Two eMail Tails

Today I received two eMails from Walden University. (Well, really, it was three, if you want to count the 50th time they eMailed me about the Student Satisfaction Survey - which I won't fill out because I have been in class for exactly 6 weeks now. Hard to claim satisfaction or dissatisfaction.)

The first message said that there is a "credit balance" on my account. They don't "do" credit balances. It just isn't proper. I must contact them RIGHT AWAY. I will have to authorize it, signing in blood and sending a urine sample to verify competency to authorize such a thing. Credit balances are apparently very serious things at Walden University. Who knew?

The next eMail states that my newest tuition bill is ready to view and pay. You can almost hear the cyber-licking of chops in anticipation of a payment that rivals only my mortgage in size and pain. You can almost sense, over the cyber-waves, the glee and delight that accompanies these eMails every month. "Mo' money, mo' money, mo' money!"

So please tell me what is wrong with this scenario. I am going to guess that it is a case of the right hand not knowing what the left hand is up to these days.

If you hit "reply" it goes deep into cyberspace and nobody but God will ever know that you responded. And God couldn't care less about my tuition bill, no matter how large or how painful. Go figure.

If you eMail to ask somebody about it, you will get an "automated response" that is generated whenever these types of questions enter the university's eMail system. The automated response will depend entirely upon the time of day you send it and what color font you choose.

I am in a doctorate program, an endeavor notorious for NOT being cheap. There are people with Ph.Ds all over the world who swear to God they will be dead by the time the outstanding tuition is ever paid off. This is why they buy life insurance - so decendents won't be stuck with the cost of the last year and a half of law school - or whatever. The kicker is that because Sallie Mae - the government -- knows you owe money, adds to the stress level. I am sure there are doctorate people all over the place with elevated blood pressure and premature death rates because of this. But I digress.

How in HELL anybody can have a CREDIT balance when the outstanding bill is as much as the cost of my childhood home is beyond me. My parents paid $20K for a house in Burbank in 1964. They made a whopping $5K in profit when they sold it in 1970. My dad's 1967 royal blue Ford Mustang cost less than those capital gains. But I digress.

I have made 3 payments to date. The first one started before I was ever enrolled in a class - because of the time of month I signed up. The financial aid lady was so apologetic about that. Had I waited a week or so, I wouldn't have had to make that payment. The lesson was to NOT set up your payment plan before they are ready for you to do so. It is best to wait until they start sending out the "collector" after you. Being diligent and setting up early deserves retribution because, as the saying goes, No Good Deed EVER Goes Unpunished.

They don't tell you this in the initial courting phase of the program. This is because they want you to think it is nice and cheap and relatively painless. "Relatively" is the loaded adjective here. Parting with this money every month hurts almost as much as my cesearean sections. In case you are not familiar with that kind of surgery let me explain. A doctor cuts through your abdomen and uterus with a sharp object. Then he sticks half his body into your most private areas, yanks and tugs and pulls with the force of a wrestling match, and emerges victorious with an infant. Then he sews and staples you back up. The UP side is that you get opiates. With Walden tuitoin payments, you get more reading. And huge papers that are due often enough to make me think you are going to have to WORK for this. Go figure.

Walden University is very helpful with the "people to contact" department. There are concierges, academic advisors, instructors, janitors, and Sallie Mae people. The latter tend to be a bit nerve-wracking since they are technically part of the government - people who pay $812 for a toilet seat. But I digress.

Then there is Kathryn. She sends reassuring eMails that preach non-violence and the benefits of Zen and yoga. In a pinch, you have your Walden cohorts - always good for a laugh and healthy commiseration. Usually they just advise wine and a good night's sleep.

But just TRY to get a straight answer to an automatically-generated eMail that has a link with a URL the size of a juvenile gopher snake. I am thinking I might just wait this one out and see if what happens. It's a cyber tug-o-war!

A small explosion might be nice.

:-)K

Nit picking or picking nits?

I spent all day Saturday and Sunday crafting my Doctoral Development Plan. Or Dissertation Development Plan. It's named one of those and goes by the acronmym "DDP." It sounds like pesticide or something.

I have to keep looking at the instructions. There are two sets of them. They don't say exactly the same thing but it must be the university's way of making sure you are paying attention.

So I am perusing the ever-so-helpful APA guide the instructor posted online. This is a good thing since the APA (American Psychological Association)Manual is written in Greek by some guy wearing a pocket protector holed up in his rented room somewhere in New Jersey. APA is a GAWD-awful format that was invented by a sadist. After spending hours and hours crafting and editing this piece, I check the sadist's checklist again only to discover that I am to talk about myself, my goals, my experiences... without using "I" ? Do I talk about myself in the 3rd person like Queen Victoria? Don't people with severe mental problems talk about themselves in the 3rd person?

And what about the elimination of double spacing after punctuation? Hello? Is this not one of the most ingrained practices of keyboarding people everywhere? Was it not pounded into our heads and fingers during the days we slouched over the finger-scraping Royal Manual Typewriters that you are to hit the space bar TWICE after each and every punctuation mark? Or risk an F? Or a smack on the hand?

I have been typing since high school, when hip-huggers were in style the first time. I have earned degrees, written casually and formally, professionally and personally, and in COPIOUS amounts over the years. NOW I find out that I am, according to the APA, to "eliminate" double spacing after punctuation? Does this EVEN make sense? Is this an experiment to show how people who have typed regularly for over 30 years are supposed to break an ingrained habit?

The person who dictates these things for the APA has entirely TOO MUCH TIME ON HIS HANDS. I am thinking that this person desperately NEEDS the help of the APA with his severe anal-retentiveness. (That and coming out of hidey-hole in New Jersey, where he picks the wings off flies and organizes his cupboards using expiration dates.)

I SO enjoy spending time eliminating extra spaces.

It reminds me of picking nits out of a kid's hair.

Hell-Bound: "Because I said."

Most of you are aware that I have a very special class this year. It is even MORE special than the class I had last year. I seem to get the special classes every year. How I manage this I do not know. It's like I lost a bet with God or something.

There are days when stars align just right and ALL of my "issue" children will act up at the same time. That would have been yesterday. Then there are days that some "issue" children lay lower than usual and one or two get to shine and show off their talents. Today would have been that day.

Today, the stars only aligned partially and they took turns having meltdowns, temper tantrums, kick boxing matches, and other problems. I guess I am making progress in that regard. It is GOOD to take turns. If they could take turns with tricycles, I could get the trikes out of the shed again. (Sigh.)

One of my boys was in rare form today. This was the day he needed to rock, repeat phrases, talk to himself, and periodically scream out loud. No, he never answers himself, but this is because he can't get a word in edgewise. His weekly allocated "bathroom screaming fit" ("I AM ANGRY! I AM ANGRY! I AM ANGRY....!") occurred on Monday, so I didn't need to worry about THAT one. Today being Thursday and all.

So he gets louder and louder as the day progresses. At 10:50 we gathered on the rug for our Math Lesson - using clipboards. This was very exciting. We are learning procedures for passing things out and I quietly gave jobs to several students. He began calling out, "What about ME? What about ME? What about ME?" This continued until everything was passed out.

A few minutes later I realized that one of the kids was missing a pencil and asked a middle school helper to get her one. Immediately, D began caterwauling, "Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME!"

The children next to him began covering their ears and diving between their knees.

So help me, friends, I know I am going to Hell. I KNOW that messing with a borderline autistic kid is wrong on so many levels. I KNOW that it is NEVER good to mess with such a kid. But you have to understand that I have HAD IT UP TO HERE at this point, my stomach is really gurgling and growling and cramping up, my one last nerve is quivering in the corner, and I need a haircut. And this behavior is just one more in a string of behaviors that are turning my gray hair whiter by the minute.

So there he goes. "Pick ME! Pick ME! Pick ME!"

I looked at him. I opened my mouth. And I asked the question.

"Why?" I deadpanned.

The class went silent, looking at him expectantly (except for the two now smacking each other with clipboards. And the two trying to find the tonsils of a third one. And the one who has pulled all the pennies out of his pocket and is spreading them out on the floor).

He didn't miss a beat. "Pick ME! Pick ME! ..... BECAUSE I SAID."

I stayed quiet.

"I SAID SO! YOU HAVE TO! YOU HAVE TO! I SAID SO! YOU HAVE TO!" "Okay, D... I pick you.... to SIT QUIETLY! YAY!"

The newly arrived pencil is handed to the pencil-less child and D immediately notices that it is shorter than all the others. This makes it attractive.

"I WANT IT! I WANT IT! I WANT IT! I WANT IT!"

And I did it again.

"I want to lose 20 pounds! I want to lose 20 pounds! I want to lose 20 pounds!"

"I WANT IT! I WANT IT! I WANT IT!" (My weight loss issues apparently do not concern him.)

"I want it too! I want it too! I have a stack of pants I can't get into!" (Good lord, I think the devil is sharpening his pitchfork.)

I started the math lesson anyway. It was about ordinal numbers. I had 4 of the children closest to me stand up to demonstrate who is standing first, second, third, and fourth.

"PICK ME! PICK ME! PICK ME!"

I reached down to the very core of my being and gathered the strength and enthusiasm to continue the lesson, despite the screaming, caterwauling, clipboard fighting, penny counting, and the one nerve jangling in the corner. We used math language. We practiced. We used more math language. We completed the practice sheet together. We followed procedures.

