. Curses, foiled again!
These two issues aren't really related, but I can tie them together pretty easily when I put on my personal coach hat--the yoga is helping with this. The voice inside my head should be saying, "Be patient. It's good you're still learning. Next time will be better." I can say it, but can I make it true?
I have been discovering the wonders of yoga. I've attended a few sessions at a studio close by and truly enjoy it. Yes, I said it, it's exercise I really enjoy. That hasn't been true since I discovered racquetball, which I no longer play as I blew my ankle out with quick stops and lateral motion. When the orthopedic surgeon put it back together he said racquetball was no longer for me. It was a crushing blow.
Today, after three sessions of yoga, my knee is injured. I hate a pain I can't pinpoint, diagnose, and preferably treat. Despite my best efforts at treatment after last night's session, I'm still walking like I'm about eighty years old today. Reading websites about knee injuries didn't make it feel a bit better. More ice, heat, elevation, etc. are in store for later today. And yes, I'd like a small miracle so that the pain is gone tomorrow before I go back to the yoga studio. So, I'm focusing on body mechanics, keeping that knee lined up and right over the ankle when walking or bending. etc. Remember the days when such concerns were non-existent? I do. I miss them. I am not afraid of the passing of time and am enjoying some of the benefits that come with age. But the continuing degeneration of the body and all the pain, incovenience, etc., that go along with it are not welcome. Not at all!
Now, the doubt. I love my job as a teacher and most of the time I think I'm pretty good at it. Today I am giving an assessment on Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. I don't really like giving tests, but the role requires it. But it's odd that even after working together since August, my students have a hard time understanding exactly what it is I want them to demonstrate. At least, it seems that way today. When my best students are reading the questions with a look of total confusion, it worries me. Several students came into the classroom quizzing each other on the minor details of the text, character's last names, who did what job, etc. as if I might ask them about that. Come on! As if knowing the tiny details of a story represents understanding! And these kids are "advanced"-- "gifted" even. I think many of them would love it if there was simply a long list of details to memorize about each text. Wouldn't that be fun? No. And it wouldn't help them a bit in future studies, either. The other thing I can't seem to get right is the length of an assessment. I had hoped the test I wrote might take about 2/3 of the class period, leaving me with a few minutes to give background on the next text. But no, I wrote a test that most kids need every one of our fifty minutes to complete. Curses, foiled again!
These two issues aren't really related, but I can tie them together pretty easily when I put on my personal coach hat--the yoga is helping with this. The voice inside my head should be saying, "Be patient. It's good you're still learning. Next time will be better." I can say it, but can I make it true?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Okay, it was a rat.
Because our lot borders on a little scrap of unusable swampy land, and because we have a cat who likes to hunt, we've had more than our share of critters in the house. This does not mean that I am used to it. There have been a couple of squirrels--one who lived, birds and evidence of their deaths too many to count, and, as much as I hate to admit it, a few rodents. I prefer to think of them as field mice. I've been lucky enough to only see one, two, if you count the subject of this post.
Denial is one of my favorite coping mechanisms, I know it's not healthy, but it works for me. And names matter, right? So, when my daughter asked the other night, "Is there any chance there is a rat living under my dresser?" D and I responded that the chance was very small, but a chance all the same. Of course, I knew it couldn't be a rat, maybe a cute little mouse.
She was going through clothes and giving things away, and found its turditude in a drawer. A thorough search by her dad ensued as she and I cowered and tried not to squeal. Not one to face the task alone, D rallied the troops, gathering our two mini schnauzers and the killa cat and closing us all into her room. Ever the delegator, when he came upon the intruder, he tossed the cat in next to it. She came out in a flash and soon all the four-leggeds were lined up at the door; I was ready to get out, too.
Believe it or not, D did not feel the same urgency in dealing with the problem as M and I thought he should. "I'll take care of it tomorrow. He's not going anywhere tonight." Luckily, this turned out to be correct. The next day, true to his word, D consulted with the guy at Lowe's, bought a trap, set it, removed all of the dresser drawers, covered the front of it with a large metal sign that said ROAD CLOSED. If only the rodent could read. He reported this arrangement via cell-phone on his way out, along with the fact that he'd managed to jam its tail in a drawer in the process. He had grabbed the two inch end of the tail with pliers, hoping that the critter was still attached, but the wounded mouse had skittered away.
