I have been sitting snug in the recliner with cups of kaluha and whipping cream laced coffee for the past hour perusing mail, messages, facebook, and cookie recipes. I closed the door to my room lest I inadvertently wake Bell. I needed a bit more quiet time than usual this morning. Really, I just wanted my IPad a bit longer. As soon as she wakes up, she will want to go to Pottermore.com and check some potion she is brewing or see where her house is in points standing. And then ensues the long battle of making sure she doesn't spend too much time plugged in to an electronic device today. It is hard when I know she doesn't feel good enough to do much more than lie around and I am too busy cleaning house (or being sucked into a book) to find her another occupation.
I am thankful for the quiet this morning. This may jinx it, but Kate hasn't barked incessantly at anything. It isn't freezing. There are zero pressing matters to attend or places to go today. Tomorrow will be a go to church, visit my mom, and stop for groceries day, but today is just a homebody day. I can wear leggings and a flannel shirt and no one will care. That prim, proper, hardworking English teacher persona (my principal is delusional if she really buys that facade) can be discarded for the day.
This is not to say there aren't goals. Housecleaning drives Jack nuts so I do big cleaning every other weekend when he is not home and just tidy on weekends he is home. He comes home Monday, and it is important to me that when he comes home, our house is orderly and fresh. It should be a bit of a sanctuary after he has been gone all week, so it will be scrub the bathroom, dust, vacuum and mop, laundry day. I have a bit more than usual because I want to wash all these germy blankets Bella has nested in all week. I was so tired last night, I didn't even wash up the day's dishes so there is a bit of kitchen work as well.
Last weekend we had our pictures made and I really need to work on cards this weekend. I bought every single Christmas gift save one online - they have all arrived and I have not opened a single shipping box to check its contents, so that needs tending to. I bought a toy last week as well - no it isn't anything kinky. I bought a cookie press and I am dying to bake some experimental batches, try some new recipes today. My grandparents and Jack's parents don't need a thing, but both sets have serious sweet tooths. In addition to that seriously brandied up fruitcake marinating in the hall cupboard, I think they are getting an assortment of baked treats. I know Rubilee was reminiscing about her youth when her housemates made gingerbread and brandy Alexanders, so I have the ingredients for both. I thought one day over break it might be fun for Bell, Rubilee, and me to bake gingerbread together.
The only other thing in my list is to finish JoJo Moyes' One Plus One today. I know realistically that it all won't get finished today, aside from the housework. That is a must. I won't rush. No breakneck speed cleaning for me today. For now, my coffee cup is empty and it is past 8. Time to waken the child and start the day.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Friday, December 12, 2014
Beastly Weeks
Last week had an inauspicious beginning despite it being a week that Jack would come home. Last Monday, I got up early, prepped supper, made a loaf of homemade bread, had us ready to go out the door a bit early - in short, I was playing Superwoman. And then it all fell apart. It was the bitterly cold morning when the predicted high for the day was only 30 degrees and I went out early to start the car and load up my briefcase and Bell's backpack.
Now for city people, we live in an old house built by a tightwad, a man who built this house out of leftover parts from other houses. I walk across the yard to get to the dryer though the washing machine is in the middle of my kitchen. A garage is something fancy people have. That means that warming the car is a must. Somehow, after I started the car, I bumped the door lock - I believe it had something to do with keeping one Jack's bejillion cats out of the car. Of course I didn't realize the doors locked until after the door shut. Panic did not set in - I was sure the spare key was on the rack. Except it wasn't. We don't have a house phone. My cell phone was in the car. Bell still had my iPad in the house, so I messaged Jack Dear, hoping he was still at the trailer in Alva with his iPhone on (he doesn't keep it on much and normally uses his work phone). He did and he also had my spare key. In Alva. Nearly three hours away. It is 7:30. I have a 20 minute drive and need to be at work in 30 minutes. Now panic ensues. Can I take our old decrepit jeep? The one with no heat, no antifreeze, and a nearly flat tire? Nope. I did limp the jeep to Jack's mother's and took her rather unreliable car to work. In the meantime, my car sat, running with heat on full blast and my briefcase inside for three hours, while the man of the house came home with the spare key.
Sounds like the Three Stooges are in charge at my house doesn't it? It all ended up fine. Jack came home, dealt with the cars and the day resolved itself into normalcy, but when your Monday morning starts that way, you just don't do a good job teaching - too much stress, too much insanity. It somehow sets the tone for the week, which turned gray and damp with a cold that seeped into my bones.
Last Wednesday, Bell developed a sore throat. Last Thursday, the chip in the windshield that was supposed to get fixed on Friday turned into a huge crack. By Sunday, Bell had developed a nasty cough. By Monday evening, the snot monster was sleeping propped up in my bed with Breathe Easy oil in the diffuser and Thieves oil rubbed into her chest and feet, dosed with cold medicine. By Tuesdayay, the cough and congestion had reached the point that I was checking for fever and saying, "Just try to make it through the day." Mothers know that when we send our kids to school half sick, we spend the entire day waiting for the phone to ring, for the elementary to demand that we come fetch our germy child. That means we are not one hundred percent focused on our job.
Perhaps that is why it took me until the end of first hour to realize that when second hour's papers came back from the copier, they were short a few copies. Our school building is huge, with the copier far away from my room, but between classes I made it to the copier, which was out of paper. I loaded the paper, but there was a misfeed. After much fuss, I managed to get my copies and had rounded the last corner of halls to my classroom just as the bell rang. I was late for class. The principal was waiting outside my classroom.. This did not bode well. Not well at all. I went in, shut the door and prayed fervently that the boss man was there to observe someone else, though not likely since there are only two other classes past mine in the hall.
My students have a routine everyday - when the bell rings, they are to begin work on their sentence of the day while I take roll and then we start class. The ball had rung and not a single student out of 21 had ther sentence out, much less started working on it. I got them going, roll was taken , but there was much muttering, nitpicking between students and general grumbling in the room. I had to tell several students to focus, to be quiet, and the third time I spoke to one young man, I actually said "shut up." I rarely say that. I just don't, but he was keeping contention stirred up with another
student and had been warned, and I just about was at the end of my rope. I thought so at least.
The day before, we had spent no less than fifty minutes discussing the roll of women in the late 1880s and reading Kate Chopin's "Story of an Hour" and discussing how the story could fit into both realism and naturalism. We dissected that story so thoroughly that I am not sure much more could have been said, I thought they had picked up every nuance, caught how each detail was flavored by the social environment, understood each sliver of irony. Come on, it is a ten minute story and it should have been conquered in a fifty minute lesson.
Not so. I handed out work, about 12 questions, going from simple right up Bloom's levels. Immediately, the uproar started: "I don't get it," "This is too hard," "You didn't explain this part," "These questions don't make sense," ""Help me," "I still don't get this." I saw red. Few things annoy me more than students who start the "I don't get it routine" when they have only spent 30 seconds with a problem. I had dared used words like why, how, what if, consider the historical and social aspects, and worst of all, in yor opinion. As I am saying that I will not just give them the answer and their protests are getting louder, in walks the principal ready to observe me. My students apparently have no brains and are on the verge of mutiny if I ask them to work, it looks like chaos, I was late to class . . .
I did not give them the answer. I asked leading questions, we discussed some more, I redirected with leading questions, I ended up saying things like, "No. You are not thinking. I will not tell you the answer" and we started over again with different leading questions. Three times and twenty minutes later they were mad and pouty, but on the right track. While they worked, I passed out graded papers and make up work, looking over shoulders as the kids worked, stopping and redirecting them to other parts of the story for answers, asking them questions to steer the. In the right direction.
I got a good review, but patience wise, I probably deserved an F. I did not have all my ducks in a row to begin class on time. They don't pay me to fight with the copier between class. They pay me to teach from bell to bell. The galling thing is, days like that are pretty rare. I teach and work hard and most days, I do a good job. maybe I got a good review because the boss knows that I do a good job, maybe he recognized the students had some responsibility to learn and not just me teach. But what if he only gave me a good review because he knows that 35% of my reviews will be comprised of how much growth there is between the 10th and 11th grade test scores, rather than how effectively I taught. I can be the best teacher ever, but I can not force a child to do well on a test, especially when passing said test is not a graduation requirement, it is also hard to show improvement whe the 10th grade pass rate is already something like 97%.
It has just been a beastly two weeks. Wednesday, I was out of school, lugging a sick Bella to the doctor. Yesterday morning I had a migraine and then it was a bit chaotic trying to catch up from being gone. Then I got to spend a good bit of time dealing with a discipline issue. My kids were using the ipads to type last essay of the semester and one child chose to write his in rather nasty language. It wasn't turned in, but left on the Ilad where a student later in the day discovered it. I had to figure out which kid it was, spend some time with the principal deciding what punishments would ensue, just generally deal with the mess. The essay had some legitimate sentences amidst its filthy rambling, but for the most part, drawing penises all over the paper would have been as effective. Let me remind you, my salary and even my job will depends o n this kid's test score. The student won't be allowed to use the ipads anymore which means more work for me since we will be working through a test prep program on them one day a week for the rest of the year. I will have to create something on paper . . . Giving the child a zero really isn't an option - test scores, remember?
This morning, as I type this, I am shaky from lack of sleep. I usually sleep well after a migraine, but not last night. Sometimes the pills I take leave me jittery. Match that with a coughing little girl who had bad dreams and I gave up on sleep at 4:15. It is test day in my room which means no lessons to teach. I will be having lunch with fiends. It is Friday. These are things for which I am seriously thankful. I am ready for this week to be over and for Jack to come home.
Now for city people, we live in an old house built by a tightwad, a man who built this house out of leftover parts from other houses. I walk across the yard to get to the dryer though the washing machine is in the middle of my kitchen. A garage is something fancy people have. That means that warming the car is a must. Somehow, after I started the car, I bumped the door lock - I believe it had something to do with keeping one Jack's bejillion cats out of the car. Of course I didn't realize the doors locked until after the door shut. Panic did not set in - I was sure the spare key was on the rack. Except it wasn't. We don't have a house phone. My cell phone was in the car. Bell still had my iPad in the house, so I messaged Jack Dear, hoping he was still at the trailer in Alva with his iPhone on (he doesn't keep it on much and normally uses his work phone). He did and he also had my spare key. In Alva. Nearly three hours away. It is 7:30. I have a 20 minute drive and need to be at work in 30 minutes. Now panic ensues. Can I take our old decrepit jeep? The one with no heat, no antifreeze, and a nearly flat tire? Nope. I did limp the jeep to Jack's mother's and took her rather unreliable car to work. In the meantime, my car sat, running with heat on full blast and my briefcase inside for three hours, while the man of the house came home with the spare key.
Sounds like the Three Stooges are in charge at my house doesn't it? It all ended up fine. Jack came home, dealt with the cars and the day resolved itself into normalcy, but when your Monday morning starts that way, you just don't do a good job teaching - too much stress, too much insanity. It somehow sets the tone for the week, which turned gray and damp with a cold that seeped into my bones.
Last Wednesday, Bell developed a sore throat. Last Thursday, the chip in the windshield that was supposed to get fixed on Friday turned into a huge crack. By Sunday, Bell had developed a nasty cough. By Monday evening, the snot monster was sleeping propped up in my bed with Breathe Easy oil in the diffuser and Thieves oil rubbed into her chest and feet, dosed with cold medicine. By Tuesdayay, the cough and congestion had reached the point that I was checking for fever and saying, "Just try to make it through the day." Mothers know that when we send our kids to school half sick, we spend the entire day waiting for the phone to ring, for the elementary to demand that we come fetch our germy child. That means we are not one hundred percent focused on our job.
Perhaps that is why it took me until the end of first hour to realize that when second hour's papers came back from the copier, they were short a few copies. Our school building is huge, with the copier far away from my room, but between classes I made it to the copier, which was out of paper. I loaded the paper, but there was a misfeed. After much fuss, I managed to get my copies and had rounded the last corner of halls to my classroom just as the bell rang. I was late for class. The principal was waiting outside my classroom.. This did not bode well. Not well at all. I went in, shut the door and prayed fervently that the boss man was there to observe someone else, though not likely since there are only two other classes past mine in the hall.
My students have a routine everyday - when the bell rings, they are to begin work on their sentence of the day while I take roll and then we start class. The ball had rung and not a single student out of 21 had ther sentence out, much less started working on it. I got them going, roll was taken , but there was much muttering, nitpicking between students and general grumbling in the room. I had to tell several students to focus, to be quiet, and the third time I spoke to one young man, I actually said "shut up." I rarely say that. I just don't, but he was keeping contention stirred up with another
student and had been warned, and I just about was at the end of my rope. I thought so at least.
The day before, we had spent no less than fifty minutes discussing the roll of women in the late 1880s and reading Kate Chopin's "Story of an Hour" and discussing how the story could fit into both realism and naturalism. We dissected that story so thoroughly that I am not sure much more could have been said, I thought they had picked up every nuance, caught how each detail was flavored by the social environment, understood each sliver of irony. Come on, it is a ten minute story and it should have been conquered in a fifty minute lesson.
Not so. I handed out work, about 12 questions, going from simple right up Bloom's levels. Immediately, the uproar started: "I don't get it," "This is too hard," "You didn't explain this part," "These questions don't make sense," ""Help me," "I still don't get this." I saw red. Few things annoy me more than students who start the "I don't get it routine" when they have only spent 30 seconds with a problem. I had dared used words like why, how, what if, consider the historical and social aspects, and worst of all, in yor opinion. As I am saying that I will not just give them the answer and their protests are getting louder, in walks the principal ready to observe me. My students apparently have no brains and are on the verge of mutiny if I ask them to work, it looks like chaos, I was late to class . . .
I did not give them the answer. I asked leading questions, we discussed some more, I redirected with leading questions, I ended up saying things like, "No. You are not thinking. I will not tell you the answer" and we started over again with different leading questions. Three times and twenty minutes later they were mad and pouty, but on the right track. While they worked, I passed out graded papers and make up work, looking over shoulders as the kids worked, stopping and redirecting them to other parts of the story for answers, asking them questions to steer the. In the right direction.