The lesson goes well. But then Jason, the class Police Officer and Arbitor of All That is Wrong, shouts out, "TEACHER! D and A traded pencils! They traded pencils!" The tone of voice he uses suggest they might have slit their fingers, exchanged blood, and swore an oath to be blood brothers or something.

So now I am thinking that I am not only going to hell but that the flames will eternally lick my feet.

I put my hands to my face in mock shock and hysteria. I take on the countenance of a shocked and crazy person. This isn't hard to do.

"OH MY GOODNESS! NO! NO! They TRADED PENCILS? Dear Lord in heaven... they traded pencils!"
The children begin laughing. My mock-hysteria comes off as funny to them. Go figure.

They laugh. I continue the lesson. We finish. All is well.

Until the end when we are cleaning up.

There D sits, rocking back and forth on the rug, long past the "pick me!" frenzy and now muttering quietly to himself, as he holds his head in the perfect mirror image of his hell-bound teacher, "I traded the pencil. I traded the pencil. Oh my goodness. I traded the pencil."

I had to carefully pick up the quivering nerve and put in in a lined shoebox. Maybe I can take it with me to the bowels of hell.

How to Slide Face-First Down the Steep Learning Curve: In 25 EASY Steps!

1. Sign on early and often to your first online doctorate class. Spend 2 hours cruising around the site, become overwhelmed, and log off.

2. Pull out course readings and begin to read. Read for hours straight without coming up for air. Discover with alarm that the book you spent weeks trying to navigate in an attempt to be really prepared isn't even assigned. Yet.

3. Re-read course readings and eMail friends about them. Bore them to tears with quotes and ruminations and endless ramblings about some German philosopher named Habermas.

4. Log in to course homepage at least 50 times over the span of several days, forcing yourself to read everything and then printing it out "just in case."

5. Blow a printer cartridge printing everything out "just in case."

6. Assume that the "focus" points at the end of each reading assignment on the computer screen is to use for the first assignment - the Digital Journal, which will be used as a writing sample and your first grade.

7. Spend at least 4 anxiety-filled hours after a hellish day at school writing a well-crafted and tightly compacted essay that links the 3 main ideas of the readings into a drop-dead fantastic essay - complete with A.P.A. references.

8. Realize that this essay should have taken 8 minutes and silently curse the inventor of the A.P.A. format.

9. Be an overachiever and cite at least 5 references instead of the required ONE reference - "just in case." Make sure one isn't even from the readings.

10. Happily submit the paper EARLY to the instructor's drop box - BEFORE proof-reading it. (Practice spelling "pos i tive" for at least 5 minutes.) Then submit
the same paper to the discussion board for your peers.

11. Log in to the course the next day to find several entries to the discussion board. Snicker to yourself very smugly that THOSE entries are all "fluff" and YOURS in well-written and professional. Pat self on back for remembering not to use "I" in the essay.

12. Log in to course the next day to find that everybody's entry is "fluff" and that NOBODY has commented about your well-crafted essay. Sulk.

13. Realize with an "I coulda had a V-8" head-smacking moment that something is terribly wrong. Go back and hunt down the instructions - the ones you SWORE you read.

14. Gasp in horror as you realize that YOU did not follow the directions. Make sure you do this at school during lunch time so there is NO possiblity of remedying this error right away.

15. Tell NOBODY about this error. Wallow in horror for the six hours it takes for the school day to end and repairs to be made.

16. Email instructor and eat crow. Admit mistake. Promise better diligence. Ask for permission to re-post since assignment is still not technically due yet.

17. Receive absolution ("Dear Kim... No Worries!!.....the first few weeks have a steep learning curve.")

18. Get up early and finely craft the real assignment. Make it witty and full of examples and cite ONE source so as not to court arrogance. Throw in reference to ProfReading Board and Ellin Keene and the professional conversation, "just in case."

19. Proofread entry and then submit to instructor's drop box and the discussion board. Breath sigh of relief.

20. Realize in horror that you FORGOT TO INCLUDE THE WORKS CITED PAGE as required in the instructions.

21. Email instructor again from under the desk. Use words like "flabbergasted," "appalled," and include something about "not being worthy". Congratulate self for being able to type from the under the desk.

22. Resubmit corrected version. Begin lighting candles to the Patron Saint of Doctorate Studies.

23. Nurse bruised ego as you ponder the reality of the Steep Learning Curve - which is liberally coated with slick and slippery stuff that oozes and stinks.

24. Return to discussion board and liberally praise each and every "puff" piece and follow the directions to the letter ('add your opinion,' 'cite an experience,' ask a
clarifying question', etc.)

25. Take long hot shower to rid self of slick and slippery stuff from the Steep Learning Curve. Pay close attention to nose and facial area.

Vocabulary in the Schoen Book: Nice to Know

I have successfully navigated Part I. Part I is approximately
30% of the book.

Here are some words I either figured out by context or had to
look up:

Positivism (Auguste Compte) - Been awhile since I had philosophy. He was a French dude who spouted the importance of science and technology in all things. All things, in order to be real and provable, had to have a scientific base. Which is why theories based on science are good and real and other stuff is just "soft" science. This led to the Scientific Method, which is good, so I suppose ol' Auguste was on to something.

tacit - This is a word he uses a LOT. Since he was discussing many ways of "knowing" stuff WHILE spewing this term, I assumed, rightly, that it has to do with knowing something but not necessarily being able to articulate how you know it. It is an internal thing - like KNOWING that throwing up is not good and caused by bad seafood and therefore it is not good to eat bad seafood - although nobody ever really told you that. It is tacit knowledge. You know how to solve the
quadratic equation, having the knowledge of an algebra textbook inside you, but you could never actually WRITE that textbook. (Well.. at least you USED to be able to solve the quadratic equation.)

tautological - A redundant argument in that the argument is framed redundantly but not in a negative way. For instance, if a=b and b=c, then a=c... this is a tautological argument. It is very scientific and takes away the mysticism and touchy-feely NPR-type stuff.

epistemology - This is the study of knowledge. At least I hope so since I am writing it here based on pure memory from that theology-philosophy class I took back when my hair was naturally a very dirty blonde.

hegemony - This is power over others and I can't remember why this term was in the book. But I wrote it down which means it must have been important at the time. I guess I better re-read that part.

Johns Hopkins - The founding of this school, according to Schoen, "was perhaps the single most decicive event in the history of learning in the Western hemisphere." Being a history major and in love with all things educational, I can't believe I missed that.

avocation - "the antithesis of a profession." This, I think, is something NICE to know. I am going to try to work that into casual conversation more, I think. Too many people do not know this.

Thorsten Veblen - Some German dude whose ideas of society were important to the founding of American universities. He has something to do with the Johns Hopkins thing. I think I have to read that part again. But I can't help fixating on why in the world anybody would name a precious baby boy, with tiny, perfect fingers and toes, "Thorsten."

I will keep you apprised as more important vocabulary comes up. Some of this stuff is just good to know for the sake of knowledge - very tautological and tacit, if you ask me.

This Book Needs a Backhoe

..or a front-loader snow shovel or something.

I am trying to get a head start on my reading for my first doctorate class, which starts next week. I am trying to be proactive and efficient. My plan was to finish the reading before the class started so I could dip in later and think profound thoughts and participate in profound and meaningful discussions, thereby increasing and enriching my comprehension. This would eventually lead to a pipe and a smoking jacket (in hunter green).

The book I chose to start with is The Reflective Practitioner by Donald Shoen. It is paperback and about as thick as most heavy-duty professional reading books. The print is very small, which must be the publisher's version of "neener neener neener" since nobody at the publisher's place is ever going to have to actually READ the tome once it is in print.

This Donald Shoen character was apparently well-regarded since he was an Ivy League professor of something or another having to do with business and his obituaries on
the internet nearly make him the 4th member of the Holy Trinity.

He wrote two books. This one and the follow-up. Both are considered classics and must-reads; among those titles that "your education is not complete if you haven't read it" kind of thing.

So, I dove in a couple weeks ago and had this immediate recollection of putting my rosy boa into the wading pool when the boys were younger. Rosie did not want to BE in the wading and pool and my normally docile and slow-moving snake whipped out of that water so fast you might have sworn it was electrified.

Well, THAT is how fast I put the book down and tried to read the other title. The other title is so bad that I can't even recall what it is right now, only that it is on my nightstand.

So I tried again and got through a few pages.

I posted on the ProfReading Board at Teachers.Net, my online reading group, and asked if anyone else had read it. Jan, a mentor and hero and Woman of Wisdom, who not only READS hefty titles but actually writes and publishes them, responded, as I hoped she would.

I was praying for some discussion so that the dense James Joyce/Feodor Dostoyevsky/Leo Tolstoy-like prose would make sense to me.

But alas... it is a title Jan attempted several times then "gave away," which I think is a euphemism for donating it to the Goodwill or Salvation Army. (I think it
is still there, marked down to 25 cents.)

So I dug in again. The last week or so it was all I could do to plow through two pages. (Not even that if a glass of wine was involved.)

Today, I made it through a dozen pages and believe that I can succinctly summarize what it is Shoen is trying to say. This perplexes me since I really don't understand why he has taken all these pages so far to posit a really simple thesis.

Proud of myself, I Googled the title thinking it might have a Cliff's Notes study guide. HA! I tried Spark Notes and could swear I heard "neener neener neener" when the query came up empty.

Desperate, I Googled again and found a book review for the follow-up title which says in a nutshell EXACTLY what my little succinct summary says in my head.

I am barely a quarter of the way through the book. My goal was to finish it tomorrow, according to the timeline I drew up for myself last week, when I had forgotten how dense and muddled this book is to actually read.

