There are no stupid questions? Part 1

Kareli has fallen head over heels in love with question marks. She adores question marks more than she loves stars and now affixes them to any and all paperwork she does in the classroom. I half expect that any day now she will begin to write her name with a question mark after the 'i.'

Kareli is an amazing little girl for many reasons - she is adorably sweet, impossibly cute, incredibly intelligent, and all of the sudden, within the last 10 minutes, she started speaking English - in full phrases. Last week she still said a word here and there and did a lot of mimicry - but today she told me a simple story about seeing a rabbit - in comprehensible English.

As a new English learner, she puts that question mark tilt at the end of all her spoken sentences - unless she is chirping out her usual "OKAY Teacher" when I give a direction. "I can use the pencil? I can go bathroom? I can eat snack?" Lots of oral question marks there. So not so surprising that she loves them in print.

As a teacher, I ask a lot of questions, so Kareli and I are really hitting it off here. She is one of the kids I will grieve for when she boards the bus the last day of school.

Most of my questions are good ones and Kareli is quick with the positive reinforcement. All answers are given with an emphatic, total-body response, complete with a smile that illuminates even the most mundane of tasks. And just to drive the point home, Kareli always adds, with emphasis, "OKAY Teacher!"

But not all of my questions are good. Sometimes I ask the questions that the New Teachers Handbook will always warn you against, in big bold letters. They are questions with no real response that will ever make any sense. The kids usually know this and are quick with the Stink Eye - unless they are feeling magnanimous and then you are treated to the "Teacher, Teacher Teacher," look, complete with a look of almost total disbelief and slow but meaningful head-shaking.

I had dismissed the kids to their tables for group time. There was something for everybody to do and places to go when you were finished. There was a math activity, two writing centers, and an art table today. I also had some chalkboards on the rug for the copying of sight words. Things were moving like a well-oiled machine and I was very proud of myself.

But then I noticed the stack of hardcover books in the library. The same stack that had been painstakingly refiled that very morning by one of my middle school helpers. This stack was dangerously high and sitting on the little yellow table in the library. This could only mean one thing: Torrean was not at a table doing his work. He was in the library "stacking pizza." Stacking pizza is one of his favorite activities. It makes him happy to carry the books around and "sell" them as pizza to classmates.

If I've asked him once I have asked him a thousand times this year: "Torrean, where are you supposed to be?" Has he been to the math table with me? No. Has he been to Lupita's table for writing? No. Has he completed the art project that I was certain would just flip his skirt up and knock his socks off? No. Did he stop by the round table to sequence number cards with Jenny the 7th Grader? No! He has completed none of these tasks and he has slipped his leash and he is in the library stacking pizza.

"Torrean. Please return to Jenny's table."

My attention is now elsewhere - I am attempting to teach addition using dot cubes and lots of painstaking counting. After all. I AM the teacher. Several kids are all counting dots at different paces and in different places and it sounds like an accounting convention.

But 30 seconds later I look up to see Torrean digging math manipulatives out of a bucket on the shelf next to my table.

"Torrean - " I say with complete patience but just a hint of annoyance in my voice. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Torrean fiddles with several math chips that are now resting in his hand and looks at me as one might look at a demented but much beloved relative. The look on his face is serious and relates to me the supreme importance of his task.

"I have to pay for the pizza," he tells me, before bounding back across the room to the library in order to make his deliveries.

I look down at the table because Kareli has finished counting all her dots and writing all her equations and calculating all her sums. Her first and last name are on the top of the paper and she is delightedly adding little question marks to all of her math problems - 2+3=5? 4+3=7? 9+1=10? 3+3=6?

"Of course you do," I respond, half under my breath, trying to retain my composure while Kareli adds a question mark to her last name.

"OKAY Teacher!" she announces, thrusting the paper into my hand as she bounces across the room to the library to procure a pizza.

Algebra vs The Dead Fly Society

There are days when a teacher's self-esteem really takes some battering. Things occur that really show you just how important you really are in the giant scheme of education-type things.

I rediscovered this today during our Morning Meeting.

I happen to think our Morning Meeting is very important because I do lots of really engaging, thoughtful, and significant things during this time. When I actually document what I do, I find I hit many areas of the curriculum - all at once! This is an issue of pride, really. Talk about instructional efficacy and bang for the buck!

Just in our attendance tallying alone, I expose the kids to statistics, data sets, probability, number sense, number recognition, concepts about the relationships between numbers, one to one correspondence - and the list can and often does go on. We use math language and we pattern. We sequence. We chant months of the year and days of the week - differently enough to keep it fresh, but often enough to set the skill - and I use music too! Talk about engaging the brain!

So imagine my surprise and chagrin when I discovered that my very graphic and colorful attendance display was being ignored in favor of something on the carpet just in front of Ethan's criss-crossed legs. It was small and black and moving. Ethan took notice which meant that Carlos and Michael, his minions, took notice too. Out of the corner of my eye I see three heads bent over, studiously watching the floor. I quietly asked the boys to "leave it alone" and worked frantically to regain their attention and the attention of the 8 children in their immediate vicinity.

But alas. This was not to be.

"It's a bug!" announces Michael with much enthusiasm and consternation. The response from the rest of the class would have you believing they all lived in a bug-free world, seeing as how interesting and exciting this small bug suddenly became
.
I work very hard to model Ghandi-like appreciation for all living things - including my students on most occasions. So, I put on a most serenely happy teacher face, picked up Brenda's name card, and walked over to where the whole class was gathering, or attempting to gather, by Ethan's feet.

"Okay, up we go," I say, and scoop the small black bug onto the name tag.

Alex was flabbergasted. "You're using BRENDA's NAME! BRENDA! TEACHER is using YOUR NAME TO GET THE BUG!"

Much discussion erupts as to the propriety of this so I announce, "Oh, wow! It's a beetle! A little black beetle!"

I then open the back door to release the bug, but it doesn't want to go. So, of course, I have to walk out to the grass and most of the class has to trail behind me because the releasing of a tiny black beetle from Brenda's name tag is the highlight of their morning. Forget data, probability, and statistics. Forget the forging of dentrites and neurons into a firm cognitive foundation for careers in medicine, astronomy, and accounting.

Then we have to traipse back inside, with several boys staying behind to see where the beetle ended up, locking the location into their sights for further exploration and, perhaps, destruction.

It took another minute to get them all re-settled and back into the very important Morning Meeting mode, where I finish the attendance math issues with a flourish and much fanfare before moving on to the flag salute, the patriotic song, the selection of our daily helpers and then, finally, to the calendar.

