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.

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.

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.

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.

But why must we punctuate?

Don't worry, this is not a crazy English teacher rant about using correct punctuation. Quite the contrary, it's a near rant about the perception of absolutism in the rules. I could go on and on about the uselessness of many kinds of rules, but I'll limit myself to a few words about the dots, curves, lines and combinations of these we call punctuation. I hate it. I don't always do it right. I can't remember half the rules and generally allow the voice in my head to do the work. "Learn the rules so you can break them"--that's what I heard and absorbed as a teenager reading postmodern stuff like Kesey's Garage Sale , alongside modern works like ee cummings, Faulkner, Virginia Woolf, etc. So, while not totally ignorant of the rules, I give myself liberty to ignore them or follow them as I choose, at least enough to make meaning. Of course, I do strive to teach the right stuff to the kids. And because it is a complex system, some of my more left-brained students take great delight in knowing the rules and love to catch me in an error. What a rambling intro--let me get to it.
Each Friday at lunch time a group of my students from last year gather in my classroom for discussion. It's student-led on a variety of topics, often spiritual in nature. The kids came to me to propose the idea after a lesson on religion in one of their classes. The group varies in number but we have quite a few Christian kids, one Islamic girl, and a handful of professed atheists. Mind you, these kids are turning seventeen this year, so they are exploring beliefs with interest. But I'm off-track again. Yesterday we looked at the MSNBC Week in Pictures. They insisted I send # 13 of fighting squirrels to another teacher, so I composed the e-mail with their help and attached a screen shot of the picture, feeling like I was committing a minor crime in front of them, but that's yet another post. Anyway, we must have spent seven minutes discussing the appropriateness of a colon before the series of their names. It was lighthearted and fun, and fueled by a smart boy's need to be right (when he was wrong). Now, I'm all for using the right punctuation, because it does create meaning, but I'm not keen on worrying or arguing over it. At least, not today. And when our conversation flowed from a first hand account of the celebration of Eid-ul-Adha, to fighting squirrels, to the rules on colons and commas, I marveled again at the lovely, random nature of learning, and the small tyranny of punctuation.

What I want to teach this year

A wise principal once told her faculty, "Be sure you know now the big things you want them to really know at the end of the year." Now, of course there are much more sophisticated words for this, (essential questions, key concepts, etc.,) but when I start to feel overwhelmed looking at the list of standards, or considering the additions to the crowded list of authors and works, I think about that principal and the beautiful school she created using the simple concepts of trust, respect, and excellence, and I trim the list of what I'd like to impart. So here's my rough draft.

I want my students to:

• appreciate literature in a personal way, to engage and connect with texts in a way that honors their own interpretation.
• feel comfortable with the conventions of academic discourse, from questions of style to basic rules of the MLA, APA, etc. but also be able to write for a variety of readers.
  
• to write with fluency and eagerness, to feel the pressure of having something to say and a desire to say it in writing both clearly and beautifully.
• to develop and enjoy our innate love of language--I'd put this one first, because it's why I do what I do, but I'd rather it be my strong finish.

All the blah, blah, blah I have on my "Course Information" sheet like preparing them for the IB program and beyond, and increasing their competency in reading, writing, speaking and listening are true, but written for a parental audience. I might share this list in class and on Blackboard, but it's mostly for me.

What I taught last year

I'm in the middle of preparing for new students and a new year, but two student comments from last year keep surfacing in my mind. I don't know if I can top these two, especially since I won't have any standard English classes this year. When asked what they had learned in my class, one young man said, "I learned the world is much bigger than I ever knew before." This is the result of viewing and discussing MSNBC Week in Pictures, a Friday habit I can't seem to break. The other comment feeds my soul: "I learned reading is a hobby, not a chore." I don't know if I can improve on that, especially with the "Pre-IB" students, but I'm out to try. Tomorrow I'll meet a few of my students because of orientation. It's not too well attended since my students are sophomores, hence much too cool for this optional exercise. Over-achievers and those with hovering parents will be present. Ready or not--wow--look at that, I'm ready!

Stick me, please!

Today I bared my ass to two strange men and am already grateful. Of course, the men were properly trained and licensed, one by the AMA. Dr. Ash inserted a series of needles into the dura of my spine at L4 and L5 to inject a solution of steroid, anesthetic and saline. The goal is relief from the pain in my back and leg I've been living with in varying degrees for a long, long, time, the last six weeks being the most severe. It's been a strange summer. I've been on pain pills and managing my symptoms with some success, but I've hit a new level of inactivity to do it. And the pills (Vicodin) make me feel so odd, a wave of euphoria and floatiness and then a strange flat blankness. Once I remember thinking "This is what it's like to be really stupid." Then I found myself contemplating my own death and how folks would fare without me. Not my standard subjects at all. I miss my self when I'm on pain pills. I'm optimistic that these injections will truly bring a cure--two more sets, two weeks apart. The next step--many steps, many little steps-- is to get moving again. So little time before the lovely treadmill that is school cranks up again. Ready for the fun, fellow teachers out there? I'm more prepared than this time last year, but as the summer's been truly off time, I have much to do.