That evening, M came to me with "I think the rat is out of the dresser."
"What makes you think so?"
"The cat's interested in an area behind the desk and Major keeps cruising through the house with his nose to the ground. And I'm not positive, but I may have seen something move in my peripheral vision."
"No, it can't get out of there." What can I say? Denial is my friend.
I kept my door closed and hoped my dear reliable husband, or M's reliable and young (read, thinks he's invincible) fiancé would be along soon to take care of the, um, problem.
Forty minutes later and I was face to whisker with this thing in the kitchen. He had the audacity to be sitting on the kitchen counter! I alerted M, "I see him! I see him! He's right here. I see him." My shouting confused him a bit and he took refuge behind the can opener. She sent out the emergency call to the fiancé. We could hear the mild exasperation in his voice as he responded to our shouted cries. "Okay, I'll get him, be there in a few minutes."
I spent every second of those few minutes with the flashlight tuned on the small visible patch of gray fur. Of course the light did nothing, but it might have made him be still and it made me feel I had him trapped. It's related to that denial thing, don't you think?
My future son-in-law is ingenious and brave, too. He went after the rodent with a basket and an oven mitt. Unfortunately, the little guy evaded him and ran another lap around the family room before ending up in the foyer closet. J created barricades and and settled in to find the vermin.
Finally he trapped it into the corner made by the open door. "Bring me a box with a mouse-sized hole and a ruler" he requested with MacGyver-like cool. Soon the critter was turned loose into the woods, experiencing the happiest day of his life except for the hurt tail. We were left to praise J and marvel at the adrenaline rush that a mouse, I mean, rat chase creates.
The reporter in me knows it truly was a rat, even though I hate to be wrong and can't stand the sound of it. The fiction writer says it was a field mouse, albeit a large one, with a long tail.
Denial is one of my favorite coping mechanisms, I know it's not healthy, but it works for me. And names matter, right? So, when my daughter asked the other night, "Is there any chance there is a rat living under my dresser?" D and I responded that the chance was very small, but a chance all the same. Of course, I knew it couldn't be a rat, maybe a cute little mouse.
She was going through clothes and giving things away, and found its turditude in a drawer. A thorough search by her dad ensued as she and I cowered and tried not to squeal. Not one to face the task alone, D rallied the troops, gathering our two mini schnauzers and the killa cat and closing us all into her room. Ever the delegator, when he came upon the intruder, he tossed the cat in next to it. She came out in a flash and soon all the four-leggeds were lined up at the door; I was ready to get out, too.
Believe it or not, D did not feel the same urgency in dealing with the problem as M and I thought he should. "I'll take care of it tomorrow. He's not going anywhere tonight." Luckily, this turned out to be correct. The next day, true to his word, D consulted with the guy at Lowe's, bought a trap, set it, removed all of the dresser drawers, covered the front of it with a large metal sign that said ROAD CLOSED. If only the rodent could read. He reported this arrangement via cell-phone on his way out, along with the fact that he'd managed to jam its tail in a drawer in the process. He had grabbed the two inch end of the tail with pliers, hoping that the critter was still attached, but the wounded mouse had skittered away.
That evening, M came to me with "I think the rat is out of the dresser."
"What makes you think so?"
"The cat's interested in an area behind the desk and Major keeps cruising through the house with his nose to the ground. And I'm not positive, but I may have seen something move in my peripheral vision."
"No, it can't get out of there." What can I say? Denial is my friend.
I kept my door closed and hoped my dear reliable husband, or M's reliable and young (read, thinks he's invincible) fiancé would be along soon to take care of the, um, problem.
Forty minutes later and I was face to whisker with this thing in the kitchen. He had the audacity to be sitting on the kitchen counter! I alerted M, "I see him! I see him! He's right here. I see him." My shouting confused him a bit and he took refuge behind the can opener. She sent out the emergency call to the fiancé. We could hear the mild exasperation in his voice as he responded to our shouted cries. "Okay, I'll get him, be there in a few minutes."