I work very hard with the Calendar lesson - trying to help the children see patterns and cycles and to understand their places in time. We discuss the pattern, which has 3 parts but uses an A-B-B-C format - different from the more familiar A-B-C pattern of last month. We snap, clap, clap, and tap this pattern and then stand up for body movements that I hope will reinforce it.
We move on to the sequencing aspect - I have sneakily removed some of the date tags so we can "discover" the problem and then correctly replace the missing tags - using the pattern and numbers as a guide.

But they are not paying attention because Alex has discovered an insect in front of him. He has splayed his legs around the thing and stares at it, transfixed. His eyes are wide with wonder when he looks up.

"TEACHER! THERE'S a FLY!"

Several of his nearest neighbors scramble over each other to get a good look.

Torrean screeches and then announces breathlessly, "OH MY GAWD! OH MY GAWD! It's a fly!"

"Just leave it alone, Alex," I say, using my best Teacher voice. "Let's check out this calendar pattern now and make sure it is correct."

More children squeeze in behind Alex and around him; he guards his treasure with his legs and leans forward to encircle his arms around the creature.

"GUYS! I am talking about algebraic thinking here! This is important! You need algebra for college!"

My pleas go unheeded. I cannot compete with a fly.

I step through the jumble of arms and legs and order everyone to stand back and let the poor thing go.

"It can't go teacher," Alex announces.

"Yes, Alex - it has to go. It isn't fair to keep it locked up in here."

Alex doesn't budge and Torrean has his arms around Alex's shoulders. Several girls are leaning under Alex's outstretched arms for a better look.

I order the kids to get back and for Alex to sit up.

What I see is not even what you can call a fly. It probably USED to a be fly, in a former incarnation. This looks like it got blown out of the back of the vacuum cleaner. It is missing a wing and a chunk of it's body.

It's not even a full fly!

I make an exasperated noise.

Alex looks up at me with the utmost seriousness and says calmly, "I think it's dead, Teacher."

Yes. It is. Not only is it dead, it is in parts. Pieces.

I can understand, somewhat, competing with a live beetle. But a mangled, disintegrated, one-winged, very-dead fly?

My self-esteem is in tatters.

Scream and Holler: The Family Across the Street

The family across the street is a never-ending source of jaw-dropping amusement for me. But the amusement borders on annoyance most of the time since the mother in me just wants to stomp outside and tell them to knock it off. In the interest of neighborhood peace, I don't do this, but the temptation is often of Biblical proportions.

This afternoon, one of the older boys, Daniel, is supposed to mow the lawn. Grampa asked him to do it after muttering a few expletives and then driving away with a huge scowl on his face.
Daniel began the process of mowing the lawn after much revving of the motor and cursing at the younger boy, Nick, to get the "____" out of the way.

Nick, of course, is one of those really, really, really annoying little kids with a high pitched caterwaul that serves as his speaking voice. His favorite word begins with "f" and he uses it liberally. As I teacher, I can appreciate the way he can use the word as a noun, an adjective, and a verb.

Daniel mows with the A.D.H.D. method. He mows a couple rows and then shuts of the motor to yell at Nick. This isn't pleasant, since Daniel's voice has only recently changed and he often hits a sour note.

After another couple of rows, he shuts off the mower in order to go sit on a motorcycle that has recently turned up in this family's toy-strewn and junk-packed garage. The noise from his constant revving is only slightly more annoying than the caterwauling of Nick who pleads for a ride. Daniel replies by taking off and riding down the street, popping wheelings and making as much noise as humanly possible on a motorcycle. Then he drives it back into the garage to yell "_____ no!" at Nick who curses a blue streak when his newest and latest demand to ride the motorcycle is turned down.

Daniel again begins mowing. He stops to empty the bag, which is probably 1/3 of the way full of clippings, since he's only mowed about 12 square feet of lawn.

Grampa drives up, still scowling, to see that the lawn isn't mowed and more yelling and expletives are exchanged. Nick then delights is informing Grampa that Daniel rode the motorcycle "down the street and back" and Daniel responds by loudly suggesting the Nick go and do something anatomically impossible to himself.

Grampa rolls the motorcycle into the back yard and then retreats back into the house, yelling at Daniel to finish mowing the "_____ ______ lawn." Daniel, of course, responds by screeching "I am! I AM!" He added something vaguely vulgar under his breath, but I was too far away, sitting in my own house, to appreciate what he said.

Then the oldest son saunters out of the house and asks where the "____" the motorcycle is and a fresh round of demands for a ride erupts from Nick, who is busy riding his bicycle back and forth across the driveway and over the lawn area that Daniel is once again mowing.
Daniel shuts off the mower and proceeds to call Nick a "little _______ ________ jerk" and chases him off the grass while the oldest boy, Anthony, proceeds to trot out the motorcycle, start it up, and rev the motor about 30 times.

I can only begin to tell you how pleasing this was - Daniel screaming at Nick, Nick screaming for a chance to ride the motorcycle, and Anthony revving the bike as many times as he possibly can without actually taking off. When he finally does pop a wheelie and proceed down the driveway, it is with Nick giving chase on his bicycle and Daniel calling Anthony a "______ face" for riding the motorycle at all.

Grampa comes out just as Anthony pulls the motorcycle back into the garage and Daniel stops the lawnmower to make sure that the old guy KNOWS that Anthony has ridden the bike down the street. Grampa, I am assuming, has figured this out because everyone within a 2 block radius knows that someone was riding the bike up and down the street.

A little while later, Grampa takes off again in his car while the mower sits in the middle of the lawn and Anthony begins incessantly bouncing a basketball - which he whizzes over Nick's head as the younger boy demands an opportunity to shoot the ball. As he pulls out of the driveway, Grampa yells at Daniel to start trimming the "______ lawn." Daniel replies "OKAY! ______ ______ _______!"

Grampa returns and pulls a gas can out of the trunk of his car. He has been gone for ten minutes. The older boys are now bouncing the basketball off Nick and his bicycle. Nick, of course, is none to quiet about this abuse. He must, of course, loudly inform Grampa of that his brothers are using him for target practice. He produces a few tears for full effect.

Grampa hands the gas can to Daniel and tells him to finish the "_____ ______ mowing". I am presuming that the lawnmower was out of gas.

When Grampa goes inside the house, Anthony takes the gas can, fills up the motorcycle while Daniel screeches at him to knock it the _______ off" because he needs the gas to mow the "______ _______ lawn."

Anthony takes off on the motorcycle. Nick grabs the basketball. Daniel rolls the lawnmower into the garage and steals the basketball from Nick.

I wonder what they're having for their "____ _____" dinner.
:-)K

Joshua Ranch Trail Tale

The first 'real' hiking trail I discovered out here was the Joshua Ranch Trail. I think it was Leslie Teske who introduced me to the trail and it was a match made in hiking heaven.