It is said that James Joyce wrote the greatest book in English ever written. The problem is that very few people have actually navigated Ulysses successfully. But I suspect the book is full of profound things - since it is said that Ulysses is the greatest book in English ever written.

John Dewey wrote like this and he had profound things to say. Paolo Freire wrote like this in TWO languages - and he had profound things to say. (He used the word "apprehend" a lot.)

So, I am going to hope against hope that Donald Shoen is worthy of his glowing obituaries and stellar book reviews and general pedestal-est qualities. I will again attempt to read and ponder.

Then I will attempt to "apprehend" what he means.

:-]Kim

Molly's Classroom: Proper Display of the Cards~

Molly the Cat has shared pictures of her classroom with me. I have yet to photograph my classroom and share with her. If I did, one might notice that I also have nifty and eye-catching alphabet "sound/spelling" cards on my wall in a particular order.

Molly teaches in California. I teach in California. There was a 50% chance that we would be displaying the SAME type of cards in our classrooms. Aren't statistics fun?

In California, you have two choices: Teach in an Open Court district or in a Houghton-Mifflin district. Your district gurus decide - you don't get to.

The cards are mandatory. You will be severely beaten by the Muslim guy with a stick if you don't put the cards up on the wall IN THE CORRECT ORDER.

Notice that the pictures on Molly's cards are a bit more realistic than the cartoonish pictures of the K-2 version. This is because the publishers are very aware of the self-esteem issues of older elementary kids and won't insult them by using such infantile pictures.

So - they use the more "mature" pictures.

Since Molly teaches near the state capital, where all this "fidelity to the core of the gosh-almighty program" emanates, she is also required to have an altar in her classroom to the gosh-almighty program. She didn't include it in her pictures because the altars don't look right without the lit candles and technically, candles are not supposed to be lit before the children have been trained HOW to genuflect appropriately when they enter the classroom. The altar fruit is added after Unit 2 - along with the picture of the electrical engineer who invented the program.

The inventors of the approved religion... I mean PROGRAMS (gosh, where IS my mind these days...?) liberally grease the palms of Sacramento politicians who get to decide which programs get adopted. In case you wonder, these deciders ARE NOT TEACHERS! Go figure! Isn't that FUNNY?

But I digress.

Just wanted to explain the nifty and visually eye-catching cards!

The Ironic Iranic Photo Opportunity~

I just can't help thinking about the photo album.

Let's say you're perusing the album a few years from now and run
across this picture.

"Yeah.. that's my sister on the left and her sister in law next to her.. and I THINK that's my mom but I'm not sure.. oh yeah..that's Sarai.. NO, wait... okay.. that's Sarai on the end because her burka had that little tear in the sleeve.. or was that Rania? No.. oh shoot. I can't remember. Which one is the taller one? I can't remember.... Oh well. These are just the "women" in the family."

But what if one of the women snapped a picture of all the guys?

(That is, IF women are allowed to snap pictures of guys. Or maybe they can snap pictures if they are related to ALL the guys. They can't snap the picture if they are related to only one or two of the guys. That would be blasphemous and immodest.
Okay, so let's just say that somehow a picture of all the guys got taken.)

So here's a pic in the album of all the guys in their nice white tunic things. Or maybe they were wearing regular clothes that day. (They get to, you know.) Every guy could be named because .... WOW! You can see their faces! So they get names! Yes! This is okay because it is the GUYS of the family. The gals don't count.

Heck, they normally can't even POSE for pictures unless some male relative takes it and the other women behind those comfortable and cozy looking tent things are RELATED to him too! Because some guy can't come along and take a picture of gals
otherwise.

They CAN come along though and beat non-related women with sticks for showing too much baggage under the eye or a flash of wrist. This they do in the name of Allah and the local Iman because they CAN. They can do what they want because they are guys.

And this guy taking the pic had to do it quickly because OTHER GUYS were around and standing awfully close to the unrelated GALS.

But now that this photograph has made the internet, all the gals in the picture get beaten by the stick guy - for being so immodest and getting put on the internet for non-related guys and infidels to look at.

Especially the one whose shoe is showing.

Homework for Monday

I mentioned before that teaching kindergarten at the beginning of a school year is a lot like giving birth. You swear to goodness you will never, ever, EVER do that again, but then you forget. And you do it again.

I have also mentioned that teaching kindergarten at the beginning of a school year is a lot like herding cats. Cats on meth, lacking ears, and possessing the loudest of caterwauling capabilities. This was proven yesterday when Brandy entered the classroom, after having been called to come inside more than once or twice, and screamed at the top of her lungs just because she felt like it.

So what I want to reiterate is the fact that many young kindergarten children entering school for the first time are feral.

Yes, feral. They are wild, undisciplined, and clearly living only for the moment and to grasp any and all things in the world that will interest them for that particular nonosecond in time. This includes bodily functions, the drinking of water, the making of noises, the extreme movement of any and all protruding body parts, and the use of much scented soap. (In one week, 3/4 of the first bottle of scented hand soap is gone.)

This week has been hellacious. My old room partner called me last night and said, "Remember. It takes you a few weeks to bond with your kids." She does this because she watched my shell-shocked reaction for many years over the course of numerous "first days" and "first weeks." She, for some reason, doesn't forget how hellacious it is. Go figure.

Last night I made a list. It was a list of the 9 children I like in this class. This morning I added another one. Then I remembered that he kicked Haylie in the head, and acted the victim when I asked him to apologize. So I erased him. Which means I like almost half my class right now.

Yesterday I considered tethering some of them to trees so that I could actually teach the nine I like. These are the kids who sit still and listen and act like they truly enjoy what I am telling them. They raise their little hands and they treat every new activity with excitement and dedication.

These are the kids trained by their parents to LISTEN. They are taught to be kind to others (most of the time) and to pee INTO the toilet and not AROUND it or on the seat.

After dealing with temper tantrums, pushing, shoving, running, leaving the instructional area, and extreme kick boxing yesterday, I fantasized about a nice little job in an antique store or book shop.

When Raymond left the bus line to stand, scowling, with crossed arms, in the middle of the lawn, I was tempted to leave him there. I started thinking about what might happen if he didn't get on the bus to go home. If his parental units had to drive to school and remove his ramrod stiff body from the lawn and heave him into the car. Would they be mad at him? Would they teach him that standing in line is civil and polite and that we don't shove our way into the front just because we think we deserve it by virtue of being "Raymond?" "Raymond the Center of the Universe Who Must Always Be Allowed to Do What He Wants?"

My principal already had to peel him off the cafeteria floor once (because I was "mean to him" and didn't let him slide across the newly polished floor when he was supposed to be eating.) So when she ordered Raymond to get back in line and HE DIDN'T DO IT, she shouldn't have expressed surprise. In fact, when she ordered all of the feral cats back into line and to stand in one place, she shouldn't have acted surprised at all. Especially when they looked at her, told her about their latest video game, and continued playing "swing the backpack as far as you can" instead of actually LISTENING to her.

"OH MY GAAAWD," she squealed into my ear. "OH MY GAWWWWD!"

So on Monday, I will send homework. It is an assignment that asks parents to discuss 'civility' with their children and to discuss why it is important to stand in line. Examples and suggestions are given - like, 'talk to your child about courtesy and waiting in line WHILE you are doing so in the market or the bank.'

And here is what will probably happen. Nine papers will be returned with copious notes written by nine parents about the discussion they had with their child about standing in line. I will proudly post them while Raymond unties his shoes again and Brandy screams because she feels like it.

The rest of the parents will be calling the office to either complain about the leash marks around Junior's neck or ask where they might find one for home.

The Cost of Butterflies

The bushes outside my classroom are currently blooming with pretty little white flowers. Since I work in the armpit of the Mojave Desert, this is quite special. These bushes are attracting hummingbirds and one very pretty yellow and black butterfly. Lack of rain met no wildflower display this year, so I often find myself watching the wildlife with sincere appreciation.

This butterfly has been flitting about all week and I knew it was just a matter of time before the kids would see it and try to 'catch' it on our way to the cafeteria.

Sure enough, it was flying around the bushes yesterday and the kids began squealing, "Butterfly! Butterfly!"

A couple of them gave chase and were clapping their hands together in an attempt to stop the poor thing in midair.

"NO!" I admonished in my best teacher voice. "We don't hurt butterflies! Don't touch their wings or they won't be able to fly!"

"Why?" asked Tabatha, who had been hoping for a butterfly kill before lunch just as a matter of principle.

"Because, Tabatha, we don't want to hurt it," I said, leading her back to the line.

With wide brown eyes looking quizzical, she asked, "Why? Are they expensive?"

Classroom Preparation Using the ADHD Method

There are so many things to do in this classroom that I had to sit down and create a LIST. Then I had to pick a place and start. This sounds easy but it is not.

The first thing I did was put back all the heavy furniture and bookcases that were stacked all over the room so the custodians could "clean." I don't know about
you, but I was taught while growing up that when you make a mess, you clean it up. Maybe I am intolerant and lack flexibility, but I get a bit cranky when I have to spend 3-4 hours replacing furniture and shoving full bookcases with my fat a$$ back where they belong. I could swear when I LEFT the room in June, the chairs were NOT stacked 24-high on my counter. I also didn't leave ceiling tile dust all over my workspace or straight edge razors and nasty cleaning rags in my sink.

I was also taught that when you use SOAP to clean something, like furniture, you have to WASH IT OFF or the furniture will be STICKY. Again, maybe it's just me, but sticky furniture does not have that squeaky-clean presentation. Perhaps I am turning into Mr. Monk.