I spent every second of those few minutes with the flashlight tuned on the small visible patch of gray fur. Of course the light did nothing, but it might have made him be still and it made me feel I had him trapped. It's related to that denial thing, don't you think?
My future son-in-law is ingenious and brave, too. He went after the rodent with a basket and an oven mitt. Unfortunately, the little guy evaded him and ran another lap around the family room before ending up in the foyer closet. J created barricades and and settled in to find the vermin.
Finally he trapped it into the corner made by the open door. "Bring me a box with a mouse-sized hole and a ruler" he requested with MacGyver-like cool. Soon the critter was turned loose into the woods, experiencing the happiest day of his life except for the hurt tail. We were left to praise J and marvel at the adrenaline rush that a mouse, I mean, rat chase creates.
The reporter in me knows it truly was a rat, even though I hate to be wrong and can't stand the sound of it. The fiction writer says it was a field mouse, albeit a large one, with a long tail.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Zero days in a row
Guess you have to have more than one day together to make any kind of a row. Come to think of it, you'd have to have at least three as two would be a pair.
Baseball is on again and that's good. Cubs versus White Sox in exhibition--Sox won.
Facebook is amazing and has brought me a long lost friend. I have a story to tell about a nature adventure indoors, but no energy to tell it tonight.
Baseball is on again and that's good. Cubs versus White Sox in exhibition--Sox won.
Facebook is amazing and has brought me a long lost friend. I have a story to tell about a nature adventure indoors, but no energy to tell it tonight.
Monday, March 2, 2009
How many days in a row?
I'm inspired by a fellow blogger and challenge myself to an entry a day for the remainder of March. Here's a start--perhaps of something reasonably good.
Tomorrow I give the FCAT test to a small group of students. High-stakes testing, I hate it. The students I'll test are not likely to do well, so it's my job to encourage--even cheerlead a bit. I bought snacks; I know the drill. I still hate the whole idea of it. Last week another teacher at our school told the juniors (who are retaking the test) they should take the test "as if your life depended on it---because it does." Just what kids who've failed the test already need to hear, right? That's simply too high a stake! Dum, da, dum, da DUM! Your life?! Not even close! Don't pass this time? There is another time. Chances will come again and again. The quality of the test iteself is questionable; that's the nicest word I can think for it. Students may score a 15 on the ACT reading to substitute for the FCAT score. They may take the test as many times as they like. The messages they should be hearing are much simpler. There are many roads to every goal. Some obstacles are arbitrary, but we overcome them anyway. You can do this. You will do this. Not, never--you better do this. Seems to me that no message makes a passive-aggressive teenager want to perform less. But what do I know? I'm just a teacher.
Tomorrow I give the FCAT test to a small group of students. High-stakes testing, I hate it. The students I'll test are not likely to do well, so it's my job to encourage--even cheerlead a bit. I bought snacks; I know the drill. I still hate the whole idea of it. Last week another teacher at our school told the juniors (who are retaking the test) they should take the test "as if your life depended on it---because it does." Just what kids who've failed the test already need to hear, right? That's simply too high a stake! Dum, da, dum, da DUM! Your life?! Not even close! Don't pass this time? There is another time. Chances will come again and again. The quality of the test iteself is questionable; that's the nicest word I can think for it. Students may score a 15 on the ACT reading to substitute for the FCAT score. They may take the test as many times as they like. The messages they should be hearing are much simpler. There are many roads to every goal. Some obstacles are arbitrary, but we overcome them anyway. You can do this. You will do this. Not, never--you better do this. Seems to me that no message makes a passive-aggressive teenager want to perform less. But what do I know? I'm just a teacher.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Time passages
This post written a few days ago while visiting my parents who unbelievably no longer have internet access.
I can’t seem to shake this fascination with the passage of time, with life stages and shifting perspectives.
I see my folks less often than I’d like. Most of the year they are nine hours away, until recently in western North Carolina, and now in Tennessee. They will be 80 years old in the coming year, and while both are starting to show the effects of aging, my mother’s world is changing more rapidly.