I got a good review, but patience wise, I probably deserved an F. I did not have all my ducks in a row to begin class on time. They don't pay me to fight with the copier between class. They pay me to teach from bell to bell. The galling thing is, days like that are pretty rare. I teach and work hard and most days, I do a good job. maybe I got a good review because the boss knows that I do a good job, maybe he recognized the students had some responsibility to learn and not just me teach. But what if he only gave me a good review because he knows that 35% of my reviews will be comprised of how much growth there is between the 10th and 11th grade test scores, rather than how effectively I taught. I can be the best teacher ever, but I can not force a child to do well on a test, especially when passing said test is not a graduation requirement, it is also hard to show improvement whe the 10th grade pass rate is already something like 97%.
It has just been a beastly two weeks. Wednesday, I was out of school, lugging a sick Bella to the doctor. Yesterday morning I had a migraine and then it was a bit chaotic trying to catch up from being gone. Then I got to spend a good bit of time dealing with a discipline issue. My kids were using the ipads to type last essay of the semester and one child chose to write his in rather nasty language. It wasn't turned in, but left on the Ilad where a student later in the day discovered it. I had to figure out which kid it was, spend some time with the principal deciding what punishments would ensue, just generally deal with the mess. The essay had some legitimate sentences amidst its filthy rambling, but for the most part, drawing penises all over the paper would have been as effective. Let me remind you, my salary and even my job will depends o n this kid's test score. The student won't be allowed to use the ipads anymore which means more work for me since we will be working through a test prep program on them one day a week for the rest of the year. I will have to create something on paper . . . Giving the child a zero really isn't an option - test scores, remember?
This morning, as I type this, I am shaky from lack of sleep. I usually sleep well after a migraine, but not last night. Sometimes the pills I take leave me jittery. Match that with a coughing little girl who had bad dreams and I gave up on sleep at 4:15. It is test day in my room which means no lessons to teach. I will be having lunch with fiends. It is Friday. These are things for which I am seriously thankful. I am ready for this week to be over and for Jack to come home.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
The Great Tree Heist
Wrapped in a dense, softest gray blanket of fog, hidden from lake and woods and road, our house is quiet. I should be sleeping late on this morning meant for snuggling deep in my clean sheeted bed. Really, I did sleep late. 6:30 is extraordinarily late when my internal clock usually wakes me a bit after 5. I am typically the first up and thus the first to move our elf on the shelf and turn the tree lights on, but Bell and Jack camped out in the living room last night according to their usual Friday night custom. I hesitate to wake either up, though barking Kate outside is sure to do it for me. The dears need their sleep. Today is to be our first real family photo ever taken by someone other than Jack. We have an appointment and everything, just like normal people. This is a hardship to the man used to being in charge of the camera and a gross inconvenience to the kid who just wants to stay home and watch YouTube videos about minecraft. I need them to sleep in and be in their best moods possible.
As I sip my Saturday coffee ( good coffee is saved for weekends when it can be savored and we slurp ordinary coffee on weekdays) and nibble one of Bell's sugar cookies, I am pondering our Christmas traditions. Since I first put up my own tree and we blew all those eggs as friends, Jack and I had only one year when we didn't share Christmas in some way. Some years were lean years for us and some were richer; we typically made some craft or crazy food together whether it be the eggs or the fruitcake; there was always a tree. And unlike this year that is going ever so normal and tame, there is usual an element of slap stick craziness. I am not sure what it is, but when Rucker and Wilson combine in efforts, things just go a bit nutty. Poor Bell hasn't a chance at being ordinary.
One of my favorite years was the winter of 2000. I was living outside Apache in a little farmhouse, perched atop a lonely hill, a mile from the nearest neighbor. Jack was here on the farm with his folks that winter, between leaving his building in Chickasha and moving to Guthrie. As usual, Jack was the designated tree procurer. It never occurred to me to buy a tree, artificial or real. Both our families had always cut down cedar trees from pastures and so that is what we did. On a dirt road with no houses, Jack had spotted a pasture full of good looking cedar trees several miles from my house. I do not know who owned that pasture and those cedars. Had I, we could have saved ourselves much trouble. No decent farmer wants a pasture of western red cedar. They are a menace, eating up good land and providing nothing put a fire hazard. In case of grass fires, those cedars do not just smolder, but literally explode, sending sparks and embers even further afield. But Jack and I didn't think quite like that. We knew those cedars were of no value, but we didn't know whose land it was so we would have to use stealth to capture a tree. A plan was hatched.
We would wait until dark and then Jack would pick me up at my house. We would drive to the field. Jack would get out, hop the fence, snag said tree, and come back. I was the getaway driver in his Rodeo. If a car came along before he got back, I was to circle the section and come back. Jack had a flashlight and would flash it on when I came by so I could find him. Sounds good, right?
It all started well. Jack found the field and relinquished the driver's seat to me. I familiarized my self with the Rodeo's lights and all that while he climbed the fence with a small saw. Before he was gone more than a few minutes into the black night, a car did come up behind me so I moved along, driving an unfamiliar road in an unfamiliar car. I made to circle the section, but the car stayed on my tail. I began to feel a bit threatened, a bit scared to be a lone girl on an unfamiliar dirt road at night with a car tailing me, right on my bumper. I turned towards the nearest town, zigzagging down these country lanes for what seemed like miles, a quarter mile east, a quarter mile south. When we were nearly to town, the car finally took a different turn. I would have driven all the way to Fletcher if need be because by that time I was truly scared, close to panic, wondering why I was driving around in the dark without a gun. I was safely on my own again, but I wasn't entirely sure I could find that field where 30 minutes before I had left Jack in the dark with a bunch of worthless cedar trees. Of course I could. I had to. I couldn't very well leave him in below freezing temperatures miles from anywhere in the dark.
I have no idea which of us was more relieved to see the other when I got to the right section and he popped up next to the fence, tree in tow. He didn't yell at me or even gripe at me for having left him in the dark, bitterly cold night. He must have been frozen and he certainly looked glad to see me. I told him the story, and teeth chattering, we got the tree atop the Rodeo. Here we hit snag number two. No rope. So, we popped the sun roof and took turns sticking our hands awkwardly through the tilted glass to hold onto the tree on the roof as he drove that winding road back to my house. I remember my hands aching, going numb from the effort to hold on to scratchy tree trunk with only thin gloves in twenty degree air. By the time we got to my house, only an hour had gone by since our departure. He had moved past any annoyance, and I had moved past fear and it became a ludicrous story.
Jack, always the good sport, wrestled that tree into a stand for me before calling it quits. I remember decorating my tree the next day. I remember it being a bitter cold Christmas with inches and inches of snow. I am not sure why I even needed a tree because I went to my Grandparents for a few days at Christmas. I certainly do not remember if it was a good tree or if that tree picked in the dark was hideous. I just remember how Jack made sure I had a tree because I wanted one.
The next time Jack and I mucked about with Christmas trees, we had figured out who we each were and had made the leap from friends to being a family. Twelve trees later, our traditions have shifted to going out to the well house and getting the artificial tree we got when I was pregnant with Bell and couldn't take anything for allergies (so no cedars). Our trees are now decorated with the help of little hands, and there are no dangerous excursions in the night. My pushing forty bones much prefer these domesticated holidays, but every year we take out that memory of tree thievery and laugh at our silliness.
As I sip my Saturday coffee ( good coffee is saved for weekends when it can be savored and we slurp ordinary coffee on weekdays) and nibble one of Bell's sugar cookies, I am pondering our Christmas traditions. Since I first put up my own tree and we blew all those eggs as friends, Jack and I had only one year when we didn't share Christmas in some way. Some years were lean years for us and some were richer; we typically made some craft or crazy food together whether it be the eggs or the fruitcake; there was always a tree. And unlike this year that is going ever so normal and tame, there is usual an element of slap stick craziness. I am not sure what it is, but when Rucker and Wilson combine in efforts, things just go a bit nutty. Poor Bell hasn't a chance at being ordinary.
One of my favorite years was the winter of 2000. I was living outside Apache in a little farmhouse, perched atop a lonely hill, a mile from the nearest neighbor. Jack was here on the farm with his folks that winter, between leaving his building in Chickasha and moving to Guthrie. As usual, Jack was the designated tree procurer. It never occurred to me to buy a tree, artificial or real. Both our families had always cut down cedar trees from pastures and so that is what we did. On a dirt road with no houses, Jack had spotted a pasture full of good looking cedar trees several miles from my house. I do not know who owned that pasture and those cedars. Had I, we could have saved ourselves much trouble. No decent farmer wants a pasture of western red cedar. They are a menace, eating up good land and providing nothing put a fire hazard. In case of grass fires, those cedars do not just smolder, but literally explode, sending sparks and embers even further afield. But Jack and I didn't think quite like that. We knew those cedars were of no value, but we didn't know whose land it was so we would have to use stealth to capture a tree. A plan was hatched.
We would wait until dark and then Jack would pick me up at my house. We would drive to the field. Jack would get out, hop the fence, snag said tree, and come back. I was the getaway driver in his Rodeo. If a car came along before he got back, I was to circle the section and come back. Jack had a flashlight and would flash it on when I came by so I could find him. Sounds good, right?
It all started well. Jack found the field and relinquished the driver's seat to me. I familiarized my self with the Rodeo's lights and all that while he climbed the fence with a small saw. Before he was gone more than a few minutes into the black night, a car did come up behind me so I moved along, driving an unfamiliar road in an unfamiliar car. I made to circle the section, but the car stayed on my tail. I began to feel a bit threatened, a bit scared to be a lone girl on an unfamiliar dirt road at night with a car tailing me, right on my bumper. I turned towards the nearest town, zigzagging down these country lanes for what seemed like miles, a quarter mile east, a quarter mile south. When we were nearly to town, the car finally took a different turn. I would have driven all the way to Fletcher if need be because by that time I was truly scared, close to panic, wondering why I was driving around in the dark without a gun. I was safely on my own again, but I wasn't entirely sure I could find that field where 30 minutes before I had left Jack in the dark with a bunch of worthless cedar trees. Of course I could. I had to. I couldn't very well leave him in below freezing temperatures miles from anywhere in the dark.
I have no idea which of us was more relieved to see the other when I got to the right section and he popped up next to the fence, tree in tow. He didn't yell at me or even gripe at me for having left him in the dark, bitterly cold night. He must have been frozen and he certainly looked glad to see me. I told him the story, and teeth chattering, we got the tree atop the Rodeo. Here we hit snag number two. No rope. So, we popped the sun roof and took turns sticking our hands awkwardly through the tilted glass to hold onto the tree on the roof as he drove that winding road back to my house. I remember my hands aching, going numb from the effort to hold on to scratchy tree trunk with only thin gloves in twenty degree air. By the time we got to my house, only an hour had gone by since our departure. He had moved past any annoyance, and I had moved past fear and it became a ludicrous story.
Jack, always the good sport, wrestled that tree into a stand for me before calling it quits. I remember decorating my tree the next day. I remember it being a bitter cold Christmas with inches and inches of snow. I am not sure why I even needed a tree because I went to my Grandparents for a few days at Christmas. I certainly do not remember if it was a good tree or if that tree picked in the dark was hideous. I just remember how Jack made sure I had a tree because I wanted one.
The next time Jack and I mucked about with Christmas trees, we had figured out who we each were and had made the leap from friends to being a family. Twelve trees later, our traditions have shifted to going out to the well house and getting the artificial tree we got when I was pregnant with Bell and couldn't take anything for allergies (so no cedars). Our trees are now decorated with the help of little hands, and there are no dangerous excursions in the night. My pushing forty bones much prefer these domesticated holidays, but every year we take out that memory of tree thievery and laugh at our silliness.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
I Love Blue Lipped Egg Blowers
The Rucker family typically puts up the Christmas tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, but Jack Dear was away at Alva. He came home Monday, and last night, we put up the tree. Jack is always in charge of tree set up leaving us girls to do the decorating. It is such a pleasure to put the world people up, followed by all the ornaments we have collected the past twelve years, some starting to lose their shine or with paint scratched, but all with a story. My favorites are from the early trees, like the horde of gingerbread men we we made our first Christmas as the Rucker family.
Lungpower is a must and before long, we were ridiculously dizzy, but we also had a bowl of yolks and whites for cooking, and soon, a bowlful of eggs to decorate, some with glitter, some with intricate designs in craft paintt, all with hot glued ribbon loops for hangers. They were a far cry from Faberge, but several were indeed pretty. Once the paints and glitters dried, we shellacked them, hoping to make them a little stronger.
Other than the world people that came from grandmother's tree, thevery oldest ornaments are from my first year as a teacher. Jack who then lived a few blocks away kindly brought me a tree scrounged from his mother's pasture. It was a cedar tree, not a lovely spruce or pine, but it was free. It was one of those years when I had money for presents or decor but not both. I opted for presents. How could I not? So I bought a few strings of lights and one box of ornaments. I strung pop corn and made some other crafty ornaments, but the Christmas eggs are what I best remember. I am not sure whose idea it was to blow and decorate eggs, but when we started, I pictured something delicately ornate, Faberge like.
Eggs are thankfully pretty cheap, and I also had a bunch of colors of Rit fabric dye. We debated whether we should dye first or blow first. For some insane reason, we decided to dye eggs first so that the hollow eggs wouldn't get full of dye. It seems we thought it would be ages before all the dye dripped back out or dried. And so, we mixed up red, yellow, blue, and green dye and most carefully dipped the raw eggs. After they dried forever, Jack showed me how to heat a needle and delicately make a hole in each end of the egg. A bit of whites will leak out of a pierced egg, but to truly clean out the eggs, one must blow them out, so we we put the eggs to our lips and blew and blew and blew. I am not sure at what point we looked up and noticed each other's new lips, but we looked like we had been kissing rainbow lollipops. It turns out that it was impossible to blow out eggs without getting some moisture from our lips onto the eggs. Once the eggs were damp, the color rubbed right off and behold! We were dyed as much as the eggs. Not just our lips, but an inch all the way around our mouths were blue and green and red and this gross black where the colors ran together. For those of you who have played in dye, you know it lasts a few days. Once we realized the damage, it was too late and we were half done, so we just finished the job.