Once the furniture is arranged (including the pieces I don't think were HERE in June but surely somebody will claim them....)I begin tackling other projects and it goes like this.

I see a piece of border that is loose from the Calendar area, which we did not have to completely strip off the wall this year. So, I get my stapler to go fix it. But I
am out of staples so I have to go to the cupboard to get some more. Once in the cupboard there are a few things I need to rearrange. Once that is finished, I return to the sticky table to continue working on name tags and birthday balloons, affixing string. But my scissors were left someplace so I have to go find them. My classroom has at least 6 pairs of nice Fiskar scissors. I was able to locate the ONLY pair that was "decorated" with white glue last June by one of my students.

Returning to the table, I begin working and notice that little piece of border that is waving free from the Calendar area. So, I go back to get the staples and then fill the stapler. This reminds me that I have a NEW stapler and I may as well fill it also, but it is still packaged. It is packaged so well it would survive a lunar landing. So what should be a quick task turns into a finger-scraping JOB.

I have to find the scissors in order to free this extremely well-packaged stapler and fill it with staples.

But now I have trash to put in the can - which is missing a liner.

So, I go hunt for a custodian to find a liner to put it in the barrel. While I am gone, I visit the restroom, stop by the talk to the school secretary, pick up a check from the office clerk, and chat with a co-worker in the hallway.

I return to the room and notice the Office Depot bag where I retrieved the new stapler an hour ago. I decide to put away the new supplies I purchased while I was there - to buy binder combs. (But I spent $88 on other stuff besides binder combs.)

The binder combs remind me that I need to count out enough paper for our tactile alphabet books and since I am preparing for my class I may as well go ahead and prepare for my partner teachers as well. This means rounding up 4 reams of paper. I put the binder combs down somewhere. They'll turn up eventually.

Seeing all those office supplies on the floor reminds me that I better get them off the floor and put them away - leaving the alphabet book preparation for tomorrow.

It takes me 2 hours to put up one bulletin board because 7 different teachers stop by my room to talk to me, ask me something, drop something off, pick something up, or because they are looking for somebody else - who already left. Because I am
talking, I keep putting the border up backwards and have to redo it because of the Mr. Monk issue.

The board is finally up and it takes me another hour to put the finishing touches on the area I usually post classroom pictures - because I just can't leave well enough alone and now everything is perfectly color-coded, matched, and symmetrical.

I don't think I ate lunch today.

It is almost dinner time and I am not even half-finished with what I wanted to do today. I sit at my table to examine my LIST. Only two things are crossed off. I could add a few things that I did earlier and then cross THOSE off, but decide against it. Certainly, I think, there is a way to WORK SMARTER and get this all done in the next half hour.

But I make the mistake of looking up. There is a little piece of border waving free from the Calendar area. And heaven help me - I can't find either of my staplers.

The Gradient of Important Things: Reflections of a Trip

I have returned from Virginia grateful to be off airplanes and back in the land of the "dry heat." My own bed felt wonderful last night and my dogs are following me everywhere - I can't get a moment's respite from canine curiosity. Even the cat seems happy to see me; I suspect this is because the male members of the family are less than likely to attend to his nutrition needs in a timely manner.

After a good night's sleep, my mind can finally reflect upon the wonderful trip and the excellent time that I had - a perfect ending to a summer that is proving too short. Such is the mindset of the traveler, I suppose. Weary, contented, and then reflective.

I must count my blessings.

Cavey and the Rocket Scientist have a lovely home and a delightful family. The conversations were englighting, envigorating, and amusing. Cavey is the perfect hostess and attended to my every need - often before I knew I one existed. I will admit that at times this made me uncomfortable because she waited upon me hand and foot. At one point I was ready to demand something to do - dishes, laundry, floor-mopping, bathroom cleaning, anything! But she would never hear of it. I had to be sneaky in order to wash my own dishes and was physically insistent when it came to loading and unloading the dishwasher. And still, if I had grown up Catholic, I would be wracked with guilt, attending confession, and telling the priest that I was slothful and lazy while a guest in someone's home. And then I would look around the confessional and say quietly, "It's DAWK in here!"

The children are so intelligent they frightened me. I found myself watching my grammar and making sure nothing asinine or trite rolled off my tongue. My sorry attempt to educate the youngest on the wonders of raccoons was met with patient politeness - it seems she already knows everything there is to know about raccoons. The cuteness factor didn't appeal to her either. When I showed her a picture of my son feeding the raccoons that visited our June Lake Cabin a few weeks back, she shook head mildly and said, "They're pests. You feed them and they will only come back."

I was enthralled by the squirrels visiting the birdfeeder outside the breakfast room window. "They are so cute! Look at those little claws!" I exclaimed one morning. The boy was raised with impeccable manners so he desisted from eye-rolling or deep sighing. "They're vermin," he said quietly.

And the dog - they have the cutest hound down the street who obviously loves life and barks happiness whenever anyone makes the slightest sound. Hounds are known for their sharp hearing and legendary noses and eyesight. So he barked often. "What a beautiful dog," I commented when we drove by his domain - which is directly across from the Rocket Scientist property. "That ol' blue-tick-hound-mix?" the daughter replied. "No, he is not. He's obnoxious." (I guess he gets loose a lot and eats the cat's food. Since the Rocket Scientist is loathe to spend more on cat food than he absolutely has to, this little quirk does not amuse him. It falls under the "obnoxious category").

Sigh.

The son, like his father, is an expert waterskier who casually careens across huge boat wakes and slaloms - then repeats the process over and over again. For a long time. My only goals for waterskiing this trip inluded staying UPRIGHT with zero face-plants, lasting long enough that disgust over shaky legs and tired shins would not emerge, and at least moving out of the wake once. I was lucky that the boy did not see my one and only face-plant, which occurred when my body was quite literally to the point of shaking with exhaustion.

The Rocket Scientist Cat, Mike, is one outstanding speciman of feline. Never have I encountered such an intelligent, loquacious, and conversational animal. The sheer contentness that Mike exhibited when I picked him up can only be described as close to painful. Had his razor claws kneaded any deeper into my flesh, blood would have been drawn and Jack the Obnoxious Dog would have begun baying at the scent. "He never hops onto ANYONE's lap, ever," the kids told me when I motioned for Mike to join me after dinner one evening as we conversed at the table. In keeping with the attitude of cats everywhere, he immediately proved them wrong by leaping onto my lap and "loving" me to the point of pain - something like what they say about the shots you get for lockjaw.

I saw beautiful countryside that is overrun with lush beauty and rolling hillsides. I visited Monticello for the first time and learned much about one of my favorite historical figures, Thomas Jefferson. I got to sample some of the best home-made cooking in the commonwealth and become reaquainted with some dear friends. I got to renew my acquaintance with Cavey's delightful and beautiful mother, and laugh with her soon-to-be stepfather, a man she loves dearly and respects wholeheartedly. I got to enjoy the company of a family that loves and respects each other - with such warmth and laughter that just being with them causes your heart to swell with contented happiness.

I got to read something touching and memorable that was written by my friend. It was a wonderful piece of writing that evoked concern, fear, frustration, relief, and supreme happiness. AND I got to watch her mother read it - for the first time. Seeing the effect of this writing upon Cavey's mother was very touching. Her mother had gone through these events with Cavey years ago - she had been there. Nobody can hurt for you like your mother can. It is your mother who always wishes to shield you from life's heartbreaks and the random devastation often wrought by fate. To watch this was something akin to interloping - I felt several times I should have left the room.

I have bruises on my shins for trying to climb onto the boat after skiing. I used the "flopping fish" method, after attempting to just hop out like everyone else. My guess is that my exit from the water was somewhat amusing. My skin is tanned despite numerous applications of sunblock.

I went to Virginia this time weighing at least 10 pounds less than I did 3 years ago. Cavey never saw me when I reached my highest weight ever - 189 pounds. And since last July I have taken off 34 pounds of fat. When I left for Virginia this time I weighed in at 155 pounds and prayed to goodness I wouldn't gain any of it back because these last 10 pounds have been brutally stubborn.

We ate well. We ate healthy food and didn't snack too much. We stayed active, walking, swimming, and waterskiing.

But I was fearful of weight gain for one reason: We had partaken a bit too much libation (for medicinal purposes). I never libate that much, ever. I surpassed my usual limit of 2 small glasses of medicinal libation and drank another one. That kept getting refilled by the Rocket Scientist, who was playing classic rock on his IPOD and encouring us to dance around the room like lunatics.

So this morning, you can only imagine my elation when I fearfully got upon the scale of doom. I held fast to the windowsill, willing with exquisitely fine-tuned psychic force the needle of the scale to stay under 140 pounds. Gradually releasing my hold, I watched fearfully, with a lump in my throat as the needle squeaked up past 150 and landed on 155. I couldn't believe it.

I stepped off the scale and did it again - cursing my poor eyesight because it looks, if you examine closely enough, as if the needle IS on 155 but WANTS to go just a tad higher - to 155.4 or something.

So I stand relieved, allowing myself now to fully enjoy this wondrous adventure.

The Nickel's View

This day has been almost too wondrous for words but I will select a few anyway in an attempt to explain for you the most wonderful things about today.

Cavey surprised me today and took me to Monticello - the home of Thomas Jefferson and a monument to the man's genius and creativity.