The first time we went it was spring and the wildflowers were in bloom. The meandering trails, which went this way and that, went all over the place and up to the ridge overlooking Leona Valley on one side, the aqueduct on the other. The wildflowers were gorgeous and I recall my breath literally being taken away as we climbed over each hill and found another batch of bright purples, blues, yellows, and oranges.

The city, I learned, received some kind of grant to develop these trails, complete with trail markers and resting benches. The area had been somewhat wild before that, with trails created by bicyclists, hikers, and the occasional dirt bike. The area had been a recreational area for years - and city residents were promised it was a preserved woodland. This was actually a selling point in the Rancho Vista area - miles of hiking and biking trails just minutes from home.

I spent many Sundays and occasional Saturdays hiking these various trails, getting to know which routes took how long and which burned more calories and which had fewer cyclists. There were families on these trails too and many people let their dogs off-leash for some real canine fun - the natural romp, without the 'steenkin' leashes.'

There were many times I quickly releashed the dogs when a group of hikers were approaching from the other side - and they did the same for me when my little pack approached their big dogs, who were often busy having the time of their lives. People were like that on the Joshua Ranch Trail - polite, friendly, and courteous. It was much-needed time off. It was relaxation. It was fun.

And then the unthinkable happened: A local developer erected a No Tresspassing Sign at the Highland High School entrance of the trail. How could this be? First, the high school's natural wetland was drained because the school needed more parking lots, and now our trail was endangered?

Most of us couldn't believe it. This was insane! So we did the most logical thing.

We ignored the sign and just kept hiking and biking - cursing the developer and wondering just how many acres of our woodland was being taken for profit.

Inquiries to the city yielded thoughtfully composed responses that assured us that the trail blockage was only temporary and that the trail would be restored and available again soon. This hasn't happened. One wonders what the city's definition of "soon" might be.

And then - a bigger sign. A billboard that threatened anybody bold enough to venture onto what was supposed to be public land with prosecution for trespassing . The implications were dire. You half expected some camoflauged gunman to step off the trail about 25 steps in - to shoo you away with a shot to the ankles just for trying.

I wrote to the city again. Again I was reassured that the trail would be reopened shortly and the sign was merely a matter of protection from liability - because heavy machinery and bulldozers don't mix.

Not wanting to be a scofflaw, I retreated from the trail, withered with disappointment until, several months later, I saw several hikers coming off the back side of the Joshua Hills Trail, which leads to the aqueduct where it crosses Godde Hills Road. I was so excited, thinking the trail was open again.

The dogs and I geared up one Saturday afternoon and hit the trail from the back side. We came upon one resting bench and then another, and then another. This was a section I had made it to only a couple times from the other end. It was very invigorating.

Up and over, up and over, I followed the trail. Exactly one hour from the trailhead I came upon the most devastating scene: Acres and acres of grading, which had cut the trail off at the knees. I could see where it picked up again, but it would mean walking across the graded disaster that the developer had wrought - clearly 'tresspassing.' No more wildflowers. No access to the rest of the trail. Just homesite after homesite after homesite, scraped hillsides, and perfectly graded cookie cutter "lots."

Again, I eMailed the city to ask about the trail and this time I was told that the city was asking everybody to please stay off the trail because they weren't sure "where the development ends and city property begins." HUH?

And just how did one of the richest families in the valley get to buy what was supposed to be preserved woodland for recreational use by local families? I am not ignorant. I know sweetheart deals are made all the time between corporations and city governments. But that doesn't make it any less appalling. And how could the city accept grant money to develop the trails, only to make them practically useless within a few short years?

Take a gander at what this developer has built over in Lancaster. His name is actually on the entrance of the tract. He went so far as to have bronze medalions, with his name on them, inlaid into the walk ways of the ricky-ticky cookie cutter houses he built. And the funny thing? The medalions are all crooked. Pride in workmanship, there.

So now he will build mini-mansions on these lots and sell them for over a million dollars each, I suppose. The new happy homeowners can feel good about keeping the riff-raff out while they put forth money to sow wildflower seeds and other landscape plants - in a haphazard way, of course, so that it looks perfectly natural. And they'll have that view all for themselves because they bought and paid for it - on the backs of all the people who loved it first.

Into the World: A Kindergarten Field Trip

After much soul-searching and consternation, I took my kinders on a field trip yesterday to the Placerita Nature Center.

I really had to think about it because many of my students, despite my constant prodding and reminding, have a terrible time with basic listening skills. There are daily problems in the classroom because of this and I am usually the picture of patience and good teaching - giving them many experiences and opportunities to practice these skills as they develop. But often I consider it an uphill battle - so many of these kids are just shouted at and spoken to in soundbites - they have never been TAUGHT how to listen, to follow directions, to be respectful and obedient.

I resorted to calmly threatening to take the much-anticipated trip away from those who don't follow directions - because it is a matter of safety. The result of this found many of my 'good' kids sitting on the rug or at the table, terrified of doing anything wrong - and I really dislike having to control behavior through fear and intimidation. It just isn't natural in an early childhood setting. I want them to learn how to behave and control their own behavior because it is the right thing to do - but I am often the Lone Ranger in this endeavor because their parents simply do not follow through at home.

As a student and a parent, I hated punishments that affected the whole class when only a few miscreants were really making bad choices - and others were following along because peers tend to be so much more influential than a teacher, at times.

So, I decided to take them after excluding two who I genuinely worried would get eaten by a mountain lion or fall over a cliff or something. They may not have "with it" parents but the loss of these kids would definitely be noticed, tempting as it is to let "natural consequences" be what they may.

The first indication that something is really awry in the lives of most of these kids came on the ride to the freeway. They went ballistic over big trucks, a quarry, a trash truck, another quarry, a cement processing plant, a cement mixer, a row of backhoes, and the California Aqueduct.
Torrean, who was sitting next to me the whole trip, exemplified the excitement of the group when he hollered at the top of his lungs, "OH MY GAWD! A TRASH TRUCK! LOOK GUYS! A TRASH TRUCK! THE TRASH MAN!"

At each of Torry's announcements, the group would go suitably crazy with lots of 'oohs' and 'aaaahs' and cries of delight.

The school is less than 20 minutes from the California Aqueduct - a man-made sluice of water with plenty of mention in California history and the annals of marvelous engineering, a feat made possible by the brilliant mind of William Mullholland. But that means little when, as a child, you've apparently never seen it, much less driven OVER it.

"WATER! OH MY GAWD! WATER!" Torry would announce and the group would respond in kind - as if they spent their whole young lives having never seen a lot of water all in one place and all at one time. Of course, Lake Los Angeles, the little desert community where they live, is actually a dry lake bed. So I guess this makes sense - somewhat.