Eggs are thankfully pretty cheap, and I also had a bunch of colors of Rit fabric dye. We debated whether we should dye first or blow first. For some insane reason, we decided to dye eggs first so that the hollow eggs wouldn't get full of dye. It seems we thought it would be ages before all the dye dripped back out or dried. And so, we mixed up red, yellow, blue, and green dye and most carefully dipped the raw eggs. After they dried forever, Jack showed me how to heat a needle and delicately make a hole in each end of the egg. A bit of whites will leak out of a pierced egg, but to truly clean out the eggs, one must blow them out, so we we put the eggs to our lips and blew and blew and blew. I am not sure at what point we looked up and noticed each other's new lips, but we looked like we had been kissing rainbow lollipops. It turns out that it was impossible to blow out eggs without getting some moisture from our lips onto the eggs. Once the eggs were damp, the color rubbed right off and behold! We were dyed as much as the eggs. Not just our lips, but an inch all the way around our mouths were blue and green and red and this gross black where the colors ran together. For those of you who have played in dye, you know it lasts a few days. Once we realized the damage, it was too late and we were half done, so we just finished the job.
Lungpower is a must and before long, we were ridiculously dizzy, but we also had a bowl of yolks and whites for cooking, and soon, a bowlful of eggs to decorate, some with glitter, some with intricate designs in craft paintt, all with hot glued ribbon loops for hangers. They were a far cry from Faberge, but several were indeed pretty. Once the paints and glitters dried, we shellacked them, hoping to make them a little stronger.
That would have been 16 years ago. The eggs have had a hard life. Cats who climb Chirstmas trees and bat ornaments don't help. Trees on wood floors and clumsy decorators don't help either, but many years and five moves later, a few have survived. Bella felt left out that she didn't share this story, so a few winters ago, we made a new dozen with her - I am older and wiser now and know to blow first and dye second. Her eggs are sweet, but I love those eggs from that first tree, when Jack and I still danced around and between the ideas of love and friendship and relationships, marriage a taboo topic, but when he already cared enough about me to go around with rainbow lips just so I could have ornaments to decorate a tree.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Finding Bigfoot
This year, I was determined. For us, the end of September wasn't the ideal time to be away so we bumped our plans to the first of November and rented a fancy cabin near Beaver's Bend. The cabin wasn't as secluded as we would have liked, but it was an otherwise perfect trip. If we had gone in September, it would not have been nearly as beautiful. The air was crisp and clean with that newness
that comes when fall replaces a tired summer. Nights were cold enough to let us enjoy the hot tub and snuggling before the fireplace. Days were warm enough to go about in shirt sleeves and have the windows down as we drove through little towns. The trees were a glory in themselves as we wound up through Honobia to Talahina, across the Talamina drive to Mina, AK, continuing up to Queen Wilhemina State Park. As we drove, the leaves floated down like giant red and gold snow flakes, littering the road before us. We found the best muffins, perhaps the best baked goods ever, at Adam and Eve's coffee shop in Hochatown. Lemon-Cranberry with a dollop of lemon custard baked into the center - I must learn to replicate these. There was also the hidden gem of an art gallery/sandwich shop in Mina. There were other funny tourists that we shared a moment with and there were others that we simply tried not to stare at. I would love to have a day just to poke around some of the small towns we drove through - several had thriving downtowns that just called to us.One slight disappointment was the town of Honobia, home of
Really, the best part was just getting to be with Jack with no one else's needs determining our schedule. So often when we are at home, the needs of his parents or Bella take center stage. I am okay with that - it is part of the life we chose. However, it doesn't mean that I am ready to abandon romance either. I am lucky that Jack still often holds my hand as he goes to sleep or at least rubs his foot against mine. He still finds those moments for stolen kisses. Even though we still manage to appreciate each other, it is a rare gift to get to be alone together for almost two whole days. We had our phones with us just in case Bell had an emergency while at my folks. We did log on to the ipad a few times to check state park maps and find the hours for Adam and Eve's, but for the most part we were off the grid of the intrusiveness of the electronic world. We talked and talked and laughed and were also just quiet together. There was time for some romance, silly pictures, and poking around in kitchy gift shops.
I hate to say it, but we were typical tourists, gawking at the scenery, taking pictures of each other, and driving slower than the locals; Jack even stopped several times for me to snag the perfect red, gold, and orange leaves. We may have not found Bigfoot in Honobia, but the gift shop at the state park had a Bigfoot shirt just Bella's size, and on the highway between Beaver's Bend and Broken Arrow, there is a big metal silhouette of Bigfoot It turns out that if you back the car up, you can set your camera on top of it, set the timer, and then race to be in a picture with Bigfoot. You can even hold his hand.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Mary Parrish was My Friend
I have avoided my iPad and phone all day. I picked up a few times, but since I have been home, I kept finding other things to do. I knew that somewhere there woukd be posts telling me that Mary was gone and I just didn't want to read them.
But what I really want to say is that Mary was my friend. When I went to teach at Comanche, that group of women were so quick to embrace me, to make me one of theirs. They all are so dear to me. But a few stand out and Mary was one of them.
As a friend, Mary was precious. I remember that when I found myself suddenly throwing together a wedding for Jack and me, she offered her and her husband's services as our photographers as a wedding present. I never look at those pictures without remembering her and Max. I am fairly certain she was responsible for the cake at Bella's baby shower, though perhaps Betty made that one.
They were the official cake bakers and decorators of the group. We sometimes walked after school, up and down that hallway, looking funny in our skirts with our tennis shoes, burning those calories during the Weight Wathcers year. We anguished over our kids together, mine a toddler, hers grown.
As a teacher, she was phenomenal, in the classroom and out. We put on a prom together and chaperoned senior trips together after selling Lord knows how many suckers for fundraisers. Mary and I teamed up for a year of after school gifted and talented classes for 5th grade (or maybe 4th), alternating her cool science projects with my creative writing. I think I learned as much science as the kids did. We did KidsPlace programs together, something I did for the money, but Mary always made it fun. She just made everything fun, perhaps because she was so completely passionate and engaged in whatever she was doing. She didn't do things by halves. She taught her science classes without books, instead doing hands on work almost daily, even though she routinely stayed hours after school prepping labs. Kids in her room got it. If they were awake, she had them learning, and she had the most amazing test scores to prove it. Better than that, she inspired kids. I have no idea how many of our students went into medicine or bio medical careers becuase of her biology classes and her health careers club, but there are so many. She may always have mixed people's names up (and she even had the grace to laugh at herself), but this woman could teach.
She was advice, she was laughter, she was always there for what ever I needed. Mary, I am so sorry you are gone. I am so thankful I got to be your friend. I can almost hear you laugh right now. Max, Crystal, Lyndsey, Carlton - Mary was a blessing. Thank you so much for sharing her with the rest of us.
But what I really want to say is that Mary was my friend. When I went to teach at Comanche, that group of women were so quick to embrace me, to make me one of theirs. They all are so dear to me. But a few stand out and Mary was one of them.
As a friend, Mary was precious. I remember that when I found myself suddenly throwing together a wedding for Jack and me, she offered her and her husband's services as our photographers as a wedding present. I never look at those pictures without remembering her and Max. I am fairly certain she was responsible for the cake at Bella's baby shower, though perhaps Betty made that one.
They were the official cake bakers and decorators of the group. We sometimes walked after school, up and down that hallway, looking funny in our skirts with our tennis shoes, burning those calories during the Weight Wathcers year. We anguished over our kids together, mine a toddler, hers grown.
As a teacher, she was phenomenal, in the classroom and out. We put on a prom together and chaperoned senior trips together after selling Lord knows how many suckers for fundraisers. Mary and I teamed up for a year of after school gifted and talented classes for 5th grade (or maybe 4th), alternating her cool science projects with my creative writing. I think I learned as much science as the kids did. We did KidsPlace programs together, something I did for the money, but Mary always made it fun. She just made everything fun, perhaps because she was so completely passionate and engaged in whatever she was doing. She didn't do things by halves. She taught her science classes without books, instead doing hands on work almost daily, even though she routinely stayed hours after school prepping labs. Kids in her room got it. If they were awake, she had them learning, and she had the most amazing test scores to prove it. Better than that, she inspired kids. I have no idea how many of our students went into medicine or bio medical careers becuase of her biology classes and her health careers club, but there are so many. She may always have mixed people's names up (and she even had the grace to laugh at herself), but this woman could teach.
She was advice, she was laughter, she was always there for what ever I needed. Mary, I am so sorry you are gone. I am so thankful I got to be your friend. I can almost hear you laugh right now. Max, Crystal, Lyndsey, Carlton - Mary was a blessing. Thank you so much for sharing her with the rest of us.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
In Sync
I am sure every family, every couple has spells of being out of step, not arguing or even being discontent, but just being out of sync. That was Jack's last weekend home and again this week. In all fairness, Jack was sick this week and I was a wee bit stressed, but it was not a fun week.
Thankfully, weekend brought a return of "us." Friday we came home to a non-achy, non-sleeping, non-grouchy Jack who was actually in the mood for conversation and his Friday night thing with Bell. Every Friday he is home, they camp in the living room on the air bed, eat pop corn, play video games, and watch guy TV and Dr. Who. It is just their thing and I rarely get involved unless, like this weekend, we decide to include a family movie. Bell is on book 4 of Harry Potter (so much for the Box Car children and Ramona Quimby) and when she finishes each book, we watch the movie, so this weekend was Prisoner of Azkaban.
Saturday brought housework and cooking, but it also brought digging through travel brochures and websites planning out our weekend of escape to Broken Bow in two weeks. I cannot wait - according to the fall foliage brochure, we will have our pick of gorgeous drives. If the weather doesn't play nice for outside exploring, there are a few local wineries and our cabin promises to be cozy. No matter what, I am looking forward to "us" time. We also started serious discussions about the what and when of summer vacation. We will have to see what winter expenses bring, but maybe the budget will hold together and we can do a big, fun trip this year. We haven't really done that since Bell was 5.
Saturday evening, we lit the chiminaya and laterns and torches for pumpkin carving outside on the picnic table. We should have started earlier, but the day got away from us and it was just so nice out last night. We got our pumpkins cleaned out with one for each of us to carve. This year we used no patterns, and we all free handed our designs. Add a scootch of wine by the fire and a bit of hand holding to round out the evening and I declared it perfect.
Today should have been church, but it was camp weekend for our church, and that is just not our thing so we were homebodies. Bell brought home a recipe for power bars that she wanted me to make for after school snacks - though the recipe was a bit inferior to one of mine, I made them and she declared them good. I made a pasta with a light cream sauce filled with chicken and loads of steamed veggies so Jack ate healthy with me. Jack and Bell spent the afternoon working on some leather crafts - he worked on some big projects and taught her to stamp designs and make a bracelet. I love watching them be artsy together.
It was not an exciting weekend at all, but it was some much needed together time for all of us. It felt good to be quiet and just enjoy the us-ness of it all. I think these days sustain us far more than the grand, exciting days.
Thankfully, weekend brought a return of "us." Friday we came home to a non-achy, non-sleeping, non-grouchy Jack who was actually in the mood for conversation and his Friday night thing with Bell. Every Friday he is home, they camp in the living room on the air bed, eat pop corn, play video games, and watch guy TV and Dr. Who. It is just their thing and I rarely get involved unless, like this weekend, we decide to include a family movie. Bell is on book 4 of Harry Potter (so much for the Box Car children and Ramona Quimby) and when she finishes each book, we watch the movie, so this weekend was Prisoner of Azkaban.
Saturday brought housework and cooking, but it also brought digging through travel brochures and websites planning out our weekend of escape to Broken Bow in two weeks. I cannot wait - according to the fall foliage brochure, we will have our pick of gorgeous drives. If the weather doesn't play nice for outside exploring, there are a few local wineries and our cabin promises to be cozy. No matter what, I am looking forward to "us" time. We also started serious discussions about the what and when of summer vacation. We will have to see what winter expenses bring, but maybe the budget will hold together and we can do a big, fun trip this year. We haven't really done that since Bell was 5.
Saturday evening, we lit the chiminaya and laterns and torches for pumpkin carving outside on the picnic table. We should have started earlier, but the day got away from us and it was just so nice out last night. We got our pumpkins cleaned out with one for each of us to carve. This year we used no patterns, and we all free handed our designs. Add a scootch of wine by the fire and a bit of hand holding to round out the evening and I declared it perfect.
Today should have been church, but it was camp weekend for our church, and that is just not our thing so we were homebodies. Bell brought home a recipe for power bars that she wanted me to make for after school snacks - though the recipe was a bit inferior to one of mine, I made them and she declared them good. I made a pasta with a light cream sauce filled with chicken and loads of steamed veggies so Jack ate healthy with me. Jack and Bell spent the afternoon working on some leather crafts - he worked on some big projects and taught her to stamp designs and make a bracelet. I love watching them be artsy together.
It was not an exciting weekend at all, but it was some much needed together time for all of us. It felt good to be quiet and just enjoy the us-ness of it all. I think these days sustain us far more than the grand, exciting days.