Having always lived the readerly life, I have read about pastoral Virginia and her native sons. I have perused stories about the horse farms and the Blue Ridge Mountains. I read Fawn Brodie's biography of our third president and am well aware that the writer of the Declaration of Independence, crafter of the constitution, died a slaveholder - with many progeny by his mistress and slave, Sally Hemmings - children he never claimed.

And yet this man doted upon the only 2 of his children to survive infancy and lived with grandchildren underfoot for many, many years. By all accounts, these children were much enjoyed by their grandfather.

So, my background knowledge is rich and my love for Virginia and its rich sense of "place" is well-known by anybody who reads my writing and knows me well. I am not being obsequious when I proclaim the beauty of the Virginia countryside, the marvel of her lush greenery, and the architectural superlatives that describe her homes.

Driving to Monticello was one of the most beautiful road adventures I've ever taken. The road is almost covered by the canopies of ancient trees and the lush greenery and
grasslands extend as far as the wandering eye can see.

The roadside churches are perfectly exquisite - I literally sucked in my breath when we passed an old Episcopal church with its Gothic windows and beautiful red brick. The Presbyterians, never as grandiose as their Church of England neighbors, have a simpler dwelling inspired by its austere Calvinist roots - and yet they manage to convey majesty, peacefulness, grandeur, and history - all in a flash beside
the two-lane highway.

It would be heaven to call one of the many beautiful homes along this route home. The horse farms, of course, are for the very rich - and all of the farms have names that are carved on very ornate signs. There are vineyards with acres and acres of grapes - with homes almost too obscured by the growing harvest. Can you imagine living in such a place? Going to the market from such a place? Picking up the mail from the box that rests under the ornate iron sign thatdeclares the name of your "farm?" Driving up the driveway that resembles a small road, to a house nobody can see fromthe road - to your own version of earthly paradise?

But Monticello itself is almost beyond words. Walking those grounds and touring those rooms just cannot be described adequately enough for you to get the true picture of how inspiring and how wondrous this place really is. It is a marvel of architecture and design. The gardens still grow and the vegetable patches, designed by Jefferson himself, still produce. There are trees wider than the expanse of a large man's outstretched hands - trees that were no doubt purchased by Jefferson and planted by one of his workers. Ortrees already there, perhaps saplings, when Jefferson first
decided to move away from his home of birth and to the "little mountain" claimed by his father, Peter Jefferson.

And they remain today.

After the house tour, we emerged onto a terrace that led to the front yard of the house. This, explained the docent, was the "nickel's view" that opened up to one of the largest front lawns you'll ever see. It seems we entered from the back of the house - which is as grand as the front.

We walked past the family cemetery and saw the obelisk that marks Jefferson's grave. He wanted to be remembered as an architect, the author of the Declaration of Independence, andthe founder of the University of Virginia. And that is what the stonecutter chiseled on his tomb. He is surrounded by family and only Jefferson descendants may petition for burial at Monticello.

This trip was truly the highlight of my journey to Virginiathis year. And to top it off, Cavey and I talked about books all the way back. Not just any books, but books that inspire rich thinking and lead to rich writing. This was as itshould be - in keeping with words penned by Jefferson to John Adams many, many, years ago:

I cannot live without books.

California Sweating vs Virginia Glistening: A Cavey and Kim Adventure

After a day of antique shopping, Cavey and I decided we needed some real excercise. The original plan was to use the treadmill but that evolved into a brisk walk.

Now, a brisk walk in California is nothing much. It may be hot, but it's a dry heat - so it is best to walk in the evening or early morning during the summer.

In Virginia, a brisk walk means losing 5 pounds of water weight due to the humidity. If I have not adequately described the humidity, allow me to take a moment to do so.

Picture taking the hottest shower you can stand. Once you step from the shower and begin drying off, you long to open the bathroom door, don't you? Notice how steaming HUMIDLY HOT it is until you open that bathroom door?

Okay. So now I have described for you the typical humidity in Virginia at 6:30pm.

So, we are taking this brisk walk and I am absolutely ecstatic over the many things that are beautiful in Virginia.

It is green - everywhere. Just rolling green lawns, broken up by huge green trees and thick green shrubbery that comes from the richest looking black and brown soil you've ever seen. Whole plants just spring up out of nowhere along the side of the road and in the ravines that run in front ofsome houses. In fact, whole shrubs can spring up overnight in a sidewalk crack.

"Those are beautiful flowers," I exclaim as we pass a particularly lovely brick house with an abundance of yellow and black flowers and huge green leaves and stems. "Oh those...? My mama's been tryin' to get rid of those things FOREVER..." responded Cavey.

And the houses? They are so full of character you want to cast them in a movie. They are beautiful homes dripping with architectural amendments that literally make me gasp. And shutters? Real shutters! Clapboard? Detached garages? Basement windows?

Lest you think me odd (or a closet architect), let me tell you that shutters in California tend to be factory fabricated and encased in polymer. All houses look alike and vary only in shades of beige. And if flowers grow in the desert, it's because their owners are anal-retentive and bring the plants in every winter. And half the summer.

Here there is brick and moss and NO FENCES! The lots are huge and this is such a beautiful neighborhood.

So naturally, I went on and on about that. Cavey looked a bit perplexed but she is a good hostess and let it go.

She told me as we passed each house the name of the occupants. These are neighbors and friends she and her husband's family have known for a lifetime.

"Those people there, in the white house? They haven't lived there very long.... only 10 or 15 years," she said, while I pondered that I don't even know the last names of any of my neighbors, although we are good about waving to each other.

After our brisk walk we returned to Cavey's lovely home and I quickly noticed that there is more than just architecture that makes us different. I was sweating profusely, at the point of dripping.

Cavey is not even glistening. Neither one of us got our heartrate up too much with this brisk walk, but I am rapidly losing water weight while she just looks a little "bothered."

I was then enticed by Cavey's children to jump on the trampoline. I am not sure how long I lasted, but at some point, I had to accept the fact that these children were
trying to kill the visitor from California.

"You sure do sweat a lot, Mrs. L," said the lovely and talented younger child.

"The only thing funnier than you on the trampoline, Mrs.L.... is Mike [the cat]," offered the exquisitely handsome son.

Not sure what to say in response to these effusive compliments, I stood there gulping water in an attempt to replenish what I just dripped out into the back lawn.

"Um.. Mrs. L? You're gonna take a shower, now...right?" asked the curiously sweat-free daughter.

"You think I should?" I replied.

Ever the Southern hostess she smiled. "Well... only if you want to."

She did look noticeably relieved when I emerged from the shower and represented myself - all cleaned up.

I think the poor child was truly concerned - after all, I am sleeping in her bed.

:-)K

My Cat Otis Has Quirks

Quirks are good things because they cause a second look. Anybody with a quirk - or several, since they tend to come in a package - is noticed and considered different. Set apart from the madding crowd, if you will.

But in a cat they are curious. I say this because my cat Otis is full of quirks and they only serve to beg the question: Why?

If I knew the answer I could be on Animal Planet. The pet psychics would be calling ME for advice. But I cannot explain. I can only illustrate.

I will list them his quirks:

1. He loves Dan dearly and goes out of his way to sit ON Dan or near him when Dan is home. But he never pesters Dan for food.

2. He can take me or leave me - except when he is nearing the hunger stage. If he is within 2 hours of possible hunger, Otis tends to keep a careful cat's eye out for me. If I am away, he in in my space within seconds of my return home.

3. Otis has staked out "spots" around the house. These include, but are not limited to the following locations: Under the dining room table, under the livingroom end table, the computer chair, the back of the couch (never the loveseat) in the family room. NEVER the livingroom. He loves to lay just outside the doggie door so the dogs can't leave. The dogs are polite enough to not step on Otis when he does this. If they get out through the door, however, all bets are off. They will trample over him to get back inside, using the pet door. Otis also favors the carpet next to my bedroom's French doors, but only during the Fall, Winter, and early Spring. Never in summer. He also likes the newspaper, but ONLY if I am reading it.

4. Otis will yowl at you if he is in the front yard - never the back yard.

5. He tolerates female guests and will allow them to pet him. But he adores, unequivically, any and all male guests, including those we don't know. He follows the cable guy, delivery people, and meter readers all over - dogging every step in an attemt to rub against their masculine legs. He also likes boys, but in moderation. He barely tolerates girls. Even as a kitten, this was so. The boys in the neighborhood could haul that little fluff ball all over heck and gone on their bikes or skateboards. But he leaped out IMMEDIATELY if any of the little girls attempted to put him in their baby buggies or bicycle baskets.

6. He likes chicken but hates beef.

7. He likes milk but hates cheese.

8. He will sleep across the shoes tossed against the family room loveseat. The more the shoes, the better he sleeps.

9. Otis loves bags. If one sticks around long enough, such as the one in the office filled with school supplies, he attempts to bond with it as only a cat can do. He kneads it, bites at it, and then acts surprised when he gets plastic in his mouth.

As I write this, Otis is laying across the above referenced bag. It now has several "love bite" holes in it and surely can't be comfortable for resting. But this is his way of letting me know that he just MAY be ready for his second helping of Fancy Feast today. It IS that time and he just wants to be sure I remember.

But it won't be me he thanks once he is fed. He will wait for Dan to get home and then greet him with a slam against the leg and a lap visit as soon as the man settles into his chair.

If I had MY way, he would then yack up some chunks of plastic - but then again, maybe I am being petty. After all, he's a cat.

Or maybe I'm just being quirky.

The Farcical Fable of the Fearsome Feathered Mamba

It occurs to me I need to tell this tale in order to explain the 'feathered mamba' reference in my earlier swimsuit post.