So this field trip was indeed eductional, but not in the ways I expected. The freeway itself was cause for great excitement - especially when we came head to head with a big truck and they could actually SEE the driver. It is my sincere hope that these drivers appreciated all the waving and shouting that their mere presence on the road inspired in my students. I was quietly annoyed at the drivers who didn't acknowledge the kids or bother to wave. What is wrong with people?

When we exited the freeway and pulled onto the winding mountain road that leads to the nature center, we passed a buffalo ranch. I honestly think a trip to this place would have been better for the kids in hindsight. Suffice to say they've never seen buffalo before.

The nature center is a typical county park, complete with portable bathrooms and these caused unending excitement and delight. Opening and closing the doors, whether or not anybody was actually IN one of them, was great fun. They ALL had to go to the bathroom, of course. Since only three were available, this took quite awhile. Several students refused to actually 'go' once they got inside. The smell and the unending pit was more than they could take.

Our bathroom journey took so long that the other classes got to the actual nature center before we did, so our only choice was a hike. This was fine with me, since I am a hiker and the kids have heard about my hikes all year. In fact, I was downright pleased to be able to take my students on a hike. I have been trying to figure out all year how to have a hike on a Saturday without actually making it into a class trip and alerting the insurance nazi in the district office.

Ethan's dad, one of our chaperones, said he'd been on this trail up Manzanita Mountain before and that it is a good one. I realized later that Ethan's dad regularly takes his kids out into the world so of course this hike "is a good one." But for kids who never see the great outdoors and only know about "hiking" from the pinecones and acorns I bring back to the classroom, this little adventure wasn't "a good one."

So, off we go, the kids running ahead of me with huge excitement. Ethan's group of about 6 boys were off and running, with Ethan shouting encouragement like some cross country coach. The rest of them hung back with me, reticent but hopeful. But after about two minutes, reality struck and many of them began hanging back, fearful.

They cried.

Yes, they cried. They cried because we kept walking UPHILL. They cried because they had to scamper over rocks and actually SCALE this mountain trail. They became terrified when the trail narrowed and they had to KEEP CLIMBING. They cried when we reached the water tower - because they didn't know what it was and this monolithic structure frightened them. Being out of breath frightened them.

Since most of the kids were doing fine and loving the hike, I decided to keep going, thinking the ones affixed to my legs, arms, and backpack would begin to see that nothing bad was going to happen and calm down. One or two did but the second a big rock came into view or they couldn't see ahead to where the group following Ethan's dad was, they cried some more. Gena was certain that Ethan and his friends were "lost" and no amount of reassurance on my part regarding the competency of Ethan's father ameliorated her fears. They were out of sight, so - they were lost and in terrible danger.

Gena's mom was behind me the whole way and I will be gentle and say that poor Gena's mom hasn't had any exercise in a long time. So she, Gena, and Gisela were a ways behind my little clingy group and she was having her own issues just getting the two girls up and over the same rocks and ledges that were terrifying my little group.

I finally decided, after 20 minutes of this, to turn the group around and head down to the picnic area to feed them. With food in their mouths, I reasoned, they would forget this crying nonsense and be ready to go see the animals. I put it mildly to say that Ethan's group was a bit put out by this sudden end to their adventure. I was none too pleased myself. But making the cryers continue when they were obviously so upset seemed to border on child abuse for me. So, we turned around, despite the cries of protest from the group that, Gena was pleased to see, did not vanish and was not lost.

Well, what goes UPhill must go DOWNhill and the cryers quickly recognized this. I managed to get them back down the trail by alternately carrying the crying kids and holding onto their hands and elbows - lifting them up and over and down any and all ledges - which were built into the trail to aid a hiker - but these kids viewed as certain life and death obstacles they had to overcome.

The highlight of the trip was the picnic area - which came equipped with a score of mature oak trees and a foot or more of fallen leaves - they rolled in the leaves for quite awhile after eating, screaming and jumping and running. Obviously, many leaves in one place at one time is an anomoly. Several came to tattle that others had "put leaves in their hair." It was all I could do to keep a straight face.

After seeing the animals, we walked the Ecology Trail, a much gentler version of the earlier hike. No matter. While some of the original cryers were calmer, many continued to affix themselves to my arms and legs and backpack - unimpressed by the flora and fauna along the the little trail. Survival was the only thing on their mind. Blue-bellied lizard? Forget it. Hummingbird Garden? So what. Some flowering plant with an awesome set of prickly seed pods? Fine - but when are we leaving?

Yes, this trip was educational. For the kids, it was an adventure in the big, wide, and scary world. For me, it was the eye-opening realization that what my kids lack does not just revolve around oral language and literacy experiences. They lack life experiences.

And this makes me profoundly sad.

Send Small Lizards

A couple weeks ago, one of our Speech teachers caught for me two baby glossy snakes. I took pictures pictures of them to show off because they are so dang cute. They look like bleached-out gopher snakes, with very smooth, almost "glossy" skin.

Apparently, glossy snakes are notorious for being persnickety eaters. They won't eat crickets and turn up their little snake noses at pinkie mice. They will only eat juvenile lizards. Nothing else.

I guess the Speech teacher figured that THESE little specimens would be exceptions. HA! You can practically sense the derision with which they meet my meager offerings, laughing at my feeble attempts to nourish their little bodies.

Well, when snakes are hungry they start "cruising." They meander about looking and sniffing (with their tongues) for something to eat. Since these guys are so tiny, I never in a million years figured they could get out of the cage I set up for them. Well, HA! Last night my son woke me up yelling about one of the baby glossies sliding across the kitchen floor.

The escapee was quickly corralled but our relief turned to despair when we used our counting skills and discovered that the OTHER glossy snake was missing too!

"He must have followed the other one out," D said very seriously.

I doubt that baby snakes think that rationally, but it's as good an explanation as any, since both of them managed to bust free and go looking for food.

So now - instead of hiking way away from civilization to release the snakes this weekend, I will hike way and away from civilization to release ONE snake this weekend. The other one remains at large, cruising my house in search of lizards.

I've never seen any lizards in my house, ever. I do see, somewhat regularly, my cat, who is amazing torked at me right now because we are fresh out of Fancy Feast and he is forced to eat (gasp!) dry food.

This is the same cat who "liberated" my Rosy Boas one Christmas vacation when I was away from home. Rosie, thank goodness, survived and hibernated in a book case all winter. The baby boa, however, wasn't so lucky. The mummified remains of his carcass were discovered months later when we replaced our dishwasher. (Otis must have felt guilty enough to hide the remains.)

So. I am on the lookout right now for one baby glossy snake and one overly satisfied, revenge-seeking cat.