Going Home
We don't get up to my grandparents much anymore. Now that we live here on the farm, it seems hard to leave the in-laws for even a weekend. It also seems mean to drag Jack away when he is gone so much. Last weekend was fall break, and because Jack Dear was a working man and Harold and Rubilee were well and had other relatives visiting for a change, Bella and I stole off to the northeastern corner of the state. Thirty minutes farther north and we would have been in Kansas, thirty minutes east and we would have been in Missouri, but just inside the state borders we stopped at the Wilson farm outside of Bluejacket, once a thriving town, now no more than a village. I cannot tell you how much this old farm means to me. I have always regarded it as my most permanent home, there with my dad's parents. I have lived with them twice, once for a few months, once for a year. Every holiday and summer vacation until marriage was spent there and even a few after Jack came along. I have waded the creek in summers and picked pecans on its banks in the fall. I learned to shoot there, helped with firewood and butchering of livestock and soap making and gardening, have sewn with Grandma, pulled garden weeds, learned to drive a truck and later the tractor, built innumerable bonfires . . . And later in life, it is where I sat on a tree stump in the far meadow at dusk and contemplated the life that then seemed to be one spent alone and where I took lone walks down the pasture road questioning the meaning of a world where Aunt Margaret would not be. It is the place of molding, of living deep, of roots.
As a child, I thought it was the most beautiful place ever. The house was nicer than any other, the food better, the grass greener. These eyes see the driveway isn't nearly as long as I thought, the tree that has gone through the barn roof, the sagging facia boards, the orchard gone a bit wild, the bathroom that distinctly smells of old age and illness. Bella's eyes did not see these blemishes. She still has the eyes of wonder and innocence.
Despite the air of age and neglect beginning to creep in around the edges of the farm, it is still full of life. Bella found row upon row of big hay bales to tame and a pyramid of small bales in the barn to scale. She went to check cows across the creek with Grandpa in the mornings and with Grandma in the evenings. Later I taught her to drive the four wheeler and we scouted the pecan trees only to find that this year there would be few to pick. We loaded up a truck load of wood and got it stacked near the door. Smart girls wear rubber boots when they cut wood - that way they can can go catch frogs in the creek on the way home. I would have thought the frogs would have tucked in for their winter nap already, but the creek was full of minnows and frogs, one of which had to be a pet for a day and was relocated to the flower bed at the house. That's okay - I am sure it joined the frogs in the pond just beyond the yard.
 |
| Bella laughing as she tamed the hay bales at dusk |
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Thought Soup
I need to quit my job. This has nothing to do with the bijillion parents I emailed and phoned today about their children's grades. It has nothing to do with the fiasco of a homecoming float I bear responsibility for. It does not even have anything to do with the Little Caeser's fundraiser kits that came in that I failed to get after school becuase I flat out forgot it while I was creating research paper guidelines.
I need to quit my job for sleep. This is how I operate. About August 1st, my sleep starts being disturbed by dreams of school. Then a week later those dreams turn dark. By the end of the second week of school, I do pretty well focusing on the task at hand during the day (except Little Caeser's pizza), managing my circus fairly well. Alas, as soon as I lie down, my brain begins to bubble. It isn't that I have bad dreams, more that I just can't fall asleep.
Last night I had so many thoughts sliding around, I think it must have looked like a pot of word soup bubbling in my brain. Research paper rubric popped up next to rhetoric project. Patrick Henry slid across new birthday boots much like a noodle gliding past a vegetable as soup simmers on the back burner. I know that for at least forty five minutes last night, I pondered how to plan the next month for my juniors, how to phrase research paper topics on The Crucible, whether I should go see Jack or my grandma for fall break, the cabin we are renting in November, the homecoming float, my dr appointment on Friday, Bella's speech therapy, my looming evaluation by my boss, why my kids were having such a hard time with clauses, the water leak, . . . Literally these ideas would bubble to the surface and in just moments be submerged by a new thought which would likewise be edged out by yet another. Finally, I succumbed to sleep.
I procured some sleep essential oils and a diffuser - but I have not used them consistently enough to be in a good routine. I do better when I exercise, but there has just been no time the last two and a half weeks. I think I need to start getting up at 5 and working out, but in my tiny house, I would wake Jack and Bell. But. But. But.
But here is the thing. About two weeks after school is out in May, the stress evaporates and I learn to sleep again. May is a long time away. I could quit my job, but then I would fret about being penniless. I have a sleep therapy disc - I think it is time to try that in combination with the essential oils.
At least it is almost weekend - I just about always sleep well Friday and Saturday. Then my thoughts are more like warm vanilla pudding. Just comforting.
I need to quit my job for sleep. This is how I operate. About August 1st, my sleep starts being disturbed by dreams of school. Then a week later those dreams turn dark. By the end of the second week of school, I do pretty well focusing on the task at hand during the day (except Little Caeser's pizza), managing my circus fairly well. Alas, as soon as I lie down, my brain begins to bubble. It isn't that I have bad dreams, more that I just can't fall asleep.
Last night I had so many thoughts sliding around, I think it must have looked like a pot of word soup bubbling in my brain. Research paper rubric popped up next to rhetoric project. Patrick Henry slid across new birthday boots much like a noodle gliding past a vegetable as soup simmers on the back burner. I know that for at least forty five minutes last night, I pondered how to plan the next month for my juniors, how to phrase research paper topics on The Crucible, whether I should go see Jack or my grandma for fall break, the cabin we are renting in November, the homecoming float, my dr appointment on Friday, Bella's speech therapy, my looming evaluation by my boss, why my kids were having such a hard time with clauses, the water leak, . . . Literally these ideas would bubble to the surface and in just moments be submerged by a new thought which would likewise be edged out by yet another. Finally, I succumbed to sleep.
I procured some sleep essential oils and a diffuser - but I have not used them consistently enough to be in a good routine. I do better when I exercise, but there has just been no time the last two and a half weeks. I think I need to start getting up at 5 and working out, but in my tiny house, I would wake Jack and Bell. But. But. But.
But here is the thing. About two weeks after school is out in May, the stress evaporates and I learn to sleep again. May is a long time away. I could quit my job, but then I would fret about being penniless. I have a sleep therapy disc - I think it is time to try that in combination with the essential oils.
At least it is almost weekend - I just about always sleep well Friday and Saturday. Then my thoughts are more like warm vanilla pudding. Just comforting.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Happy Twelve
I am fairly certain that money has been made and lost. I am fairly certain that wagers were made that we wouldn't last a year, surely not five, certainly not ten. Today is happy twelve to us. Tomorrow is my birthday, but I care not a whit about that. What I am blissful about is that Jack Rucker still loves me.
We have certainly had ups and downs. There were moments when I thought that that marrying me was surely a bad decision on Jack's part, times when I wondered if he had truly counted the costs of life with me. But every year we get better at this, better at loving each other, at working together, at being gentle and passionate and friends and believing in each other.
I could go on and on and on about this man, about us, but it would get pathetically sappy. Just know this: I am deeply thankful we found each other, that we didn't choose other paths, that we choose each other every day. Because that is what it takes - every day choosing life and love, not selfishness or pride. Every day we choose us and the family we have together.
We have certainly had ups and downs. There were moments when I thought that that marrying me was surely a bad decision on Jack's part, times when I wondered if he had truly counted the costs of life with me. But every year we get better at this, better at loving each other, at working together, at being gentle and passionate and friends and believing in each other.
I could go on and on and on about this man, about us, but it would get pathetically sappy. Just know this: I am deeply thankful we found each other, that we didn't choose other paths, that we choose each other every day. Because that is what it takes - every day choosing life and love, not selfishness or pride. Every day we choose us and the family we have together.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Do You Really Want to be a Teacher?
I know so many students former students who are planning on getting I to education and I just gave this urge to tell them to run to the mountain and look not behind them.
I have a frequent argument with my mother -in-law that goes something like this:
Me: I really think it is time to quit and homeschool.
Rubilee: But going to work everyday is good for you. You wouldn't like to be home.
Me: Actually, I would.
Rubilee: But think of all the good teachers you would deprive Bella of.
Me: It is just a gamble - we could just as likely have a bad teacher as a good teacher.
Rubilee: Surely there aren't really that many bad teachers out there.
Me: Let me tell you about ( and I rattle off a story about a former teacher of my own or one I know)
Rubilee: Stunned silence
Rubilee: Well then, it is your duty to stay in and be a good teacher
We have this argument at least every other month. Shs really believes I have this duty to serve mankind as a teacher. Let me tell you that it is not your duty, not when it comes at the sacrifice of your own child or sanity. We have been lucky and out of five teachers, Bella has had only one that wasn't a really good teacher. That one was simply young and brand new and not experienced yet. We have been lucky that I haven't gone completely batty. But there have been moments. There have been weeks. It is not my duty. I just don't buy into that whole duty to mankind business. I buy into follow my own bliss. If it is right, then I will be doing something good for mankind on my own. It will be something doesn't make my eye twitch.
I am a class sponsor so that means I get to spend my evenings building a float for homecoming next week. I really despise this. I do not care about floats. If parents want their children to have floats, they should build them. I am more worried about when my own child will get her homework done and eat supper since I will be a single parent that week. I also honestly do not care if there is a prom or not, but my co sponsor is spearheading this year's fundraisers and as long as I was getting a float organized, I needed to get parents on board for fundraisers too. And no, I do not get paid extra for any of this.
As much as I hate homecoming and raising money, here is what really galls me. OAM. Other academic measures. It is a goal with measurable outcomes that teachers each had to write this year. If we don't meet our goal at the end of the year, we lose 30% of our pay for next year. We aren't allowed to write goals like "I will increase parent communication by 10%." These goals are all tied to student performance. So six thousand dollars depends on whether my kiddos come to school ready to learn and perform. I can teach hard all day, but that doesn't mean my kids are ready to learn or perform. Did they have breakfast? Are mom and dad fighting? Did they get high? Are they pregnant? Do they live in a shelter? These kids don't all live with June and Ward Clever. I understand that many professions have merit pay, but many of those professions don't have so many factors beyond the control of the employee. I am putting my fate in the hands of a teenager and his or her parents. That is a frightening proposition that every teacher in Oklahoma faces this year. It means we will spend more time making sure your children reach this goal and pass that ridiculous end of instruction test and less time teaching things that really matter. Let's face it. Teachers don't make much anyway. With sixteen years of experience I still make less than $40,000. If I lose six thousand of that, I will hand in my keys and walk out the door.
Why am I ranting to you? It is an election year. For starters, I am putting my hopes behind John Cox for state supe. I think he is the teachers' best hope. But governor is equally important. Janet Baressi did a lot of bad things to education, but it was done with Governor Fallin's backing. I am not telling you how to vote, but I will not be voting for Fallin.
I will quit ranting with this final note - as much as I really do love teaching, I spend more time jumping through hoops than I do teaching. If I had this to do over, I would make a different choice. If we ever have enough money to start farming I will quit without a backward glance.
I have a frequent argument with my mother -in-law that goes something like this:
Me: I really think it is time to quit and homeschool.
Rubilee: But going to work everyday is good for you. You wouldn't like to be home.
Me: Actually, I would.
Rubilee: But think of all the good teachers you would deprive Bella of.
Me: It is just a gamble - we could just as likely have a bad teacher as a good teacher.
Rubilee: Surely there aren't really that many bad teachers out there.
Me: Let me tell you about ( and I rattle off a story about a former teacher of my own or one I know)
Rubilee: Stunned silence
Rubilee: Well then, it is your duty to stay in and be a good teacher
We have this argument at least every other month. Shs really believes I have this duty to serve mankind as a teacher. Let me tell you that it is not your duty, not when it comes at the sacrifice of your own child or sanity. We have been lucky and out of five teachers, Bella has had only one that wasn't a really good teacher. That one was simply young and brand new and not experienced yet. We have been lucky that I haven't gone completely batty. But there have been moments. There have been weeks. It is not my duty. I just don't buy into that whole duty to mankind business. I buy into follow my own bliss. If it is right, then I will be doing something good for mankind on my own. It will be something doesn't make my eye twitch.
I am a class sponsor so that means I get to spend my evenings building a float for homecoming next week. I really despise this. I do not care about floats. If parents want their children to have floats, they should build them. I am more worried about when my own child will get her homework done and eat supper since I will be a single parent that week. I also honestly do not care if there is a prom or not, but my co sponsor is spearheading this year's fundraisers and as long as I was getting a float organized, I needed to get parents on board for fundraisers too. And no, I do not get paid extra for any of this.
As much as I hate homecoming and raising money, here is what really galls me. OAM. Other academic measures. It is a goal with measurable outcomes that teachers each had to write this year. If we don't meet our goal at the end of the year, we lose 30% of our pay for next year. We aren't allowed to write goals like "I will increase parent communication by 10%." These goals are all tied to student performance. So six thousand dollars depends on whether my kiddos come to school ready to learn and perform. I can teach hard all day, but that doesn't mean my kids are ready to learn or perform. Did they have breakfast? Are mom and dad fighting? Did they get high? Are they pregnant? Do they live in a shelter? These kids don't all live with June and Ward Clever. I understand that many professions have merit pay, but many of those professions don't have so many factors beyond the control of the employee. I am putting my fate in the hands of a teenager and his or her parents. That is a frightening proposition that every teacher in Oklahoma faces this year. It means we will spend more time making sure your children reach this goal and pass that ridiculous end of instruction test and less time teaching things that really matter. Let's face it. Teachers don't make much anyway. With sixteen years of experience I still make less than $40,000. If I lose six thousand of that, I will hand in my keys and walk out the door.
Why am I ranting to you? It is an election year. For starters, I am putting my hopes behind John Cox for state supe. I think he is the teachers' best hope. But governor is equally important. Janet Baressi did a lot of bad things to education, but it was done with Governor Fallin's backing. I am not telling you how to vote, but I will not be voting for Fallin.
I will quit ranting with this final note - as much as I really do love teaching, I spend more time jumping through hoops than I do teaching. If I had this to do over, I would make a different choice. If we ever have enough money to start farming I will quit without a backward glance.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Who Is This Child?
I have been negligent in writing - it seems as that by the end of each day, I have enough oomph to read a few pages of something before I just give up on all intelligent thought. It has been a good beginning to school, though a bit stressful (that rant is for a different post), but as always, there doesn't seem to be quite enough of me to go around. Yesterday was different. It was such odd day that it's glow was still with me when I woke up this morning.