I assure you this story is funny - and all at my expense. Which means it is funny for most people but slightly embarrassing for me.

About 4 years ago, my friend Cavey invited a bunch of us from the Professional Reading Chatboard on Teachers.net for a get-together at her mother's lake house in Virginia. The eMails and phone calls were flying during the month before the trip and one of the concerns I expressed was about snakes.

You see, I am not really a snake person although I do try to be and have become significantly less phobic over the past 10 years. The one snake fear I have to deal with accompanies my hikes on the Pacific Crest and other trails in the region. During the summer and autumn months, the rattlesnakes are out. Of all my hiking trips, I've only seen one and I heard one in a bush last September. But the fear is real, especially if I am hiking alone.

But other areas of the country have lots of different kinds of skeery snakes. And some of them like water. I have watched National Geographic and the Animal Planet enough to know that I am not being histrionic here. It is perfectly logical to expect snakes in Virginia - especially near water.

So naturally I asked and was not too pleased when Cavey casually replied that yes, they do indeed see snakes at the lake. "But they won't hurt you," she said. "Unless it's a copperhead."

I almost cancelled my tickets. I came this close. Black snakes? Copperheads? "Yeah, they like to curl up down by the water," Cavey said, with way too much serenity in her voice for my taste.

So, needless to say, I had to scan like a hawk the first time I went near the lake. There is a beautiful dock and cabana by the water - so wilder elements don't often make an appearance, I am told. Ducks, yes. But black snakes? Copperheads? "Well.. there was that one time..."

I swear that people in the South are much too relaxed about these things.

"They won't HURT you," Cavey said when we were treading water one day.

This, of course, is small comfort to somebody who absolutely dreads the possibility of sharing water space with a black snake. Well, with any snake, to be truthful. And with my luck, it would be a copperhead who spent too much time last night taking snakey licks out of Bubba's beer can - the one that dumped over on the dock down the shore. So he'll hit the water with one heck of a reptilian hangover, making him mean as a .... well, mean as a snake.

I was a grown up about it though, and took to the water like a fish. I loved it and since no snakes were ever in sight, I relaxed a little bit every single day.

So one lazy lake afternoon, I was treading water and talking to Cavey, Brad, and Grace as they lounged on the dock, nursing glasses of sweet tea and discussing vacation-related things like reading comprehension and the efficacy of computer-based fluency programs. In the water with me is Nik, Brad's wife, who is half asleep on the inner tube, lifting her head periodically to talk Brad into taking a swim or to proclaim that she is really, really, happy here in the water.

Cavey needed to repeat something to me because I hadn't quite caught it and did the old "HUH?" thing from the lake. As she came to the ladder she adjusted her sunglasses and began peering over my head towards an area of water about 20 feet away from me. After peering for a couple seconds, she leaned her head forward and looked harder. This caused me to turn around to see what she was looking at. Now, this is where accounts will differ. I truly don't remember saying anything but in my mind I was convinced that she was watching a big black snake swim through the water. Had I been rational, I would have turned around and looked better myself.

But I did not.

Somebody on the dock asked, "What is it?" at the same time I was swimming faster than I ever had in my entire life, counting the year I was on the swim team. I hauled my ample self UP the ladder and OUT onto the dock in one swift move that caused Cavey to reel backwards and almost dump her tea in Grace's lap. This caused Grace to jump up, which caused Brad to jump up.

In the meanwhile, Nik has seen me swimming wildly for my life and figures she will haul that tube to the ladder first and ask pertinent questions later. Her eyes had that "deer in the headlights" look as she attempted to get OUT of the tube and ONTO the dock.

Nik's reaction only served to reinforce that I was right all along - there are black snakes in that lake water, I just knew it! Nik saw it! She had to! Look at her face! Look how fast she swims in that tube!

Now, THEY will all tell you that I was the one who actually SAID the word "snake," which caused Brad and Grace to leap up and Nik to begin paddling hard enough to send her heart into arythmia. But I am sure that it wasn't me and that I was simply reacting the way any normal person would react when a really good and trusted friend starts peering at the water behind you in a very suspicious way.

As Nik is gasping for breath and I am turning around to see how many inches I came from certain snakey contact, Grace and Brad and Cavey are looking at the water very, very, closely.

"What is that?" asked Brad.

They all peered closer.

And then in a second and a half I became the butt of any and all future lake jokes.

"It's a stick," Brad said, with no small measure of delight.

"A WHAT?" yelled Nik, who was still clutching her chest.

"A stick," chortled Grace. "Yes - a stick!" I think she slapped her thigh but I am not certain. I was still reeling in fear and embarrassment.

Cavey is holding her sides laughing, snorting sweet tea out her nose while Brad points out the "stick" for Nik. She shoots me a rather incredulous look.

"Yes," said Brad dramatically. "It is the fearsome lake mamba. The feathered mamba, to be precise."

"Yep, that's it," agreed Cavey. "The feathered one."

"I need a beer," said Nik, and headed off towards the house, squelching her baser instict to push me back into the water, I am certain.

No amount of 'splaining on my part did any good. They would not agree, ever, that that moving black stick in the lake resembled a snake.

They also thought it was funny when I grumbled, practically under my breath, that mambas don't have feathers.

Swimming Suit Dilemma: A Whale Tale

I am looking forward to my upcoming trip to Virginia this weekend - to visit Cavey and the Rocket Scientist.

Since we MIGHT get to go to the lake house (to feed the mighty Feathered Mamba), I need something to wear while swimming.

I have two perfectly reasonable lined lycra tops that will camouflage any and all abdominal imperfections, like scarring, stretch marks, and (oh yeah!) fat.

The bottoms, however, are really bicycle shorts and acceptable if I am swimming alone or with a similiarly-proportioned-friend - but not suitable for the lake house, where the women are tanned and fit and full of collagen. (And the men are above average.)

When these bottoms get wet they are less than attractive.

So - I went to Mervyns and looked.

And looked.

And looked.

Mervyns has all manner of swimwear on sale, which is a good thing except nothing was right.

I found some black speedo type bottoms. Of the scores of black Speedo bottoms hanging on the rack, flung into the aisle, and piled all over the floor, there was exactly ONE in my size. ONE pair that didn't send rolls of muffin top over the edges for that quirky "I am so accepting of my fat self" presentation. They did have quite a few "Size Moose" Speedo bottoms but I, thank goodness, didn't need those. "Size Cow" is bad enough.

I have a gray lycra top. There are NO such things as gray bottoms or gray sport shorts to wear over the black speedo bottom. So I can't match the gray lycra top.

I have a blue lycra top. There are no such things as blue bottoms or blue sport shorts to wear over the black speedo bottoms. So I can't match the blue lycra top.

I found some blue Adidas sport shorts with stripes. They weren't exactly what I had in mind, but I was getting desperate. The stripes come in purple, white, pink, and
green. There was exactly ONE pair with white striping that would reasonably go over the black speedo bottoms and match the blue lycra top.

One try-on quickly determined that these are the type of shorts that will immediately, without hesitation, without passing Go to collect $200, fall off the split second the Rocket Scientist hits the gas and I shoot up on water skis. There I will be: In front of God, Bubba, and everybody with my fat self in black speedo bottoms and blue Adidas shorts riding along my knees.

OR WORSE: The Rocket Scientist will hit the gas and I will tumble, head over heels like a skipped rock - resembling Baby Beluga with blue sport shorts clinging to the right ankle and the left water ski tumbling towards Maryland.

For now, I am relying on Plan B. I will wear the black speedo bottoms, the ONLY one in my size, under the blue bicycle shorts that match the blue lycra top.

I will look frumpy next to the beautiful southern women but I can comfort myself by remembering that I am slimmer than I was the last time I visited Virginia. And that whatever I managed to wear THAT trip, while water skiing or leaping from the water to escape the Feathered Mamba, stayed on. At least, there are no extant pictures to prove otherwise.

I can't recall what I wore - I only remember Cavey saying, when I finally emerged from hiding under my towel, "What are those, hon? Bicycle shorts?"

Hope for the Brown Dog?

Our long-haired dachshund, Seamus, never has headaches.

This is because, as the saying goes, you must have brains to have headaches. And since Seamus has never demonstrated any intellectual prowess, we don't think he has much in the cranial region.

This isn't to say we don't love him dearly. But this is a dog who will go in and out the doggie door, even if the French door right next to it is WIDE open. He tries to smother you with kisses - with chew bones, dog toys, and Meaty Bones in his mouth.

This is a dog who loves to hike but simply cannot go off-leash. He just doesn't understand that "off leash" means he may roam around a bit, but he must stay near ME. Augie and Duke have modeled this procedure for Seamus many times. He still takes off like a houng dog after a rabbit - especially if he sees a rabbit. And dachshunds ARE hound dogs.

It isn't that I haven't attempted to train him. I wait until he's a bit tired so I can get his attention and then let him off-leash and constantly praise him for staying on the trail. ("Good trail, Seamus! Good trail!")

If he goes into the bushes I call him back, taking care to keep my tone neutral. Most of the time he comes back and I praise him again ("Good trail, Seamus, Good trail!")

But when he is off-leash he acts possessed and eventually he takes off further and further away from me - until I having to run to stay caught up with him. This makes him run AWAY from me. I've never beaten this dog in his life, but he is certain that once I get a-hold of him after a chase UPHILL, I will pound on him. So he keeps running.

Augie is very good at finding Seamus and I suppose that he does his canine best to convince the brown dog to rejoin the pack. But I think Seamus speaks a different dialect.