Lost But Never Found

Today, out of sheer curiosity, I counted the items of clothing left at school and sent to "Lost and Found." There were exactly 51 sweatshirts, fleece shirts, sweaters, jackets, and one 'hoodie' shirt.

My school, like many others, has a process for these things. The first stop is always the Lost and Found barrel in the cafeteria. Items in that barrel get heaped up and tamped down and stirred around whenever something new is added. The clothing develops a distinctive musty odor after awhile.

Then, somebody gets fed up with the overflowing stack of unclaimed clothing and dumps it outside on the walkway across the quad area. The logic behind this action is that the kids will walk by the jackets and sweatshirts and see something that looks familiar and pick it up. It makes sense, theoretically.

The 'dumper' usually doesn't return later - which means the sprinklers will come on or it will rain and the unclaimed clothing will become wet. Then the smell is more on the "ripe" side. Mildew and musty together don't win friends and influence people.

Then, the groundskeeper shows up for his weekly mowing session. He doesn't want to ruin his lawnmower, so he shovels all the clothing back into the barrel. His nose crinkles up while he does this.

Several days later, the whole process starts up again.

Now, with a student body of at least 600 students (520 if you subtract kindergarten), you would think the zippered sweatshirts, pullover fleece shirts, and pink Tinkerbell hoodie would be claimed. Especially if they are laid out along the sidewalk and all 520 children walk by them and over them and ON them every single day for a week. At least 10 percent of these kids are missing a piece of their wardrobes - but no. Nothing gets picked up or examined, nothing is returned to its rightful owner.

You would also think that the parents would notice. I mean, how big is a child's wardrobe in a Title 1 school, anyway? That Scoobie Doo sweatshirt was no bargain the last time I saw it at Target, and the jackets run at least $30 each. You'd half expect some slipper-wearing mother to leave her car running one morning as she stomps over to the walkway to find her daughter's SHIRT for gosh sakes. It never happens.

Does the family even MISS these items? Where do they think that blue hooded sweatshirt ended up? Does nobody miss the little hot pink zippered sweater with two front pockets and a tassle on the hood? Doesn't gramma at least ASK what became of the green denim jacket she bought Junior for his birthday?

At this point the clothes are now molded into one stiff and unforgiving postion and it will take a shovel to scrape them back into the barrel. The barrel will be placed OUTSIDE.

Somebody will eventually donate all these clothes to Healthy Start. They will be washed, dried, and placed on the rack by size for the annual clothing sale.

Some young mother will be happy to find a pink Tinkerbell hoodie for a quarter - exactly like the one her daughter lost last Fall.
:-)K

Lost Backpacks

Michael is one of two students who often "lose” their backpacks. Sometimes it is "at his dad's," or "in the car," or "at mommy's work," or "on the table." There are also times when Michael just doesn't KNOW where the backpack is - the giant and much-feared BackPack Fairy apparently swoops down and steals it, in order to ensure Michael's misery and my continued frustration.

Then there is Alex, who just forgets where he left it. Which isn’t surprising, since every single morning this school year, Alex forgets that he has it ON and has to be reminded to hang it up. On the hooks. In the back of the room. Where they always go.

“TEACHER! I can’t find my backpack,” Alex will often wail when it is time to locate it. “Somebody took it!”

Nobody wants Alex’s crusty, reeking backpack but that doesn’t prevent him from accusing somebody of making off with it – as if anybody wants three weeks worth of returned homework, one dirty mitten, a toy truck, half a bottle of last Tuesday’s juice, two empty milk containers, and a half dozen of his sister’s Tinkerbell crayons. He also has several moldy apple cores from lunch last week, so he can “plant the seeds.” Any minute now I expect his backpack to sprout an apple tree.

“Alex, I will say patiently, “Your backpack is exactly where you left it.”

“But I can’t find it,” he exclaims, with the panic rising in his voice and his eyes wider than quarters. He stands there looking up at me, utterly helpless and desperately trying to look needy.

So then I engage in the stupid-teacher trick of getting into a circular conversation with a 5-year old. The fact that his backpack cannot simply “disappear” is completely incomprehensible to him. He is five and developmentally delayed in the logic department. He believes Ethan is a monster at recess simply because Ethan says so.

No matter what I say or which questions I ask, the backpack is always where he left it, which is one of two places. Once the inevitable discovery is made, he looks rather surprised and says, “Oh.” He hasn’t figured out humility or embarrassment yet.

Sometimes he tries my patience too much and the “lost” backpack is left on the floor sprouting seeds under the jacket he couldn’t seem to find. This leads to panic as I shoo him to the waiting school bus. Within minutes I get a phone call from his mother wanting to know if I know where Alex’s backpack is. I assure her I do. Everybody in the class knows. It’s Alex who can never figure it out.

Michael owns two backpacks. The original backpack lasted a few months and then was mysteriously "stolen" with much wailing and carrying on. Since wailing and carrying on works well at Michael’s house, Michael's father bought him NEW backpack. This NEW backpack was also misplaced - but then the old one showed up again. So now Michael alternates, although there are days he shows up with his brother's backpack, because the wicked fairy "stoled" both of his backpacks. At the same time.

The problem with the brother's backpack is that it looks EXACTLY like Carlos's backpack. And, of course, Michael forgets this often enough so that when Carlos's backpack shows up missing, we know exactly who has it. Although Michael swears to goodness on a stack of Dr. Seuss books that it wasn't him. Amidst all this the second backpack showed up. "It was at mommy's work under the counter!" Michael reported with much enthusiasm and excitement.

“Imagine that!” I said wondrously. The whole class agreed. It was truly remarkable.

Today, like many, many, days this year, Michael responded to my direction to "pack up the backpack to go home" with the plaintive and angst-ridden cry, "I don't have my backpack." He then looks suitably dejected. This way, he is sure, I will feel sorry for him and give him a bag. Michael's mother must have all the grocery bags from my last two trips to Von's. She won't need plastic bags or brown bags with handles for years and years.

Since he hasn't had his backpack most of the week, I asked in my most put-upon teacher voice “Just where IS your backpack, Michael?"

"On my bed," responds Michael in his smallest, most pitiful voice.

"Michael," I say patiently, "How in the WORLD can you lose your backpack ON YOUR BED?"

He brightens, feeling much better. "It's easy!"

Alex nods with complete understanding.

“Yeah, teacher – it’s EASY!”

Michael likes the brown bags with handles the best.

My Cat Otis is Getting Old

About five years ago, we started teasing Otis because he whined for a stool to help him get up to the counter to eat his food. His food has to be on the counter - otherwise the dogs will eat it, razor claws or no razor claws - dogs will be dogs.