My thoughts on that are so ponderous I won’t try to get at them yet, suffice to say that seeing her ever-shortening step reminds me that our time here grows ever shorter with each passing day.
We attended church with my parents today, my first visit to a church in many, many months. I liked it more than I expected. But the image that keeps coming back to me as I consider the phenomenon of passing time has nothing to do with the worship. It could have happened in any restroom, I think, or maybe the scene was altered by our surroundings. With me in the restroom were two young beauties in cute dresses, perfect hair, the right touches of make-up, etc. Rather than the usual teenage banter, they were silent. Not so odd, but the way they each locked eyes with her own reflection in the mirror and did not allow that gaze to wander as they washed and dried their hands gave me pause. For a second I saw the self-talk, the hidden self-doubt, the beauty anxiety that every female faces with intensity sometime between 14-25 (and often well beyond). The old, “yeah, I am pretty, but am I pretty enough?” question was apparent. This real or imagined teenage angst, combined with the harsh reality of the years’ effect on my mother, prompts reflection on my own life stage. With my children grown according to the calendar, and approaching the time when they are truly on their own—this means out of my pocket and my house, an inevitability I refuse to rush—D. and I are looking forward to many more years. I am glad to be past the “perfect the package” deal with my body, but I can’t deny a need for more fitness. What is this stage of life really about? I’m not ready to start getting old. I know I don’t want the same things my parents wanted. I don’t want to be married to the healthcare system when I’m 80, building my life around doctor’s appointments. I’d really rather be dead. But I may not feel that way at 79. What is in my mother's head as she faces the mirror each day?
So, there was something profound in my head when this began and now it seems it boils down to life is short. Bet most of my readers know that and have for some time. But maybe we can’t appreciate how short until the end is nearly in sight. Happy new year. I plan to enjoy this one, as they’re whizzing by pretty fast now.
I can’t seem to shake this fascination with the passage of time, with life stages and shifting perspectives.
I see my folks less often than I’d like. Most of the year they are nine hours away, until recently in western North Carolina, and now in Tennessee. They will be 80 years old in the coming year, and while both are starting to show the effects of aging, my mother’s world is changing more rapidly.
My thoughts on that are so ponderous I won’t try to get at them yet, suffice to say that seeing her ever-shortening step reminds me that our time here grows ever shorter with each passing day.
We attended church with my parents today, my first visit to a church in many, many months. I liked it more than I expected. But the image that keeps coming back to me as I consider the phenomenon of passing time has nothing to do with the worship. It could have happened in any restroom, I think, or maybe the scene was altered by our surroundings. With me in the restroom were two young beauties in cute dresses, perfect hair, the right touches of make-up, etc. Rather than the usual teenage banter, they were silent. Not so odd, but the way they each locked eyes with her own reflection in the mirror and did not allow that gaze to wander as they washed and dried their hands gave me pause. For a second I saw the self-talk, the hidden self-doubt, the beauty anxiety that every female faces with intensity sometime between 14-25 (and often well beyond). The old, “yeah, I am pretty, but am I pretty enough?” question was apparent. This real or imagined teenage angst, combined with the harsh reality of the years’ effect on my mother, prompts reflection on my own life stage. With my children grown according to the calendar, and approaching the time when they are truly on their own—this means out of my pocket and my house, an inevitability I refuse to rush—D. and I are looking forward to many more years. I am glad to be past the “perfect the package” deal with my body, but I can’t deny a need for more fitness. What is this stage of life really about? I’m not ready to start getting old. I know I don’t want the same things my parents wanted. I don’t want to be married to the healthcare system when I’m 80, building my life around doctor’s appointments. I’d really rather be dead. But I may not feel that way at 79. What is in my mother's head as she faces the mirror each day?
So, there was something profound in my head when this began and now it seems it boils down to life is short. Bet most of my readers know that and have for some time. But maybe we can’t appreciate how short until the end is nearly in sight. Happy new year. I plan to enjoy this one, as they’re whizzing by pretty fast now.
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