Each morning, Seamus starts the Rancho Vista/Palmdale West Division of Canines Meeting. It is their morning meeting and apparently quite important because all the dogs participating seem to have a LOT to say. Sometimes Seamus starts this meeting too early and I have to call him back to bed. But once the minutes have been read and old business covered, Seamus is loathe to give up the podium to Daisy next door, who I am sure could run the meeting without him.

Seamus is a OneDog Alarm System - warding off attacks by trash trucks, mail carriers, UPS drivers, Mormon missionaries, neighborhood dog walkers, and neighors standing or conversing in their own yards. In fact, without even SEEING a neighbor or a dog walker, Seamus discerns them and barks. And barks. And barks. From the BACK of the house.

He doesn't respond to verbal commands to cease barking. I have read the dog trainer books by Uncle Mattie, Cesar's Way, by the Dog Whisperer, and looked up online dog training manuals. To no avail. None of these supposed experts has ever dealt with a dog like Seamus, I am sure. And to compound the cacophony, dachshunds are hard-wired to always, always, always have the last word. Even if it is a full minute AFTER the initial barking frenzy.

So, when the construction dude arrived today to dig big holes and cut pieces of concrete with very loud tools, Seamus went on alert. As if the sound of a jackhammer working on the patio isn't loud enough - Seamus must bark loudly and often to express his supreme concern. And to compound the problem, once Seamus actually SEES the construction dude, all he11 breaks loose, despite my attempts to calm him down and tell him this is a FRIEND not a FOE and this is GOOD what he is doing, very, very GOOD. Patio covers are GOOD for dogs in summer, very GOOD.

So I took Seamus to the chair and ordered him to stay there. Dan laughed and Seamus immediately tried to leave. I stood there and ordered him back. When he didn't comply, I picked him up and put him back on the chair. Then I praised him for staying.

I praised him a LOT. And he stayed.

And then he attempted to get down but one order from me to get back to the chair sent the low dog scuttling. He jumped up on the couch. I decided that wasn't a battle to fight, so I praised him again.

And... he went over the the chair and promptly flopped down. And he stayed!

I'm not sure - but maybe there's hope for Seamus and I can teach him commands.

I just don't look forward to hauling that chair up the Pacific Crest Trail.

;-)K

Heroic Dogs...But what would MINE do?

While getting my hair cut today, the conversation in the salon turned to the heroic little chihuahua in Colorado who jumped in front of a hostile rattler, saving the 1-year old grandson of the homeowners from a nasty, and possibly fatal, snake bite.

Since I hadn't heard the story, I Googled it when I got home and found there are many heroic dog stories out there - dogs who fetch phones for disabled owners, dogs jumping in front of lunging alligators, dogs chasing nasty critters out of houses.

The salon owners, knowing I hike with my dachshunds, told the salon group that my "lowdawgs" would probably do the same for me.

But I'm not so sure.

Yeah, they do the usual barking frenzy when anybody walks in front of my house and they happen to see them. Any and all delivery people are suspect and heaven help ANYBODY walking towards me while we are walking or hiking.

That is, unless the dogs are tired. Then, they are as docile as lobotomy patients and move aside. If I stop to talk, they stand there and allow themselves to be petted. Or they flop to the ground for a few minutes of panting shut-eye.

When the speech teacher at school brought me a baby glossy snake, I couldn't get it to eat. So, I decided to to let it go in an area rich with the glossy snakes' favorite food - juvenile lizards. When I released the snake, Augie sniffed around with much interest. When we passed the location on our way down the trail, Augie went back to the exact release spot - to sniff some more. But the snake was gone - hopefully dining on lizards and shouting, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, I'm free at last!"

But the most telling event that makes me wonder about my dogs taking a rattlesnake bite for me involves Duke and a walk up the San Francisquito trail.

Up ahead, about 20 minutes into our hike, I spotted a snake laying across the trail. Not close enough to discern a species, I called to Duke, who was trotting happily
ahead of me.

"Duke!" I shouted. "DUKE! Stop!"

Duke promptly jumped over the lounging reptile, turned around, and sat down. Luckily for both of us, it was a gopher snake and it couldn't care less about me, Duke, or
the fact that his long snakey body was completely blocking the trail. (Snakes do this because they CAN. Showoffs.)

And what do you say to your dog when he obeys - albeit a bit too slowly? Castigating him for the possibility of sitting down next to a rattler would only tell him, in
complete canine understanding, that he did a bad thing - so it's better NOT to listen when she yells, "Duke! Duke! Stop!"

Or do you praise him for sitting down, albeit a bit too slowly? In his canine brain will he think that sitting next to a snake is a GOOD thing?

It's just so complicated.

My friend and teaching colleague, Pam, spent $175.00 to take her two dogs to a rattlesnake "desensitization" class. She was very proud of this, since she and her
husband and just built a lovely home on a golf course - that backs right smack dab up against prime snake territory.

The course involved a live rattler whose jaws were muzzled shut, making him one happy snake, I am sure. The snake was placed in various positions while the instructor gave various directions to the dogs and their owners. Small electric shocks were involved. This serves to upset the dogs and unsettle the owners.

The muzzled snake probably got some perverse satisfaction out it.

"Now we can walk anywhere and not worry," Pam said happily and much confidence when I asked her how the training class went.

But a week or so later, Pam was not so sure. It seems she took the dogs for a walk behind the house, up on a trail. Not only did she completely miss the rattler laying in the road (she walked over it), her dogs did too. According to her husband, who was walking behind them, "all of them just stepped right over it without a look." One of the dogs even turned around to sniff it. The husband's sharp warning scared the dog more than any old electric shock, that was for sure.

So, while Pam's dogs will probably bond with any trail snakes, mine will probably hop over them. Or sniff them.

Not too big a chance our dogs will "take a bite" for either of us.

Unless they're tired. Then they might flop down ON them and wait to be petted.

:-)K

The Hades that is Time Warner Cable's "Customer Service"

I just wasted the past 90 minutes trying to solve an internet connection problem that has plagued me for weeks. It has gotten worse over time.

Each time I call Time Warner, the company that bought out Adelphia, I go through a phone labrynth until I reach the technical support department for internet service.

I have done this so many times now that I know which buttons to push before they recorded voice finishes her inane directions - thus getting me connected THAT much
faster. Of course, most of the time it is 'hurry up and wait' since a 'technician' is always "helping other customers" and I am to "please stay on the line" and I will be helped - eventually.

And each time I am connected to a pleasant young man who leads me through a series of computer hoops in order to correct the problem. It has gotten to the point that I try most of this stuff BEFORE I even call - thereby saving precious time.

Once I called and got a pleasant young lady - but she concluded that the problem was with my Norton Internet Security and that I needed to call them. I spent the next
55 minutes talking to some guy named Saresh or Harish in India - before he concluded that the problem was with the cable company - and NOT Norton. I was to call back Time Warner. I did and we did a comical rerun of the first call to the young lady - only this time it was a pleasant young man.

Go to "settings" and repair the connection? Check.
Shut down computer and start it back up again? Check.
Shut down computer, unplug little wire, count to 45 and
then hook it back in and start it all up again? Check.

I also try the cheater way - unplugging and replugging the little cable wire while the 'puter is on. THAT trick used to work but it doesn't anymore. The computer or the modem or whatever is plaguing me has caught on.

So today, Bryan, the pleasant young man assigned to help me, put me through the hoops. We went to the "black box" and did all kinds of "pinging" in order to find out what the problem is.

"Why don't you just reset the modem?" I asked. "That always seems to work."

"I want to get to the root of this problem," he said. "If you don't mind."

"Good man," I said. "Let's get to the root of this problem."

We disabled Norton and Pinged in the black box some more. (You get to it by clicking on 'run' from the Start box and then typing in "cmd.")

This took FOREVER. And the phone connection wasn't that good. The phone problem has been going on ever since I had to switch from SBC to stupid Verizon. But that is another post altogether. (I get to pay MORE for my telephone and get worse service.)

Then, Bryan told me that the problem was most likely the modem. I asked him if the modem was INSIDE my computer and he said no, it was the cable box I got from Adelphia. The one with all the lights.

He said he could hook me up to my local service provider to set up an appointment for a service technician to come out and replace the box. The last time one of these
pleasant young men attempted to do that, I was connected to San Antonio, Texas, and was told off by a rather unpleasant young man who wanted to know why I called HIM
when I am clearly in California and not San Antonio, Texas.

"I didn't call you, I was connected to you by somebody at your help desk," I replied, feeling foolish and annoyed all at once.

"Well, ma'am.. I can't help you. Nothing for you comes up on my screen."

"So what do I do?" I asked him. "Can you connect me to somebody who can help me?"

"No - you will have to call back the place you just called. Ask them to connect you again."

Needless to say, I didn't call back again - until today when ONCE AGAIN I had connection problems. After spending almost 2 hours with me on the line, Bryan connected me, successfully, to rather UNpleasant young man named Robert.

"What can I do for you?" Robert asked in a monotone. I started to go through the whole story and then said, "Bryan gave me a ticket number. Would that help you?"

"I got the ticket number." (Dead silence.) So that means he has the whole sordid pinging history right in front of him. Apparently he didn't understand it. Bryan assured me that all my "history" would be on the screen for local company.

Then he spoke. "What can I do for you?"

I patiently told him about my internet problems and he asked if the little box's lights were lit up.

"Yes. They are always lit up," I replied.

"Well. Then there's nothing wrong with the modem."

"But Bryan determined that it WAS the modem." I said, getting annoyed. "What should I do now?"