For those of you who have met Isabella, you know she is not overly girly. Her favorite clothes are no clothes. I have given up making her wear anything more than underwear in the house. When she goes places, the clothing and shoes have to plain- no frills, no ribbons, nothing very girly and especially no pink. She only found two summer dresses she liked this year - each one navy blue knit - one with a batik print and one with a paisley print and she alternated those on Sunday all summer. They were cute, but ultra plain. Her hair can only be brushed and left down and unadorned. Earrings are rare. When I try to get her to buy clothes, the path involving the least tears and sulking is online and me saying "pick the shades of blue and green you like best."
The kiddo is in an honor choir production next week and is supposed to dress up a bit like a teenager. She (who only wears elastic waisted shorts that feel like pajamas) wanted jeans, flats, and a top, so off to Lawton we went. I was dubious and figured that at the first store, she would just pick the first thing in her size and be done. Boy, was I wrong.
Penney's had too much pink and the clothes in her size were too little girly cute. Justice had only one acceptable top, but it wasn't in her size ( thank goodness, since it was almost $40). Things picked up at Old Navy. Several jeans were tried on until she found the look - skinny, but not super skinny or boy friend skinny. Alas, no shirt. She really wanted a wide necked off the shoulder sweater, but I wasn't prepared for my 8 year old to look like she was working a street corner and no store had such a creation. She assured me that Children's Place would only have little girl clothes, but was game to check it out. Then the weirdest thing happened; she opened her mouth and these words came out, "Ooohhh, that is cute. I could wear it with jeans and wear it all the time." She was pointing at a leopard print cardigan. How girly can you get? Then she spotted leopard print ballet flats and a hat. I thought we had THE outfit. She loved it, but the shoes didn't fit in any size and she wanted it all to look just right. So she thought we should keep looking because she wanted these clothes just to wear everyday and thought they weren't sparkly or fancy enough for on stage. You could have pushed me over with a feather. So on and on we looked, finally ending up in Dillards. Hanging on the wall was a row of plaid short skirts with button down shirts, sweaters, and matching ties. Too cute. She actually asked to try some on. I again thought we had found something that worked, but once again she wanted these clothes just to wear to church and school. Then she spotted the clearance rack with wide necked (though not off the shoulder), flowing, sequined shirts in jewel tones. This was it. The one. We actually left Dillards with both the sequined short and the skirt/shirt/sweater/tie ensemble because, well, it is so rare for Bella to really like any clothes and ask for them. She actually spotted lots of other things she liked as well, but she was also getting hungry and it was getting late.
We ended the evening with her finding a pair of ballet flats that will look cute with jeans or the skirt and a visit to Claire's - that child had such a hard time deciding between hair flowers and head bands and earrings but managed to spend a good deal of my money.
The whole evening she chatted and held my hand in the mall. She was funny and smart. I don't often enjoy shopping for myself, much less with and for her, but we had so much fun last night. It wasn't about her enjoying the clothes, it was about her being generally enthusiastic and fun about so etching that didn't involve bugs, bones, and video games. I think if I am alone next time I go to town and leopard print sweater and hat are still there, I will have to get them. Maybe for Christmas. Maybe just because.
For those of you who have met Isabella, you know she is not overly girly. Her favorite clothes are no clothes. I have given up making her wear anything more than underwear in the house. When she goes places, the clothing and shoes have to plain- no frills, no ribbons, nothing very girly and especially no pink. She only found two summer dresses she liked this year - each one navy blue knit - one with a batik print and one with a paisley print and she alternated those on Sunday all summer. They were cute, but ultra plain. Her hair can only be brushed and left down and unadorned. Earrings are rare. When I try to get her to buy clothes, the path involving the least tears and sulking is online and me saying "pick the shades of blue and green you like best."
The kiddo is in an honor choir production next week and is supposed to dress up a bit like a teenager. She (who only wears elastic waisted shorts that feel like pajamas) wanted jeans, flats, and a top, so off to Lawton we went. I was dubious and figured that at the first store, she would just pick the first thing in her size and be done. Boy, was I wrong.
Penney's had too much pink and the clothes in her size were too little girly cute. Justice had only one acceptable top, but it wasn't in her size ( thank goodness, since it was almost $40). Things picked up at Old Navy. Several jeans were tried on until she found the look - skinny, but not super skinny or boy friend skinny. Alas, no shirt. She really wanted a wide necked off the shoulder sweater, but I wasn't prepared for my 8 year old to look like she was working a street corner and no store had such a creation. She assured me that Children's Place would only have little girl clothes, but was game to check it out. Then the weirdest thing happened; she opened her mouth and these words came out, "Ooohhh, that is cute. I could wear it with jeans and wear it all the time." She was pointing at a leopard print cardigan. How girly can you get? Then she spotted leopard print ballet flats and a hat. I thought we had THE outfit. She loved it, but the shoes didn't fit in any size and she wanted it all to look just right. So she thought we should keep looking because she wanted these clothes just to wear everyday and thought they weren't sparkly or fancy enough for on stage. You could have pushed me over with a feather. So on and on we looked, finally ending up in Dillards. Hanging on the wall was a row of plaid short skirts with button down shirts, sweaters, and matching ties. Too cute. She actually asked to try some on. I again thought we had found something that worked, but once again she wanted these clothes just to wear to church and school. Then she spotted the clearance rack with wide necked (though not off the shoulder), flowing, sequined shirts in jewel tones. This was it. The one. We actually left Dillards with both the sequined short and the skirt/shirt/sweater/tie ensemble because, well, it is so rare for Bella to really like any clothes and ask for them. She actually spotted lots of other things she liked as well, but she was also getting hungry and it was getting late.
We ended the evening with her finding a pair of ballet flats that will look cute with jeans or the skirt and a visit to Claire's - that child had such a hard time deciding between hair flowers and head bands and earrings but managed to spend a good deal of my money.
The whole evening she chatted and held my hand in the mall. She was funny and smart. I don't often enjoy shopping for myself, much less with and for her, but we had so much fun last night. It wasn't about her enjoying the clothes, it was about her being generally enthusiastic and fun about so etching that didn't involve bugs, bones, and video games. I think if I am alone next time I go to town and leopard print sweater and hat are still there, I will have to get them. Maybe for Christmas. Maybe just because.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
On My Own Again
I have not been home alone for more than one night at a time in over 8 years. I can only think of once or twice that I was alone for a night, and then Bell and Jack were usually just down by the water camping under the big oak.
When Jack and I were first married, he worked away from home during the week and was only home on the weekends. I had the week to myself to indulge in whatever I wished, whether it was reading or eating foods he didn't like or watching his not so favorite shows. Then Bell came along. Since then, even if Jack is gone, I have had Bell . . . For eight years. Until now.
The super dedicated teachers I work with put together a grant and arranged a vertical alignment team for this year ( for you non teachery friends, that means that 7th through 12 grade strategizes what is taught so that each year builds on the next with no gaps but also no unnecessary repetitions ). We spent the entire week in meetings with an AP rep and on our own, hammering out what each grade would do and how we would do it. It isn't finished, but we got much accomplished. Of course, this also means that the last week of summer break was, in fact, a work week for me. It was also a work week for Jack, so Bella was farmed out for the week and neither will be home for a few more days.
Now, keep in mind that my dearest works away, far away, during the week. The kiddo was gone. This meant that after meetings each day, I was left to my own devices. Those devices were pretty tame. There was girls' wine and canvas night, but other than that, there were suppers of sliced tomatoes or simply a glass of wine. There was reading books until midnight. There was a TV that didn't get turned on a single time. There were workouts at times of day of my choosing, rather than working them around everyone else's schedule. My kitchen table stayed cluttered with the detritus of each day. It took multiple mornings of coffee to have enough dishes to justify a sink of soapy water.
I will say that I did do laundry and did pick and water the garden. Yesterday, I did some deep cleaning and I have a bit moe to do today, but mostly this week has been about quiet. I had forgotten that I used to read for hours on end. I did not know that even now, with a good book, I can still read for six hours straight. It has shot my sleep cycle all to pieces. I haven't gone to bed before 11 and to sleep before 1 a single night. Unfortunately, I have managed to sleep as late as 6:45 only once, the rest of the week being wide eyed by 5:15. That is almost criminal. Sleep is a precious commodity and I so wanted to just sleep in these last few days. I wish my broken sleep button would be mended. No kid also means that my in-laws got really spoiled. Since there was no one to tend to at my house, they got much more of my time than they normally do. I enjoy my time with them, but I simply can't be up there as much as they want when someone at home needs guidance with homework or a meal cooked or a bedtime story.
I was dreading this week, both for the vertical alignment and for being without both Bell and Jack for that long. I thought I might get lonely. I did miss them, but we talked or facetimed every night, and I knew it was a finite amount of time. I did worry about them, Bell particularly, but once again, she was in good hands for the week, and it was only a week. I had thought I might get some projects done while they were gone, but that didn't happen either. I might have gotten lonely if I had been home all day, every day, instead of working, but I had just enough to keep me busy. Instead of being lonely and needing to fill that down time with a busy project, I just basked in not having responsibilities for the week. That is not to say I behaved irresponsibly. It just means that I was allowed to simply be. Just be. That was all.
I am thinking that perhaps every school year should start with a few days of quiet for me. When school starts, as it will Monday, I am suddenly pulled in too many directions, meeting the needs of too many people, juggling too many personalities, losing myself a tad in the shuffle. Turns out this week was a bit of a gift that I didn't know I even needed.
When Jack and I were first married, he worked away from home during the week and was only home on the weekends. I had the week to myself to indulge in whatever I wished, whether it was reading or eating foods he didn't like or watching his not so favorite shows. Then Bell came along. Since then, even if Jack is gone, I have had Bell . . . For eight years. Until now.
The super dedicated teachers I work with put together a grant and arranged a vertical alignment team for this year ( for you non teachery friends, that means that 7th through 12 grade strategizes what is taught so that each year builds on the next with no gaps but also no unnecessary repetitions ). We spent the entire week in meetings with an AP rep and on our own, hammering out what each grade would do and how we would do it. It isn't finished, but we got much accomplished. Of course, this also means that the last week of summer break was, in fact, a work week for me. It was also a work week for Jack, so Bella was farmed out for the week and neither will be home for a few more days.
Now, keep in mind that my dearest works away, far away, during the week. The kiddo was gone. This meant that after meetings each day, I was left to my own devices. Those devices were pretty tame. There was girls' wine and canvas night, but other than that, there were suppers of sliced tomatoes or simply a glass of wine. There was reading books until midnight. There was a TV that didn't get turned on a single time. There were workouts at times of day of my choosing, rather than working them around everyone else's schedule. My kitchen table stayed cluttered with the detritus of each day. It took multiple mornings of coffee to have enough dishes to justify a sink of soapy water.
I will say that I did do laundry and did pick and water the garden. Yesterday, I did some deep cleaning and I have a bit moe to do today, but mostly this week has been about quiet. I had forgotten that I used to read for hours on end. I did not know that even now, with a good book, I can still read for six hours straight. It has shot my sleep cycle all to pieces. I haven't gone to bed before 11 and to sleep before 1 a single night. Unfortunately, I have managed to sleep as late as 6:45 only once, the rest of the week being wide eyed by 5:15. That is almost criminal. Sleep is a precious commodity and I so wanted to just sleep in these last few days. I wish my broken sleep button would be mended. No kid also means that my in-laws got really spoiled. Since there was no one to tend to at my house, they got much more of my time than they normally do. I enjoy my time with them, but I simply can't be up there as much as they want when someone at home needs guidance with homework or a meal cooked or a bedtime story.
I was dreading this week, both for the vertical alignment and for being without both Bell and Jack for that long. I thought I might get lonely. I did miss them, but we talked or facetimed every night, and I knew it was a finite amount of time. I did worry about them, Bell particularly, but once again, she was in good hands for the week, and it was only a week. I had thought I might get some projects done while they were gone, but that didn't happen either. I might have gotten lonely if I had been home all day, every day, instead of working, but I had just enough to keep me busy. Instead of being lonely and needing to fill that down time with a busy project, I just basked in not having responsibilities for the week. That is not to say I behaved irresponsibly. It just means that I was allowed to simply be. Just be. That was all.
I am thinking that perhaps every school year should start with a few days of quiet for me. When school starts, as it will Monday, I am suddenly pulled in too many directions, meeting the needs of too many people, juggling too many personalities, losing myself a tad in the shuffle. Turns out this week was a bit of a gift that I didn't know I even needed.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Still a Wilson
Vacation is over and I am a bit sad. I wasn't ready to come back to the earth of the real world and felt like I needed just a bit more time in the sun with the clan.
Day 1: We got out the door just too late. That is all there is to it. We got off slow and drove slow and took a poor choice of roads and by the time we got out to our cousin's place, it was 5. We got some visiting in and had dinner, but Bell got her feelings hurt and melted down spectacularly ending in us hauling her away to the cabin for some unhappy consequences and an early bedtime.
Day 2: fabulous boat ride. Good visiting with some of the cousins. Each part of the family took one night to cook for everyone else and it was our night, so mom and I spent the afternoon making Mexican for everyone. I didn't get a lot of visiting with everyone else but mom and I really enjoyed cooking together - it isn't something we do much anymore now that we live farther away. Jack and Bell got to spend some time on the water playing and fishing. I know she got to tube and loved it, but I think she loved my cousin's jetski even more. I went back to the cabin with a migraine and spent the night throwing up. Jack tweaked his back again and so he spent the night in pain too. We are too old for this.
Day3: woke up the remnants of my migraine still present. This was a drizzly day. Bell got some more water time in the cold drizzle before the rain drove us indoors. We hadn't really spent any time with my grandparents yet, so we drove over there for the afternoon and evening. Between the lingering my head ache and Jack's back and leg, the day was not stellar.