This was the cat who killed a bird a day until we got smart and built contraptions on the fence so he couldn't get up there and help himself to the buffet that was the neighbor's bird feeder.
This was the cat who wandered down the street to sit on the roof with Dotty, the world's orneriest cat, and to tease Randy, the world's stupidest dog. His Randy shenanigans earned me several phone calls from my neighbor, who couldn't believe Otis could sit, or lay, or loll around JUST out of reach of her dog. Basically, she told me indignantly, Otis was flipping her dog the bird. And giving HER palpitations with all the barking and whining.

I picked Otis out of an animal shelter cage. He was a speck of a kitten and full of attitude. I watched as he basically pounded the snot out of every kitten in the cage. I knew this was the cat for me - I needed a cat who could hold his own with hyperactive toy fox terrier.

Max and Otis hit it off from the beginning. Max had been badly beaten up by the evil Dotty on several occasions, so he was a a bit leary about this new gray kitten at first. But soon enough, they made friends and Otis would brighten Max's morning by laying in wait at the end of the hallway. And Max would fall for it every single time.

When we got Augie Doggie as a puppy, Otis began the process of making this new dog understand the rules. Augie returned the favor by adopting Otis as his own personal chew toy. We would laugh in amazement as Augie would grab a hold of the cat's neck with his chops and then drag Otis around the slick kitchen floor - with the cat yowling epithets and the dog steering clear of the life-threatening claws - which remained sheathed every time they played together.
Otis would often come into the bedroom when the dogs were settled, under the covers, for the night. He would jump stealthily onto the bed and then WHAM! BAM! pounce on the sleeping dogs and run like hell to safety while the dogs were still trying to get out from underneath the blankets.

The stool became more and more necessary but we thought little about it - thinking Otis was just becoming lazy and spoiled. After all, this is the cat who comes upstairs virtually every single morning to let me know, in case I forgot, that he is - well - hungry. Just in case. As if he's ever gone a day of his long life without food.

When Max died at the age of 16, I let Otis examine his body. I don't know why I did this. I guess I believed that Otis needed the same kind of closure I did. He sniffed and turned away. Cats show grief differently, I guess. He watched while we buried his old friend. He looked uninterested. But he does, on occasion, go over to that spot in the planter and sit down. Sometimes he will go into that cat crouch - not quite laying, not quite sitting, front legs curled up underneath his chest, just watching.

Lately, Otis has been having trouble even reaching his stool. He is sleeping more and more during the day and his catting around is limited to our backyard and the living room.

Today, as I sat in his favorite chair at the computer, he came over and made clear he wanted to get up on my lap. This is rather unusual for him - he is not especially affectionate. I encouraged him and he sat there. Finally, he mewed. Not a demanding meow like morning food time. Not the 'put upon' yowl of Augie pestering him with his endless dog energy. But a simple mew. Asking for a favor.

So I lifted him up and he sat with me for awhile. He purred. He sat, spreading the first shed of his winter coat all over my pants and up my nose. Then he got down and went to lay in the middle of the livingroom, free from the dogs because they are banned from that room forever. He washed his back paws.

And he is sleeping. And I am watching him, counting up the years since I rescued him from the pound cage because he was so feisty - while my best friend adopted the other three - because they were not.

My cat Otis is getting old now. Birds no longer interest him and he plays with Augie less and less. But he still comes up in the mornings to tell me in no uncertain terms, that he is hungry - lest I forget.

Snake in the Grass

It has been wonderfully warm here for Spring Break and I have spent a couple days working in the yard. All the animals are acting a bit spring-feverish and I figured the snakes are no exception.

I don't pretend to know what my snakes are thinking about most of the time. They have reptilian brains which are supposed to be pretty rudimentary. If they had language, they would probably think in sound bites - stuff like, "find food," "get warm," "get not-warm."

And yet - they have temperaments. Rosie is calm and docile. She moves slowly and takes her time. She seems to burrow close to me which often leads my students to say things like, "Aw... she loves you!" I don't have the heart to tell them she is just seeking warmth and she knows my smell so she knows it's safe. IF she even reasons that far.

Patty, being a King snake, is quick-moving and very active most of the time. She is constantly checking out her surroundings and "on the hunt." Her rapid movements make some people a little hesitant to pick her up - which is fine with her since I don't get the idea she cares one way or the other. A pragmatic snake, my Patty.

So yesterday, taking a cue from the cat who was lounging in various postions all over the yard, I decided to let the snakes play "Snake in the Grass." Rosie has always enjoyed this game - the the extent that Rosie can enjoy anything. She likes to crawl languidly through the grass. Once, she found a bug and ate it. This was the highlight of her day, since she usually gets pet store mice.

Patty can't play "Snake in the Grass" with Rosie because, as a King snake, Patty would hunt Rosie down and eat her. This would cause much sadness and consternation on my part, since I've had Rosie for 10 years now. She's survived several escape attempts and a "liberation" at the jaws of my cat - who wouldn't hesitate to try it again. I love my Otis, but he is SUCH a predator.

So, after putting Rosie back in her enclosure, Patty got to come out to play. She is as quick as Rosie is languid. Watching Patty zip across the grass to the back planter was amazing. How DO snakes move so fast, anyway? Once she reached the planter, Patty began prowling behind all the plants - checking for mice, I am sure. She crawled up into an agapanthus and, finding no rodents, crawled back out and headed for the next one.

And then - out of nowhere comes THE CAT. Otis has been lax lately in his hunting of birds. He seems to have lost some of that instinct to kill and carry the prize into the house to leave on the floor as an Offering to That Lady Who Feeds Him. But catching sight of the black and white King snake brought out something predatory in Otis and in true cat-like fashion, he was next to me in a flash, watching intently as Patty navigated the deep woods behind the agapanthus. Knowing this little scenario could not play out well, with the cat cuddling up next to the snake and both of them sleeping behind the bushes, waiting for a bird - I snatched up the oversized feline and saved the life of the erstwhile rodent hunter.

But Otis is nothing if not intent. There was no way I could set him down and "order" him into the house the way I wish I could with the dogs. So I called for Dustin, who was on the computer taking a test for an online class he is taking (and hating).

Hollering for Dustin DID indeed bring the boy running - but it also brought out the dogs, anxious to find out what the cat did. Usually anything the cat does means a treat for them. In their younger days they would convince the cat to get up on the refrigerator and knock down the bread and bagels. This the cat did because the cat is a mercenary.

To the collective canine delight, they discovered the cat caught a SNAKE! This was of unending interest to them and they began sniffing wildly. This made the snake understandably nervous.
"What is it mom?" asked Dustin and of course I had to yell that the cat was ready to pounce on the snake and then all heck broke loose because I have new neighbors behind me and heaven knows I didn't think they were out there but the word SNAKE unleashed a torrent of expletives and the loud movement of lawn furniture.