He waited awhile and then said, "You can just monitor it. Watch it and see if the lights go out."

I almost laughed. I am to "watch" the box? THAT will solve this problem?

"The lights NEVER go out," I said through rather gritted teeth. "And the computer won't connect to the internet."

"If the lights are on, the problem is not with the modem."

"Then what IS THE PROBLEM?" I asked patiently, once again.

There was dead air and I was certain that Robert had hung up on me.

"If the technician comes out and there is no problem you are going to be charged a service call."

"But if the problem is the modem - then how can I be charged?"

"If the lights are on, the modem is not the problem."

Robert gave me a choice of times and I selected the morning. He asked me AGAIN for my name and phone number. Apparently, all of Bryan's helpful information was written
in a language that Robert didn't care to understand.

So, I gave him my name and telephone number, reiterated that yes, the bill IS in my husband's name, and thanked him for his half-hearted attempt to "help."

Then he thanked me profusely for calling Time Warner Cable. Well... as profusely as a man who speaks in monotone can muster.

I'm thinking that WiFi is sounding better and better everyday.

:-)K

For Want of the Perfect Fabric

Today I ventured out into the heat again, in search of
the perfect fabric for re-upholstering my great-great-
grandmother's English rocking chair.

What I am looking for is very elusive. It is fabric that I
will know when I see it and so far, I haven't seen it. I
haven't even caught a glimpse.

For your information, all the fabric out there in the commercial world looks alike and all the local stores carry the same tired stuff... just more of it in some
cases and for more money in others. Most upholstery fabric is just variation on a theme.

I want something vintage and colorful - in keeping with the historic nature of this chair. I can remember only too slightly the fabric that was on it during my earliest
childhood. I have tactile memories of running my finger along a stripe of burgundy or a swirl of velvet - but only catch a glimpse of the colors - a deep red, some greens, blues, golds... maybe browns?

None of my old family photographs shows the material on the chair. I have a wonderful picture of my great-great-grandmother sitting on the chair. But her body covers the upholstery. Every single square inch of it.

I contacted my older cousins but, being guys, they are little help. They can barely remember the chair, let alone what fabric adorned it during their childhoods. This
perplexes me since they played on and around it for years and years. But they are men and I suppose this lack of material memory is to be forgiven. I bet they remember all of my grandfather's fishing rods and guns and tools.

I have haunted my local antique shops, looking for scraps of vintage fabric or an old table runner or plush rug that might serve the purpose. I have a small and colorful tapestry rug hanging on the wall in my hallway - it has a lot of pretty red and is adorned with adorable English corgis - which is appropriate, since the chair was made in England and came with my great-great-grandparents when
they emigrated - both times. But how can I cut up that tapestry and make the Solomon choice about which dog to place where? No... I just can't do it.

I don't think I can adequately describe what I want for this chair. I only know that I shall know it when I see it and this makes for a frustrating search indeed.

The chair may just sit in my livingroom without upholstery for the time being - until I find the perfect and ellusive fabric - material that may only exist in my mind.

Which means I need to find a really good hypnotist.

Dad in a Sock

My stepmother has relented and is allowing me to take some of Dad's ashes up to the High Sierras with me - to scatter around the mountain lakes and streams he loved all his life.

It is a strange business, this scattering of ashes. Not something you come across everyday so there are no set rules or regulations for decorum or anything. I've never come across any articles about it in Good Housekeeping or Ladies Home Journal.

I was home alone when the Strange Box that contains all of my Dad's earthly remains arrived. They didn't come in the mail or by Federal Express - which he might have appreciated. They were hand delivered by a guy in a fancy suit, driving a non-descript car, who approached my front door carrying a simple cardboard box. It wasn't until he opened the box on my dining room table that I saw the actual box itself - blond oak with bits of brass hardware. Inside THAT box was another box - a heavy brass contraption that separated the holder from the actual remains by about 5 pounds of heavy metal.

During our brief discussion, after I "signed" for Dad, the guy told me that if I ever wanted these ashes scattered, they could handle those arrangements. "It is illegal in California," he said somberly, "to scatter cremated remains without a permit."

I hated to ask what all THAT entailed but I couldn't imagine some strange suited-up funeral home dude following me up some remote mountain trail, schlepping my dad's ashes in a backpack.

And yet - this is precisely what I shall do sometime within the next week - shlep my what little bit of my father I possess in a physical form up a mountain trail or down by a rushing creek, or along the edge of a mountain lake.

I am am gathering from my life's experiences that there are no "cremation police" lurking in the bushes of the Sierra Nevada, waiting for people like me to begin scattering ashes without a permit. So I am going to be a scofflaw and do this the way I want to do it, which is the way it should be since I don't intend to involve outsiders anymore than I already have during this very difficult time.

The first time I rememeber being in the Sierras with my Dad was a time we were camping with my grandfather and my sister was about 2 years old. She wasn't steady on her feet yet and despite the sturdy white shoes that my father called "clodhoppers," she tripped and fell about every 2.5 minutes. Every tumble involved crying and carrying on, which annoyed the heck out my 7-year old self, who wanted to explore and cross the creek and collect pinecones in peace. There I was, 7 years old, craving mountain peace.

I remember my father picking her up after a fall and telling my grandfather that Susan was "tripping over every single little rock that protrudes even an INCH off the ground." This he said with a huge smile and evoked great laughter from everyone around the campsite.

At some point, Susan managed to manuever herself over to the creek, plopping herself down next to me. I was on my belly, peering deep into the water, which was rushing past us at almost lightning speed. At the bottom of a clear pool was a small wood-grain pocketknife, lost by somebody and just out of reach. I wanted to reach in and get it - but there was no way I could do so without getting wet - and getting wet was not something I could do and stay out of trouble. So, I stared longingly at that knife. At some point, Susan began reaching for the water and I sat up and pulled her backwards, under the armpits, afraid she would fall in. This didn't deter her and I had to keep repeating the manuever again and again, while telling her that she would fall in if she didn't stop. I did not want her falling in.

She didn't fall in and I never retrieved that pocket knife. And that was one of many trips up North over the course of my childhood.

When my stepmother told me she would let me scatter some of his ashes in the Sierras, I was satisfied but disconcerted. Did I have an appropriate container for such an endeavor? Just exactly does one use?

I am going to guess she used a small screwdriver or Allen wrench to open the heavy brass box - because when she handed me the jar, there they were - ashes.

"Don't tell me you've got him in a Ziploc bag," I said, taking the glass jar from her hands and peering inside at what looked like a sandwich-sized Ziploc bag.

"Yes... I didn't know what else to put him in," she said. "Is that alright?"

Now what to say? What IS appropriate? An urn? A crystal bowl? A leather satchel? What? A medieval medicine pouch?

"I guess you should put that in something," she said, realizing that anyone peering in closely enough might figure out the contents and call the Funeral Police or Cremation Cops, or whoever one called when an unauthorized person is seen carrying human remains in a Ziplock bag around.

After a moment's thought, she went to his dresser and began rummaging around. "How about a pair of your Dad's socks?" She asked a bit brightly. "Hmm.. yeah, these. These were his favorite fishing socks."

She retrieved a pair of rather bedraggled looking wool socks he no doubt used on many trips to the Sierras. I slipped the jar inside one of them and told her the socks would be fine.

My hiking partner on these mountain trips is my sister, Susan, who is now called Sue and no longer trips over little rocks that protrude an inch or more off the ground. Telling her about this little task seemed the appropriate and courteous thing to do, since pulling out a sock in the middle of hike and saying, "By the way, I've got Dad here..." might take her by surprise. After all, he was her father too and it's only fair.

And my father, of all people, would be highly amused at the thought of his daughters carrying some of his ashes on a hike - in one of his socks. It would have been a story he would tell to his friends, with an intake of breath just before laughing out loud at the absurdity and lack of dignity - which somehow suits him just right. Like an old pair of fishing socks.

So I called Susan.

"We're taking some of Dad with us," I said over the phone. "I don't know which part, since I only have about a handful."

She didn't miss a beat. I guess Sue does not surprise that easily.

"We are," she replied with an air of nonchalance and acceptance. "Great."

She paused.

"Where is he?"

"In my pack," I said. "So I don't forget and leave him on the couch or something."

"Ah." There was a pause. "Just don't tell me you have him in a Ziplock bag," she said.

"Well. Yeah. In a jar. In a sock."

"You have Dad. In a sock."

"Yeah. In a Ziplock bag, in a jar, in a wool sock. In by hiking pack. The new one."

Sue exhaled. "OKAY," she said, which much emphasis on the "oh" part. I suppose this wasn't the sort of conversation she thought we would be having either. That made two of us.

Thinking she might be a bit disconcerted by the whole thing, I offered, "I guess we could just dig a hole by a creek. I can dig the hole...."

"No," she interrupted, "We'll scatter him. We should scatter him."

"Okay."

Then she said, with just a tinge of somber excitement, "You have a NEW pack?"

I told her all about the new pack and then we ended the conversation.

So sometime within the next week, my sister and I will hike to a place and scatter my dad's small amount of ashes around the places he loved. We will take turns dipping our fingers into the Ziplock bag and doing whatever it is we are supposed to do - following no protocols or set rules since this is never anything we ever thought about doing.

At some point, we will have to cross a creek on a rickety bridge way too high for comfort and she will help me across as she always does.

She does this wearing her "clodhopper" hiking boots, grabbing me anywhere she deems appropriate, steadying my journey.

She keeps me from falling in - always.

:-)K