Transitions

It's done. Another year of lessons and grading. Another year of getting up early and going to bed knowing there is still work to do. Not really a year, of course. 196 days. It always seems like it went quickly in hindsight. It always crawls in March, and April begins the push as the end comes in sight in my planning. May begins with a feeling that I can't fit it all in and usually some adjustment so we don't go crazy in the final weeks. Then there the push at the end which is part joy, part duty, and part adrenaline push. Then the last line on the sign out sheet is initialed, and it's done. Over. Stop. Take. A break.

D. and I passed a sign for a bereavement group and he joked that I was in mourning for the closing of school, but that's pure overstatement. But there is a strange disquietude that impedes summer joy, though it doesn't totally squelch it.

So I move from having my day governed by bells and papers to a stretch of days (66) with few governing forces. I should be thrilled, exuberant even, but I am simply thoughtful and tired.

Literary links or Why I love/hate politics

I vacillate between watching too much politics and watching none at all. Here's a new take on the current battle that helps me see why I can't help but love it sometimes--some great stories are being played out for us.

The Bard made the press with another one of my favorites this week, Frank Deford, whose alter-ego the sports curmudgeon gave Roger Clemens a lifetime Gertrude award.

Next post: Why I love baseball--I'm considering it.

This blog not yet abandoned

Found this odd thing today and haven't even read it thoroughly yet. I scanned in with enough attention to think it's worth my time. More later.

Early mornings and old westerns

I like to get up early. I don't always like going to work early, but getting up early is becoming a habit. I like creeping around the dark house and settling in for a time of reading, grading, coffee sipping, etc. This morning I've got company. I finished making my vocab quiz in record time. Surprise! My man is up as well and watching a 1967 Civil War/western, replete with heroes, gun battles, and that annoying orchestral soundtrack that wants to be sure you know who the good guys are and when something's going to happen. George Hamilton looked like a mannequin when he was young and Max Baer was his craziest Jethro as a Confederate soldier tracking "blue-bellies" in the old west. Oh wait, he just took one in the belly, oh no, looks like the girl heads back to town to become a hooker. Music up, cut to sunset, credits--ah, at least it's over. It actually had a decent script, but the triteness, the heavy reliance on movie tradition, the pure oldness of it makes it a surreal wake-up on a Friday morning. Hope your day is off to a good start, too.

What's wrong with fiction?

Why in the world couldn't this young lady have simply written an excellent novel? More later on this.

A Valentine Reading Day

It was fun to start today's classes with one of my favorite love poems: Falling in love is like owning a dog It's Thursday so it's reading day in my classroom. My IB kids seem to love it. They are involved in their books and look forward to having time to read them. Some find precious little time outside the classroom to read. They swear to me that they're so overscheduled that they spend zero time on TV, MySpace, and other time-wasting pursuits. How sad. I know their lives are busy, but it bothers me to think about being a kid with zero time to yourself. I know my life was an exception in many ways, but I remember my high school years as a time when I felt like I ordered my own existence for the most part. Certainly school took a big chunk of my time, and I did my share of homework (mostly in Trigonometry), but I also had time for the beach, tons of reading, walks in the woods, even some dating and a social life. I always thought I grew up kind of fast, but now I see that the drudgery of being an adult, being overscheduled, having a stack of responsibilities, etc, has been introduced to kids much earlier than when I was young.
Today most of them are reading Of Mice and Men, the text we're studying in class right now. Next week we'll watch the movie which makes for an easy four-day week for me. Can I begin looking forward to the weekend already?
It's birthday week for me; I keep expanding the celebration. Enjoy all the love in your life today!

Another Friday

It's happened again! We check another week off the list and move into the weekend. Never mind that I'll be burning up my whole Saturday with hurry-up-and-wait at a debate tournament--sounds like fun, but the reality bites. Never mind that I must make family visits on Sunday. Never mind that the stack of grading I'm accumulating is several inches high now. Never mind that grades must be up-to-date on Monday afternoon for interims. I've got my "Be Here Now" attitude on and contentment prevails. If James Taylor is right and the secret of life is enjoying the passing of time, then today it feels like I've mastered the secret. Tomorrow? Who knows?