Day 4: go home day. I had worn a bikini every day and still hadn't been in the water. It was cool and drizzly, but I was going to get wet. Another great boat ride over to Serenity Point with a little souvenir shopping and playing in the water. This is the place where I jumped off the roof nine years ago. I don't think Bell believes I did that. This year I just jumped off a trampoline into the water. I know. I am almost 39 and may need to grow up. When we got back to my cousin's house and dock, Bell and had a brief chance to tube before she got too cold - it was short, but I am glad I got to do that with her. Hope someone snagged a pic of us. I hung in there and tubed with the boy cousins. Those fourteen year olds are tougher than I am. Good thing I was not on the edge or it would have been a short ride. I really didn't think I would be able to get up to ski. Nine years was a long time ago for this body, but get up I did. We had already chewed up the cove tubing so I missed the window for that easy, glassy water I love but it was still so good. I had a moment of fear that I had forgotten how to cross wakes and ski out to the side, but it was right there for the taking. I didn't ski long, but I was a Wilson again, a kid again laughing with my cousins for that bit of time.
We toyed with staying another night, but we had already packed and were checked out. Bell seemed ready to go home - if the sun had been out, she might have wanted to stay, but it was so cool and rainy we decided to go ahead and pack it in. The ride home began with a flat tire in the first thirty minutes, but it happened right in front of a convenience store with a huge parking lot. Some men would have been frustrated, but Jack was calm and unruffled. He wasn't mad about us taking off so late or the flat. I know his numb leg bothered him a good bit on the six hours drive, but he handled it all with grace.
Really my only regrets were not spending any time with him. Between my head and his back and a kid sleeping five feet away, romance just wasn't going to happen. He complained that he only got to ogle me in a bikini briefly. My other regret was not getting to visit more with some of the cousins. I barely talked to Mo - we just never synced up. I was in the kitchen or with my kid. I also hate it that we didn't get there when one of the other branches of cousins were there.
Highlights were really getting to visit with Ramsee and a pretty good visit with Chelsea. I loved getting to see what amazing parents these cousins are. I loved watching Bell hang with cousins she didn't even know she had four days ago. It was just so good to be part of this family again, even if it was only for a few days.
Day 1: We got out the door just too late. That is all there is to it. We got off slow and drove slow and took a poor choice of roads and by the time we got out to our cousin's place, it was 5. We got some visiting in and had dinner, but Bell got her feelings hurt and melted down spectacularly ending in us hauling her away to the cabin for some unhappy consequences and an early bedtime.
Day 2: fabulous boat ride. Good visiting with some of the cousins. Each part of the family took one night to cook for everyone else and it was our night, so mom and I spent the afternoon making Mexican for everyone. I didn't get a lot of visiting with everyone else but mom and I really enjoyed cooking together - it isn't something we do much anymore now that we live farther away. Jack and Bell got to spend some time on the water playing and fishing. I know she got to tube and loved it, but I think she loved my cousin's jetski even more. I went back to the cabin with a migraine and spent the night throwing up. Jack tweaked his back again and so he spent the night in pain too. We are too old for this.
Day3: woke up the remnants of my migraine still present. This was a drizzly day. Bell got some more water time in the cold drizzle before the rain drove us indoors. We hadn't really spent any time with my grandparents yet, so we drove over there for the afternoon and evening. Between the lingering my head ache and Jack's back and leg, the day was not stellar.
Day 4: go home day. I had worn a bikini every day and still hadn't been in the water. It was cool and drizzly, but I was going to get wet. Another great boat ride over to Serenity Point with a little souvenir shopping and playing in the water. This is the place where I jumped off the roof nine years ago. I don't think Bell believes I did that. This year I just jumped off a trampoline into the water. I know. I am almost 39 and may need to grow up. When we got back to my cousin's house and dock, Bell and had a brief chance to tube before she got too cold - it was short, but I am glad I got to do that with her. Hope someone snagged a pic of us. I hung in there and tubed with the boy cousins. Those fourteen year olds are tougher than I am. Good thing I was not on the edge or it would have been a short ride. I really didn't think I would be able to get up to ski. Nine years was a long time ago for this body, but get up I did. We had already chewed up the cove tubing so I missed the window for that easy, glassy water I love but it was still so good. I had a moment of fear that I had forgotten how to cross wakes and ski out to the side, but it was right there for the taking. I didn't ski long, but I was a Wilson again, a kid again laughing with my cousins for that bit of time.
We toyed with staying another night, but we had already packed and were checked out. Bell seemed ready to go home - if the sun had been out, she might have wanted to stay, but it was so cool and rainy we decided to go ahead and pack it in. The ride home began with a flat tire in the first thirty minutes, but it happened right in front of a convenience store with a huge parking lot. Some men would have been frustrated, but Jack was calm and unruffled. He wasn't mad about us taking off so late or the flat. I know his numb leg bothered him a good bit on the six hours drive, but he handled it all with grace.
Really my only regrets were not spending any time with him. Between my head and his back and a kid sleeping five feet away, romance just wasn't going to happen. He complained that he only got to ogle me in a bikini briefly. My other regret was not getting to visit more with some of the cousins. I barely talked to Mo - we just never synced up. I was in the kitchen or with my kid. I also hate it that we didn't get there when one of the other branches of cousins were there.
Highlights were really getting to visit with Ramsee and a pretty good visit with Chelsea. I loved getting to see what amazing parents these cousins are. I loved watching Bell hang with cousins she didn't even know she had four days ago. It was just so good to be part of this family again, even if it was only for a few days.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
5.4.3.2.1.Blast Off.
We are on countdown. Vacation begins today. This is a big deal.. We have been gone overnight one time in the last year and a half. For one night. We really are tied down - between animals, vegetables, and ailing in-laws, we just never manage to go far or long. This week will be the exception.
When I was a little older than Bell, maybe 10, my great aunt and uncle began an annual tradition of renting a cabin at Grand Lake of the Cherokees for them and their three grandchildren. Their granddaughters were my only girl cousins and I made the missing stair step between the the girls who were a bit younger than me and their brother who was a bit older than me; Aunt Pauline made me one of the Grand Lake gang, ensuring that I became close with these cousins I often saw only that one week a year while Uncle Bob dutifully drug us around the lake until we all learned to ski, half drowning our sunburned selves. Don't fall over in amazement, but I even learned to slolem. How, I do not know since it was without glasses or contacts. Once we were grown, it became an every other year event and then since Bell was about two, it was abandoned as Bob and Pauline's health failed and they left us forever. Last fall, their daughter organized the revival of Wilsons at Grand a Lake, quite a feat since she lives in Colorado, and now that week is here.
This year will be the first time we have gone and stayed at the lake since I was just a few weeks pregnant with Bell. Then, I had no idea I was pregnant as I skied and jumped off a roof into the lake and drank Mike's hard lemonade. Crazy me. I am past caring if I ski or not, and I would never be brave enough to jump off a roof now, but I am so excited to see my cousins. The last few times we have seen them have mostly been funerals - not the best of circumstances. I am ready to sit with Chelsea and Mo in the sun and laugh with them. I hope to hear the generation older than me tell family stories. Hopefully, my grandparents will be out one night - my grandpa is just about the last keeper of Wilson lore. I am excited for Bell to meet cousins she doesn't even know she has. I know there is one just a bit and one just a bit younger . . . The next generation connecting and finding roots.
We haven't had an auspicious beginning. Jack was supposed to work until Sunday, but because of a confusion, got sent home early Friday so the next pay day won't be pretty. We thought about heading up early to see some of the family who were there only for the weekend and leaving today, but we weren't organized enough for an early departure and there was work that his dad needed done. Saturday just at dusk, the hydrant outside just broke off and we suddenly had a major water leak. The pipe was so corroded (remember, we live in Jack's grandparents' house), he wasn't sure he could fix it. I prayed. He dug and sawed pipes and managed to get it fixed. If we had left early and that had happened while we were gone . . . Sunday was making sure the line held, dealing with the garden and the forerunners of an army bug onslaught, packing. All that pre-trip stuff.
So. Departure. Pumpkins need a last drink. The car needs packed. The kid needs to get moving. When we come home, summer will be over for us. I will have more AP stuff and school will start. But that is when we come home. For now, it will be a road trip with Broadway show tunes, fun in the sun, cousins galore, too much food, forgetting about my fitness pal, family time, vacation time.
When I was a little older than Bell, maybe 10, my great aunt and uncle began an annual tradition of renting a cabin at Grand Lake of the Cherokees for them and their three grandchildren. Their granddaughters were my only girl cousins and I made the missing stair step between the the girls who were a bit younger than me and their brother who was a bit older than me; Aunt Pauline made me one of the Grand Lake gang, ensuring that I became close with these cousins I often saw only that one week a year while Uncle Bob dutifully drug us around the lake until we all learned to ski, half drowning our sunburned selves. Don't fall over in amazement, but I even learned to slolem. How, I do not know since it was without glasses or contacts. Once we were grown, it became an every other year event and then since Bell was about two, it was abandoned as Bob and Pauline's health failed and they left us forever. Last fall, their daughter organized the revival of Wilsons at Grand a Lake, quite a feat since she lives in Colorado, and now that week is here.
This year will be the first time we have gone and stayed at the lake since I was just a few weeks pregnant with Bell. Then, I had no idea I was pregnant as I skied and jumped off a roof into the lake and drank Mike's hard lemonade. Crazy me. I am past caring if I ski or not, and I would never be brave enough to jump off a roof now, but I am so excited to see my cousins. The last few times we have seen them have mostly been funerals - not the best of circumstances. I am ready to sit with Chelsea and Mo in the sun and laugh with them. I hope to hear the generation older than me tell family stories. Hopefully, my grandparents will be out one night - my grandpa is just about the last keeper of Wilson lore. I am excited for Bell to meet cousins she doesn't even know she has. I know there is one just a bit and one just a bit younger . . . The next generation connecting and finding roots.
We haven't had an auspicious beginning. Jack was supposed to work until Sunday, but because of a confusion, got sent home early Friday so the next pay day won't be pretty. We thought about heading up early to see some of the family who were there only for the weekend and leaving today, but we weren't organized enough for an early departure and there was work that his dad needed done. Saturday just at dusk, the hydrant outside just broke off and we suddenly had a major water leak. The pipe was so corroded (remember, we live in Jack's grandparents' house), he wasn't sure he could fix it. I prayed. He dug and sawed pipes and managed to get it fixed. If we had left early and that had happened while we were gone . . . Sunday was making sure the line held, dealing with the garden and the forerunners of an army bug onslaught, packing. All that pre-trip stuff.
So. Departure. Pumpkins need a last drink. The car needs packed. The kid needs to get moving. When we come home, summer will be over for us. I will have more AP stuff and school will start. But that is when we come home. For now, it will be a road trip with Broadway show tunes, fun in the sun, cousins galore, too much food, forgetting about my fitness pal, family time, vacation time.
My Daughter Is a Hoarder
My daughter is a hoarder. That should be read in the tone of a confession, perhaps the title of one of those weird reality/expose type TV shows. I deal with this blight in various ways. For months, I ignore the symptoms, letting items pile higher in an ever building future avalanche on her desk. I pretend not to notice things oozing from drawers. The floor is clean, her clothes are in drawers and I can find her - that is enough. Until it isn't anymore.
About twice a year, sometimes more, we tackle the problem of her room head on and it is always trying for me and heartbreaking for her, inciting wailing and gnashing of teeth. This week was the week of her room. It had to be this week - it was our last chance without Jack who does not particularly enjoy the drama. Tomorrow we will leave for most of the week for a wee bit of vacation. When we come home, we will be home just a few days and then Bell and Jack will be gone for a week while I do some AP work at school and then voila! School starts. (To be read in a unhappy tone, not excited).
Last spring, we worked on getting rid of toys she had outgrown. There are still plenty in there, but they stay neatly tucked away in cupboards that never even get opened so I can ignore those for a while longer. Instead, the focus was only three fold: stuffed animals, desk contents, books.
Yes, I made her get rid of books. There are still counting books on this kid's shelf, this kid who reads chapters of Magic Tree House and Boxcar Children long into the night when she can get away with it. I took every book on her shelf and dumped them into a sprawling pile on her bed. She had to make three piles: keepsake, give away, keep in the shelf. We then winnowed down the keepsake stack some more. It doesn't count as a keepsake just because some woman who met Jack once gave her a book that she has now had for two years and still hasn't read (and is, furthermore, drivel). Comics- repeat. We managed to clear off a third of her shelf. There are still some books she has outgrown, but I can live with a third. She was promised that now we can look at getting some new, more age appropriate books.
The stuffed animals were simpler. I counted the animals and told her she had to pick 20 to keep. Once again, this cleared out a third, not counting the build a bears who do mingle with the masses of common stuffed creatures in the drawer. I think she cheated because that drawer is still too full. I know. "20?" you ask. It is still too many, but these things have to be dealt with in baby steps. We will do it again or while she is gone, I may sneak a few out to the barn. If she doesn't notice their disappearance by winter, they can quietly go away.
The Desk. This is the part I hate the most. She thinks every scrap of paper she ever doodled on is a masterpiece of great import, every pencil nub missing an eraser still great in potential, every sticker from the doctor's office her favorite. Once again, we dumped every drawer on her bed. Three piles: trash, keep, mom's keepsake box. She sorted papers and beaded bracelets and art projects, I ruthlessly sorted through every art supply. I tested every marker and pen, chose the best crayons (no one child needs 4 boxes), cruelly discarded paintbrushes whose bristles were frazzled out.
Breaks had to be taken and snacks procurred. While everything was disassembled, it seemed a good time to rearrange the furniture a bit, give her a bit more room. She worried that she wouldn't ever figure out how how to organize the laundry basket of desk contents that were keep able. That was my job. Once sorting was done, I put everything away in drawers. We even had one drawer empty! Not surprising now that there are two kitchen sized trash bags of desk junk gone.