So there I am, moving the dogs back with my feet, holding a squirming cat bent on destruction, and trying to keep track of a snake who is visibly unhappy about the dog paws so close to her head. (Snakes don't like anything near their heads. Unless it is food. Go figure.) AND.. and! The neighbors behind me are saying things like "Oh $!@#!," and "What the %$#@?" while Dustin bounds across the grass to take the cat and order the dogs to "get BACK in the house!" (They listen to him. Go figure.)

I pick up all four feet of wriggling Patty, who is rather annoyed, just in time to see a head peer over the wall.

"Don't worry, she's a pet," I say holding her up for what I am certain will be admiration. I thought the guy was going to recoil backwards off his ladder.

"Does she escape often?" he asks and something evil in me deadpans, "No...Well. I USUALLY find her pretty quickly."

I guess I'm going to have to go over there at some point today and try to explain about "Snake in the Grass."

Meanwhile, the cat is up early this morning - checking out the agapanthus very, very, carefully

Augie Doggie's Tumors

A friend of mine was complaining the other day that her dog had to have minor surgery and wear a lampshade. This will keep him from overlicking the wound. I am sorry about all this. Especially the lamp shade. NO dog with any dignity should have to wear a lampshade.

When Augie Doggie had surgery, he didn't have to wear a lampshade because I didn't make him. I just nagged him a lot about licking his incisions - and I made everyone around me nag him too. The poor dog never got in a good lick when I was around.

Augie Doggie had fatty tumors. There were seven of them and they bothered me. I don't know if they bothered him, but his self-esteem had to be affected when Dustin started calling him Lumpy. Augie knew that "Lumpy" wasn't the same as "Augie." Dogs are smart that way.

I waited awhile and then made arrangements to have the vet look at them. With barely a glance, the vet said they were fatty tumors and even extracted a bit of Fatty Tumor Extract to put under the microscope and be sure. I got to look at it. It looked just like I pictured Fatty Tumor Extract to look like. White and watery and lacy.

So - Augie had a surgery date in order to improve his self-esteem and to make Dustin stop calling him Lumpy. And what do you think the vet discovered while listening to Augie's heart beat? YES! A heart murmur! A real one, complete with danger and mortality.

So - no surgery until the Heart Murmur was analyzed completely. This involved calling in the Canine Cardiac Specialist. This doctor drives all over heck and gone with her portable heart device and takes pictures of dog hearts. Not exactly what I would do after 22 years of vet school, but hey... to each her own, right?

This little "scan" cost $350, payable directly to the Canine Cardiac Specialist. Once this was done, it was determined that Augie Doggie COULD have his fatty tumors removed. Removal of said tumors cost less than the heart scan. I am of the belief that this Canine Cardiac Specialist must be a relative of the regular vet or something. Or there is some kind of "kickback" involved. Very hush-hush and not to be spoken of out loud or in public.

So, all the lumps were removed and I was charged by the minute. All the removals added up to 22 minutes which is pretty impressive when you realize how big those lumps were and how none of them actually TOUCHED each other.

Augie Doggie is the picture of health now. No lumps anywhere.

But Dustin still calls him Lumpy.

The Cellphone

My first cell phone was as big as my face and Dan got it for me when I started working in Rosamond - far away from civilization, as far as he was concerned. I often rode to work with a gal who ran out of gas once - this was all the reason he needed to get me a cellphone. He already had one - attached to the floorboard of his truck with screws and a phone cord. Very fancy.

When the big one died - because they all have a built-in "self-destruct" computer chip that guarantees you are going to have to go back to fancy Cell Phone Store as soon as the "contract" is up, Dan got me a slimmer version that had number keys so small I had to use a toothpick to dial out. Lucky for me I am not much of a cell phone talker because keeping a toothpick on hand sounds easier than it really is. This phone was apparently so bad that I started getting teased about it. But I didn't care - it worked when I needed it. Once, I even had it ON when Dan tried to call me during a Medical Emergency. (Dustin almost had his finger sliced off at work.) And then it stopped working and Dan got annoyed because I was commuting to the other ends of the Earth, Lake Los Angeles, without one.

Now, Dustin had a "fancy" one that I inherited when this cheap one finally sputtered it's last cell*ular breath. By "fancy," I mean that it flipped open.

Then, just like that, it stopped working. Dustin KNEW it was on its last breath when he gave it to me. But he figured I wouldn't catch on for awhile and he was right. He had replaced his with one that flips open to a KEYBOARD. It takes pictures, makes phone calls, wakes him up for work, and does the dishes. (It leaves streaks but hey - what do you expect from an electronic device?)

So, I asked Dustin to go get me a new phone because he speaks Cell*ular and gets along great with the Brittneys and Jasons who work behind the counter at the Great Cell*ular Place, where fingers fly across keyboards and they serious things about contracts, minutes, texting, and the dangers of pedicures from that place at the end of the mall. I was ready for a more "serious" cell phone.

However, SON delegating this job to DAD. Dad knows even LESS about Cell*ular Stuff than I do - having CHOSEN, of his own accord, the cheeepest, and I do mean CHEEESIEST phone on the planet. The one they keep behind the counter and put in a paper bag to give you so nobody COOL will actually see them handling it.

So. Dan gets me the exact replica of his cheeep and cheeesy phone. It will do text messaging but only if the stars and planets are aligned just so. It has ring*tones - but I keep silencing the dang thing just by being NEAR it and can never figure out HOW to make it ring out loud.
People ALWAYS complain that they call me on my Cell and I don't pick up. Well, shoot - I would pick up if I HEARD the thing.

Anyway.. the moral of the story is to not let my husband pick out the phone, that's all I can say.
:-)K

If I wore a hat...

I'd a thrown it into the ring this morning. And I do wonder why I don't wear a hat. Hats have such potential, you know? And some people can really make a statement with a good hat. Me? I just don't look good in a hat.

Hats aside, I called my principal on the phone at home this morning. This always takes an act of courage since she never seems really thrilled to hear from me. My mother is thrilled when I call and so is my son. And some of my friends - they are happy when I call. I think this is because I never actually call - I eMail. I have this phone phobia and it often takes me awhile to actually PLACE the call. And my princy seems to sense this and tries to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible when I call. I become this inarticulate, nervous, rambling idiot on the phone.

Of course, calling your principal at home on a Saturday morning is bound to be placed in the "iffy" catagory. She does have friends at school who wouldn't think twice of calling her at home - but I'm not in that category. Sometimes I think I am - but usually I don't think I am, which is why it took me five minutes to work up the courage to call her.

I called because she has complained about the volume of eMails she gets. So, not wanting to add to that mountainous pile, I decided to call her - only to find out that she cleared her INbox before leaving on Friday. Who knew? Shesh. I should have just eMailed her and risked being forever at the bottom of the pile, never knowing if she actually reads my eMails or not.