There was a lot of moaning and groaning throughout the five hour ordeal, but when she finally was admitted into her vacuumed room, with the clean sheeted bed and the tidy desk with the reading lamp that could now be seen, she gasped. I showed her which desk drawer held which treasures - the rock collection, the journal drawer, the art supplies, the play makeup, all the things she feared I had secretly thrown away when she wasn't looking. She apologized for the moaning and assured me that this was sooooo much better. "Mama, I can work at my desk again!" "Mama, I thought I had lost that journal!" "Mama, it looks so BIG in here!"
A lot of the mess came from the last week of school when she brought home all the contents of her nightmarish desk from her classroom. We normally would have dealt with it all then, but the day after school was out, she came down with a horrid a virus and by the time she rejoined the land of the living a week later, I was neck deep in the garden. I bear responsibility in this mess too. More importantly, I understand. I was a hoarder too, every bit as bad as her. My mother used to come help me clean my room like this once or twice a year becuase it would just get out of hand, as Suess says and my mother repeated, "This mess is too big and too deep and too tall." I remember cleaning my room at her age and being distraught that my makeup bag of prize locust shells had crumbled into brown dust. Disgusting, I know. When I was about ten, I went through a radical shift and became such a neat freak that it drove me nuts to have anything out of alignment, much less truly disorderly.
Maybe it will happen some day to Bella. Until then, there will be motherly interventions scheduled throughout the year.
About twice a year, sometimes more, we tackle the problem of her room head on and it is always trying for me and heartbreaking for her, inciting wailing and gnashing of teeth. This week was the week of her room. It had to be this week - it was our last chance without Jack who does not particularly enjoy the drama. Tomorrow we will leave for most of the week for a wee bit of vacation. When we come home, we will be home just a few days and then Bell and Jack will be gone for a week while I do some AP work at school and then voila! School starts. (To be read in a unhappy tone, not excited).
Last spring, we worked on getting rid of toys she had outgrown. There are still plenty in there, but they stay neatly tucked away in cupboards that never even get opened so I can ignore those for a while longer. Instead, the focus was only three fold: stuffed animals, desk contents, books.
Yes, I made her get rid of books. There are still counting books on this kid's shelf, this kid who reads chapters of Magic Tree House and Boxcar Children long into the night when she can get away with it. I took every book on her shelf and dumped them into a sprawling pile on her bed. She had to make three piles: keepsake, give away, keep in the shelf. We then winnowed down the keepsake stack some more. It doesn't count as a keepsake just because some woman who met Jack once gave her a book that she has now had for two years and still hasn't read (and is, furthermore, drivel). Comics- repeat. We managed to clear off a third of her shelf. There are still some books she has outgrown, but I can live with a third. She was promised that now we can look at getting some new, more age appropriate books.
The stuffed animals were simpler. I counted the animals and told her she had to pick 20 to keep. Once again, this cleared out a third, not counting the build a bears who do mingle with the masses of common stuffed creatures in the drawer. I think she cheated because that drawer is still too full. I know. "20?" you ask. It is still too many, but these things have to be dealt with in baby steps. We will do it again or while she is gone, I may sneak a few out to the barn. If she doesn't notice their disappearance by winter, they can quietly go away.
The Desk. This is the part I hate the most. She thinks every scrap of paper she ever doodled on is a masterpiece of great import, every pencil nub missing an eraser still great in potential, every sticker from the doctor's office her favorite. Once again, we dumped every drawer on her bed. Three piles: trash, keep, mom's keepsake box. She sorted papers and beaded bracelets and art projects, I ruthlessly sorted through every art supply. I tested every marker and pen, chose the best crayons (no one child needs 4 boxes), cruelly discarded paintbrushes whose bristles were frazzled out.
Breaks had to be taken and snacks procurred. While everything was disassembled, it seemed a good time to rearrange the furniture a bit, give her a bit more room. She worried that she wouldn't ever figure out how how to organize the laundry basket of desk contents that were keep able. That was my job. Once sorting was done, I put everything away in drawers. We even had one drawer empty! Not surprising now that there are two kitchen sized trash bags of desk junk gone.
There was a lot of moaning and groaning throughout the five hour ordeal, but when she finally was admitted into her vacuumed room, with the clean sheeted bed and the tidy desk with the reading lamp that could now be seen, she gasped. I showed her which desk drawer held which treasures - the rock collection, the journal drawer, the art supplies, the play makeup, all the things she feared I had secretly thrown away when she wasn't looking. She apologized for the moaning and assured me that this was sooooo much better. "Mama, I can work at my desk again!" "Mama, I thought I had lost that journal!" "Mama, it looks so BIG in here!"
A lot of the mess came from the last week of school when she brought home all the contents of her nightmarish desk from her classroom. We normally would have dealt with it all then, but the day after school was out, she came down with a horrid a virus and by the time she rejoined the land of the living a week later, I was neck deep in the garden. I bear responsibility in this mess too. More importantly, I understand. I was a hoarder too, every bit as bad as her. My mother used to come help me clean my room like this once or twice a year becuase it would just get out of hand, as Suess says and my mother repeated, "This mess is too big and too deep and too tall." I remember cleaning my room at her age and being distraught that my makeup bag of prize locust shells had crumbled into brown dust. Disgusting, I know. When I was about ten, I went through a radical shift and became such a neat freak that it drove me nuts to have anything out of alignment, much less truly disorderly.
Maybe it will happen some day to Bella. Until then, there will be motherly interventions scheduled throughout the year.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Bless Me. Bless you.
Our church often stays on the same subject for several weeks at a time. For several Sundays this summer, Reggie preached about doing good, not just believing. I have really been thinking about that. What fruit am I bearing? Is it evident to others? Is my life a blessing to those around me, or I am merely there, or even worse, do I become a stumbling block for someone?
The whole AP conference last week and the week leading up to it was such a mixed bag of frustration and blessing. The week before AP, we discovered that Katrina ( my fellow English teacher and supposed roommate) had no room. This greatly upset me because that meant I was rooming with a stranger. I may come across to my kids as confident and in control, but really having a conversation with someone I don't know terrifies me. The first day at Elgin, I almost threw up in the bathroom - not over the job, but over having to walk into a teachers' meeting without knowing anyone. I couldn't imagine having to sleep in the same room as a stranger. Anyway, we got the room sorted out. Sort of. And then Hyatt accidentally canceled my room and I had none at all. Driving in the city also terrifies me. There is no way I could have stayed somewhere else and driven myself to UT everyday. Once again, it got straightened out. These were things I really prayed about. I prayed that God either put me in a room with Katrina or give me the strength to handle the situation. He fixed it.
I believe he fixed it because he knew I needed the encouragement that rooming with Katrina would bless me with. We are supposed to lift up those around us and her life does just that. Her faith is so strong. Her commitment doesn't mean that her life is easy or without challenge, but it means that she is given the strength and ability to meet those challenges with grace instead of those difficulties just disappearing. There are things that she is waiting for answers on, but she waits in The Lord, waits for his direction and his guidance. Sometimes that means waiting a long time. I was encouraged by so many of the things she said, though she may have thought they were just casual conversations.
Our other Elgin AP goer was one I didn't know quite as well. Ruth isn't an English teacher and her kids are grown, so we just don't have as much in common, but once again, I see a woman who blesses. She gives of her heart, of her time, of her resources so greatly. She handles issues calmly, with grace and wisdom and kindness evident in her speech and demeanor. I loved getting to hear about all the children that have become part of their family through the years. Once again, these stories echoed that our Faith does not mean problems are erased, but that we will be able to deal with the problems as they arise. He never promises ease.
I could go on and on. So many of the women I have have become friends with encourage me on a daily basis as I see their walk evident in the way they love their husbands and children, as they deal with the outside world, as they choose life when they speak, even in the simple and not so simple kindnesses they do for each other. I have always been blessed by the lives of the women in our church, watching their steadfastness as they serve their families and the church body. This is doing. This is fruit.
The past few months have shown me certain things I need to be dilligent in putting off and removing from my life, things that will distract and open doors that I don't want open if I am to be any good for my family and those around me. I have been given help in these things, but I am also quite sure that I will be tempted to pick them up again. I also know I must do a better job teaching Bell about this life we choose. I need to be dilligent in these matters if I am to bless you as so many in my life bless me.
The whole AP conference last week and the week leading up to it was such a mixed bag of frustration and blessing. The week before AP, we discovered that Katrina ( my fellow English teacher and supposed roommate) had no room. This greatly upset me because that meant I was rooming with a stranger. I may come across to my kids as confident and in control, but really having a conversation with someone I don't know terrifies me. The first day at Elgin, I almost threw up in the bathroom - not over the job, but over having to walk into a teachers' meeting without knowing anyone. I couldn't imagine having to sleep in the same room as a stranger. Anyway, we got the room sorted out. Sort of. And then Hyatt accidentally canceled my room and I had none at all. Driving in the city also terrifies me. There is no way I could have stayed somewhere else and driven myself to UT everyday. Once again, it got straightened out. These were things I really prayed about. I prayed that God either put me in a room with Katrina or give me the strength to handle the situation. He fixed it.
I believe he fixed it because he knew I needed the encouragement that rooming with Katrina would bless me with. We are supposed to lift up those around us and her life does just that. Her faith is so strong. Her commitment doesn't mean that her life is easy or without challenge, but it means that she is given the strength and ability to meet those challenges with grace instead of those difficulties just disappearing. There are things that she is waiting for answers on, but she waits in The Lord, waits for his direction and his guidance. Sometimes that means waiting a long time. I was encouraged by so many of the things she said, though she may have thought they were just casual conversations.
Our other Elgin AP goer was one I didn't know quite as well. Ruth isn't an English teacher and her kids are grown, so we just don't have as much in common, but once again, I see a woman who blesses. She gives of her heart, of her time, of her resources so greatly. She handles issues calmly, with grace and wisdom and kindness evident in her speech and demeanor. I loved getting to hear about all the children that have become part of their family through the years. Once again, these stories echoed that our Faith does not mean problems are erased, but that we will be able to deal with the problems as they arise. He never promises ease.
I could go on and on. So many of the women I have have become friends with encourage me on a daily basis as I see their walk evident in the way they love their husbands and children, as they deal with the outside world, as they choose life when they speak, even in the simple and not so simple kindnesses they do for each other. I have always been blessed by the lives of the women in our church, watching their steadfastness as they serve their families and the church body. This is doing. This is fruit.
The past few months have shown me certain things I need to be dilligent in putting off and removing from my life, things that will distract and open doors that I don't want open if I am to be any good for my family and those around me. I have been given help in these things, but I am also quite sure that I will be tempted to pick them up again. I also know I must do a better job teaching Bell about this life we choose. I need to be dilligent in these matters if I am to bless you as so many in my life bless me.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Summer Camp or the APSI
When we are kids, we go away to summer camp - perhaps it is scout, nerd, or church camp, but we go and come back with our heads and hearts stretched to the bursting point with new knowledge and dreams.
And then some of us get old, become teachers, and go away to this camp like beast called Advanced Placement Summer Institute. I say it is camp like because we have roommates - if you are lucky, it is someone you choose, but many end up sleeping five feet away from a total stranger. It is camp like in that meals are served from a buffet line with a mess hall type atmosphere. Mostly, however, it is camp like in that we are supposed to come home inspired and with the skills to transform our students into these amazing thinking machines who will pass the AP exam in ten months. It is a beast because at the end of each day, you need a stiff drink before you can think about processing all you learned and heard that day.
Last year, I came home frustrated, thinking I got little from my class, believing too much time had been spent on anecdotes rather than the meat of AP. After day one this year, I realized I had misjudged last years's instructor. Yes, there was little to no strategy, but he gave me a general idea of what to teach and several pre-made units on major literature. In the long run, that was what I needed. I can muddle through a lot of stuff as long as I know what it is I am supposed to be muddling through. This year, in sharp contrast, I walked away with no pre-made units on literature, instead bringing home several units of strategy for teaching each section of the AP lang and comp exam. This lady was fabulous, and these are such good, basic building blocks for beginning my kids on these essays and then working them into upper-half papers.
I came home inspired that I could get more kids to really get it, to really dig in and write deeply and meaningfully. I also came home feeling guilty. Some of this stuff was common sense or was in books I possess. Why did I not teach it? I just didn't know which strategies out of which books to teach - it was my first year and there was just so much I didn't know, but if I had known then what I know now . . . How many more kids would have passed the exam?
Overall, I am pleased. I feared that I would have no one pass. I began the year with twenty eight kids and ended the year with twenty one. Eleven tested and five scored high enough to get college credit at most major universities. I had one perfect score, but she was one of those amazing kids whom I simply guided a little, rather than really taught. There were a handful of others who should have taken the test, but didn't because of a conflict with the test date or lack of money. I think all but two kids walked away substantially more prepared to tackle a real college class.
I will say this. I think I did give them the first tastes many had of the same gift Sarah Webb and Ann Frankland gave to me: the right and power to form one's own opinion and to have a dream and work toward that bliss. It is so hard for kids to learn to have opinions instead of relying on me to say " this character was wrong because . . ." It is harder to start taking ownership for what they really want as opposed to what they think they are supposed to want. If I had to choose between them having learned about thinking and writing or passing the test, I am glad I went with thinking. They are young and still have a stretch of road to cover before they are ready to jump into life on their own, but they aren't too young to start thinking about what they want and counting the costs of those dreams.
And then some of us get old, become teachers, and go away to this camp like beast called Advanced Placement Summer Institute. I say it is camp like because we have roommates - if you are lucky, it is someone you choose, but many end up sleeping five feet away from a total stranger. It is camp like in that meals are served from a buffet line with a mess hall type atmosphere. Mostly, however, it is camp like in that we are supposed to come home inspired and with the skills to transform our students into these amazing thinking machines who will pass the AP exam in ten months. It is a beast because at the end of each day, you need a stiff drink before you can think about processing all you learned and heard that day.
Last year, I came home frustrated, thinking I got little from my class, believing too much time had been spent on anecdotes rather than the meat of AP. After day one this year, I realized I had misjudged last years's instructor. Yes, there was little to no strategy, but he gave me a general idea of what to teach and several pre-made units on major literature. In the long run, that was what I needed. I can muddle through a lot of stuff as long as I know what it is I am supposed to be muddling through. This year, in sharp contrast, I walked away with no pre-made units on literature, instead bringing home several units of strategy for teaching each section of the AP lang and comp exam. This lady was fabulous, and these are such good, basic building blocks for beginning my kids on these essays and then working them into upper-half papers.
I came home inspired that I could get more kids to really get it, to really dig in and write deeply and meaningfully. I also came home feeling guilty. Some of this stuff was common sense or was in books I possess. Why did I not teach it? I just didn't know which strategies out of which books to teach - it was my first year and there was just so much I didn't know, but if I had known then what I know now . . . How many more kids would have passed the exam?
Overall, I am pleased. I feared that I would have no one pass. I began the year with twenty eight kids and ended the year with twenty one. Eleven tested and five scored high enough to get college credit at most major universities. I had one perfect score, but she was one of those amazing kids whom I simply guided a little, rather than really taught. There were a handful of others who should have taken the test, but didn't because of a conflict with the test date or lack of money. I think all but two kids walked away substantially more prepared to tackle a real college class.
I will say this. I think I did give them the first tastes many had of the same gift Sarah Webb and Ann Frankland gave to me: the right and power to form one's own opinion and to have a dream and work toward that bliss. It is so hard for kids to learn to have opinions instead of relying on me to say " this character was wrong because . . ." It is harder to start taking ownership for what they really want as opposed to what they think they are supposed to want. If I had to choose between them having learned about thinking and writing or passing the test, I am glad I went with thinking. They are young and still have a stretch of road to cover before they are ready to jump into life on their own, but they aren't too young to start thinking about what they want and counting the costs of those dreams.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Farm Girl Skills
I mostly grew up in town, albeit so on the edge of town that there was nothing but pastures behind our house. There were a few brief years we had a 365 acre farm way, way out in the country, there was every summer and holiday on my grandparents' farm, and my dad was an Ag teacher. As much as I would love to convince you that I have always been a farm girl, there were, in reality, afternoons spent playing cops and robbers with the kids down the street and riding my bicycle to the local pool in the summer. I think, though, that I have always been a farm girl at heart. My best memories were always in the country.
The past few weeks, my mother-in law has remarked more than once that I am a farm girl or that she was glad I was country girl. I suppose that is partly because I do things she approves of like canning and gardening and trekking down to the water for wild blackberries or rummaging in the wild plum patch next to her house. Rubilee, who is always spotless, approves of my willingness to get dirty.
The past few weeks, I have been getting better at farm girl skills. The last time Jack Dear was gone to work, I had an irrigation line coupling that kept coming loose, causing me to wake up to a very wet patch in the peach trees and very dry blackberries down the hill. In a moment of infinite patience, Jack walked me through the process of taking apart an old coupling on a spare line and putting it on this one. There were plugs to be stripped out and put in, rings to put on in the right order . . . Sorry, no technical terms allowed. Then a few days later, I got to learn how to operate the battery charger on Harold's cantankerous mower and work the lawn sweeper (also via phone). The battery charger should have been straight forward, but there are electrical issues with the mower and cutoff switches that added to my non-mechanically inclined frustrations.
Saturday, I decided that it was again time to mow, but this time, I was ready to manage the charger and everything. I walked up to the big house and after a chat with Rubilee, went out to the barn. As soon as I opened the door, the stench of something long dead hit me. I first uspected a rat. If only it had been. Remember my Facebook rant about the orange tom cat who kept visiting us in the night, causing trouble? He is no more. I will spare you the gory details. It suffices to point out that it is July and at least a few days had passed since his demise. I will also point out that although at 2 AM three nights running, I did wish a coyote would eat this cat, I was in no way responsible for his end. A shovel was procured, a rather large (but as it turns out, not quite large enough) hole dug, and cat scraped up and buried. I ended up having to put cement blocks over the dirt to keep the dogs from digging - not sure how deep that hole should have been, but a few feet was not enough. The cement barn floor got to be hosed down and bleached, all while Rubilee fretted that I had to do it. Her only comment was "I am so glad Jack married a country girl. Some other girl would have been upset, but you just got the hole dug."
After much charging and fighting with the mower and using the push mower while the big mower thought about working, the yard did get mowed and swept. There were hiccups of course. Jack thought I could probably manage to mow over the irrigation line without pulling it up. I did . . But only for five passes around the yard. Then I snagged the line and spent the next twenty minutes untangling it from the mower's undersides. Good thing I now know which parts to pick up at the farm store and how to splice my line back together with those couplings, right? At one point the mower quit and had to be charged again, of course as far from the house as possible but still just in reach of all Jack's extension cords put together (Minus the taped together one that I am afraid of).
It is Monday. I woke up at five. A responsible me would have gotten in her workout early. The real me has sat with her coffee for 2 hours and window shopped for new luggage and seeds for next year's garden. Today I will see if the weed eater and I are on speaking terms. I will dig through the jungle of tomatoes - no canning today, but I want to replenish our stock of dried tomatoes for salads, pizza, bread, and pasta. It is also the week of deep, before the insanity-of-back-to-school, no-husband-around, vacation-is-next-week house cleaning.
That is a thing that requires no farm girl skills, but on the whole, I must say that I like being able to deal with things. It was very satisfying to walk into that farm store and get my part on my own and then sit on my overturned bucket putting my line back together. I felt accomplished.
The past few weeks, my mother-in law has remarked more than once that I am a farm girl or that she was glad I was country girl. I suppose that is partly because I do things she approves of like canning and gardening and trekking down to the water for wild blackberries or rummaging in the wild plum patch next to her house. Rubilee, who is always spotless, approves of my willingness to get dirty.
The past few weeks, I have been getting better at farm girl skills. The last time Jack Dear was gone to work, I had an irrigation line coupling that kept coming loose, causing me to wake up to a very wet patch in the peach trees and very dry blackberries down the hill. In a moment of infinite patience, Jack walked me through the process of taking apart an old coupling on a spare line and putting it on this one. There were plugs to be stripped out and put in, rings to put on in the right order . . . Sorry, no technical terms allowed. Then a few days later, I got to learn how to operate the battery charger on Harold's cantankerous mower and work the lawn sweeper (also via phone). The battery charger should have been straight forward, but there are electrical issues with the mower and cutoff switches that added to my non-mechanically inclined frustrations.
Saturday, I decided that it was again time to mow, but this time, I was ready to manage the charger and everything. I walked up to the big house and after a chat with Rubilee, went out to the barn. As soon as I opened the door, the stench of something long dead hit me. I first uspected a rat. If only it had been. Remember my Facebook rant about the orange tom cat who kept visiting us in the night, causing trouble? He is no more. I will spare you the gory details. It suffices to point out that it is July and at least a few days had passed since his demise. I will also point out that although at 2 AM three nights running, I did wish a coyote would eat this cat, I was in no way responsible for his end. A shovel was procured, a rather large (but as it turns out, not quite large enough) hole dug, and cat scraped up and buried. I ended up having to put cement blocks over the dirt to keep the dogs from digging - not sure how deep that hole should have been, but a few feet was not enough. The cement barn floor got to be hosed down and bleached, all while Rubilee fretted that I had to do it. Her only comment was "I am so glad Jack married a country girl. Some other girl would have been upset, but you just got the hole dug."
After much charging and fighting with the mower and using the push mower while the big mower thought about working, the yard did get mowed and swept. There were hiccups of course. Jack thought I could probably manage to mow over the irrigation line without pulling it up. I did . . But only for five passes around the yard. Then I snagged the line and spent the next twenty minutes untangling it from the mower's undersides. Good thing I now know which parts to pick up at the farm store and how to splice my line back together with those couplings, right? At one point the mower quit and had to be charged again, of course as far from the house as possible but still just in reach of all Jack's extension cords put together (Minus the taped together one that I am afraid of).
It is Monday. I woke up at five. A responsible me would have gotten in her workout early. The real me has sat with her coffee for 2 hours and window shopped for new luggage and seeds for next year's garden. Today I will see if the weed eater and I are on speaking terms. I will dig through the jungle of tomatoes - no canning today, but I want to replenish our stock of dried tomatoes for salads, pizza, bread, and pasta. It is also the week of deep, before the insanity-of-back-to-school, no-husband-around, vacation-is-next-week house cleaning.
That is a thing that requires no farm girl skills, but on the whole, I must say that I like being able to deal with things. It was very satisfying to walk into that farm store and get my part on my own and then sit on my overturned bucket putting my line back together. I felt accomplished.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Bounty
I fully realize it has been over a month since I have written anything here, but well, it is summer and my brain has ceased to function properly. It as if there was only so much power in my brain and the end of the school year sucked up what was there, leaving me with only enough to make Isabella behave and the house and garden to function. There was simply no space for written word.
Usually, I have a summer's worth of projects planned. This year the only project was painting my classroom, which didn't and won't get done. Jack just hasn't had time and our artsy plan of superhero bodies with famous author heads is just too much for my poor abilities. It seems that my yard and garden has become my only project.
When we moved here, the grass was mostly stickers, but we have treated with corn gluten and have been faithful to water and fertilize. Between the grass we planted last year and what I have planted and babied along this summer, we are starting to get a real yard. At least we are in the back, but I so rarely spend time in the front that I have trouble getting worked up about it. The stickers are still there, but at least there is more grass than stickers now.Two weeks ago, the burn ban was actually lifted on a week that Jack was home, so we managed to get four huge brush piles burned. There are probably ten more piles worth of downed limbs (thanks to the ice this winter) in the woods behind the garden, but at least we knocked out the ones in the yard. We also moved the fence farther out to encompass my hundred plus pumpkin patch; I know the deer still get in, but at least the horses can't.
Jack put the garden and orchard on an irrigation line with auto on and offs, leaving me about an hour every other day in the things that weren't irrigated, but that is doable. In the meantime, canning season has hit for me. This week has yielded six half pints of apple butter, fourteen half pints of tart plum jam, and fifteen pints of salsa. A quart of roasted and peeled peppers and three quarts of blackberries went to the freezer. Not shabby for a a few afternoons' worth of work.
Sunday I leave for AP conference in Tulsa, so I am callng a halt to the garden work. I picked a bucket of tomatoes that will have to find a new home and I need to hoe out the asparagus patch in the morning, but other than that, I leave my garden on its own for a week. It's just too hot, outside and in my kitchen both. Jack will make sure things are watered. I am sure my jungle of tomatoes will be more riotous, but it will be there when I come home with my brain once again full of school stuff.
Usually, I have a summer's worth of projects planned. This year the only project was painting my classroom, which didn't and won't get done. Jack just hasn't had time and our artsy plan of superhero bodies with famous author heads is just too much for my poor abilities. It seems that my yard and garden has become my only project.
When we moved here, the grass was mostly stickers, but we have treated with corn gluten and have been faithful to water and fertilize. Between the grass we planted last year and what I have planted and babied along this summer, we are starting to get a real yard. At least we are in the back, but I so rarely spend time in the front that I have trouble getting worked up about it. The stickers are still there, but at least there is more grass than stickers now.Two weeks ago, the burn ban was actually lifted on a week that Jack was home, so we managed to get four huge brush piles burned. There are probably ten more piles worth of downed limbs (thanks to the ice this winter) in the woods behind the garden, but at least we knocked out the ones in the yard. We also moved the fence farther out to encompass my hundred plus pumpkin patch; I know the deer still get in, but at least the horses can't.
Jack put the garden and orchard on an irrigation line with auto on and offs, leaving me about an hour every other day in the things that weren't irrigated, but that is doable. In the meantime, canning season has hit for me. This week has yielded six half pints of apple butter, fourteen half pints of tart plum jam, and fifteen pints of salsa. A quart of roasted and peeled peppers and three quarts of blackberries went to the freezer. Not shabby for a a few afternoons' worth of work.
Sunday I leave for AP conference in Tulsa, so I am callng a halt to the garden work. I picked a bucket of tomatoes that will have to find a new home and I need to hoe out the asparagus patch in the morning, but other than that, I leave my garden on its own for a week. It's just too hot, outside and in my kitchen both. Jack will make sure things are watered. I am sure my jungle of tomatoes will be more riotous, but it will be there when I come home with my brain once again full of school stuff.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Summer is Here
.JPG)
I know that summer is not officially here, but as far as I am concerned it started yesterday - so far it has been a beautiful beginning of soft rain and clouds. Those sorts of days nourish my soul that is already dreading the hot dry days of July and August. I already dread giving up two weeks to AP training. I dread the never ending math flashcards that will be the bane of Bell's existence. I don't even want to think about school supplies.
.JPG)
As always I have a monstrous list of projects for the summer - Jack and I are going to try to paint my classroom (more on that later - for now, think of super heroes with famous authors' faces) and I have some holiday presents I need to start now. But what I really want to do right now is dig in the dirt. Today should have been church and then dinner with my family and grandparents, but Bell woke up throwing up this morning so we are home folks. Instead I harvested the broccoli and pulled up the plants. I eyeballed my baby squash plants - some will be ready by weekend. I got some fennel bulbs in the ground for the butterflies and staked up some pepper plants that are already bent over with peppers. Jack will have to help me put up the big wires to hold up the tomatoes this week - they have loved the rain and are already big. I started my pumpkin seeds today - should have done it a week ago, but my brain just doesn't function the last week of school. While it drizzled, I poked around in the flower beds and was glad to see that a lot of Jack's grandma's lilies will bloom this year as opposed to only 2 last year. 
Really, I just wanted to be outside all day, but it seems a bit neglectful to leave a sick kid in the house alone. For now, I will think of salsa that will be around the corner, squash on the grill speckled with herbs and butter, evenings under the tree looking at the lake. For now, I will enjoy the clouds and the cool and be thankful for the break.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)