I send her these detailed eMails (imagine that) and often get something like, "sounds good," or "great!" in response. She is really into Terse Verse, that principle of mine. People who like Terse Verse don't often appreciate a well-written eMail. This makes people who fancy themselves as writers a bit nervous.

But a terse phone conversation? That's enough to send my heart into palpitations and my nerves to jangling. Here I am just wanting a nice casual conversation about throwing my hat and I am reduced to wreck status. Other people might be able to call and have a nice "Oh yeah, really?" conversation with her - but not me. This is after 5 years and I am starting to take in personally.

Anyway, so I called to tell her that after much thoughtful consideration I would like to loop with my kids up to first grade. I miss teaching first grade and with one of the veteran teachers retiring, now would be a good time to jump back into the nuts and bolts of teaching reading.

Now, call me narcisstic and egocentric but I happen to think I'm a good teacher and have taught my current, rather difficult crop, well. The fact that I am willing to take them with me to continue the "she's not my friend" drama says a lot for my well of patience and good character. You'd think she would say something like, "Okay. Sounds good. Let me get back to you when I've had a chance to sort stuff out." But no.. she actually hesitated. As if me moving back to first grade is a bad thing.

This does wonders for my self-esteem of course. And it has me wishing fervently that I hadn't bothered to call her at all. In my extrapolating mind I have myself looking for another job, at a district where I am truly appreciated for the 20 hours I put in last week on the Science Night and before that the Dr. King Thing and before that the Christmas Pageant.

Too early for a glass of whine - I mean wine. I think I will go buy a hat.

Trail Nasties

Even though the weather was a bit windy and chilly, I took the dogs out on our favorite "kick butt" trail. The elevation climbs quickly and steadily - guaranteeing a good workout for all of us. I also like it because of its scenery - lots of interesting rocks and plants.

Duke likes this trail because it is ripe with trail nasties - things he is sure he can eat but not without an argument from me.

He tends to pretty obedient - unless we are talking about anything edible. Then, all training, respect, and learning are OFF.

He is almost trained to "leave it!" when I holler that command. Last summer, he sat down and waited when I hollered "leave it!" as he came upon a basking snake on the trail. The trouble was, he sat down RIGHT next to the snake - which would have been a bad thing if this reptile wasn't a harmless gopher snake.

I let him chase rabbits, mice, squirrels, birds, and even deer when he happens upon them while we hike, since the chances are between NIL and zero he will ever catch anything. But "leave it!" sounds suspiciously like "eat it!" and this is the excuse he uses when he finds a morsel of what HE thinks is edible food.

Sometimes trail nasties are scat - he finds these piles very interesting. But most often, they are leftovers from trail misfortune.

It's nature. Things die on or near the trail. Bigger animals make kills and leave the bones and gristle for lesser members of the pack. Duke considers himself obligated to partake of these things - out of respect for the Universal Canine Consciousness, I suppose.

I can shout "leave it!" till the cows come home (and he would promptly chase them) - but no amount of cajoling on my part is going to make him put down what he perceives to be a tasty morsel - no way. The fact that said morsel is probably loaded with bacteria and airborne viruses only adds to the texture, as far as he is concerned.

He has gotten away with eating trail nasties at least a half dozen times and he hasn't died yet. No upset stomachs, no regurgitation, no bad gas - or worse. But something tells me he is pressing his luck here.

He also has a terrific memory for any and all trail nasties. If he found something good there once, he encodes it in his cognitive map so he will be sure to check out the area thoroughly during our next visit. If I manage to confiscate his "find" and fling it into the hinterlands, Duke will take off after it, into the brambles, brush, and great beyond. In his mind, this is like chasing a ball or something.

Tonight, Duke is one contented dog. Not only did he find a couple decent trail nasties today, he managed to snag himself some cat food.

What he DOESN'T understand is why I won't let him smooch me.

Tail of a Wedged Dog

Poor Seamus.

He's my dog with little brain who often evokes Eeyore with his sad "thanks for noticing" look whenever he is feeling blue and unappreciated.

This morning he and Augie were lounging on the bed with me while I attempted to read a book. All that page-turning caught the attention of Little Beans, the feisty and lovable white puppy who bothers Seamus to no end. To say Seamus is jealous of Little Beans is like saying that Hamlet's father had some anger issues.

My gentle and sweet brown dog has been known, on occasion, to go after the feisty white puppy - teeth bared, growling, and with injury on his mind. (What 'mind' he has. Sigh.)

So, when Little Beans joined us on the bed and wedged his little body into my chest and under my neck so that my attention was on HIM and not the BOOK, Seamus decided to wedge his long dachshund body likewise, but against my back and shoulders, since I happened to be in the way of him moving the white dog out of the way.

Augie, not to miss out, chose a wedge-like position also - against my stomach.

I was one wedged-in dog owner. And remained so for several pages until the desire to move became overwhelming.

Now, in the past - when Seamus has gone after the puppy, I have pushed him off the bed in punishment. I don't know if the Dog Whisperer would approve, but my options are limited when Seamus bares his fangs and intends harm for Little Beans, who is arguably the cutest puppy in town. This is a fact not lost on Seamus - who doesn't understand that being the cutest longhaired dachshund in town has its advantages. Or that he is technically NOT a puppy anymore.

So I wiggle a bit and when I attempt to move up on my pillow I unintentionally shoved Seamus right off the bed - into the tiny little spot right between the nightstand and the bed.

When he doesn't move, I figure he is stunned by my behavior. So I reach down and pet him and tell him I am sorry and to come back up.

Seamus doesn't move.

I adjust myself and start reading again - with Augie and Beans happily wedged into my left side.

But then I start thinking about Seamus, who must be in a snit - he isn't coming back. He isn't moving at all. So my mind flashes on the possibilities - I've injured him, he hit his head and is comatose, his leg is broken, he has internal injuries....

I look down.

Seamus is WEDGED in between the bed and nightstand. He couldn't move if he wanted to. His short legs are attempting to move but his long body won't follow suit. So he stays, convinced he's done something REALLY BAD this time because he won't even look at me.

I unwedge him, which takes awhile, but he won't get back on the bed.

I decide to shower and have coffee. Seamus stays put the whole time.

After my shower and breakfast I come back upstairs to find Seamus on my pillow, looking forlorn and dejected.

I take him downstairs to use the backyard canine potty facilities. He does so but won't come back inside - convinced that he is the worst dog in town.

I'm thinking that Dog Wedging must have some serious connotations in the Dog World. You do it when you want possession of the Alpha Female (that would be me). You do it for security and because it is a dogly thing to do.

But to be wedged to the point where you can't move? Now there's some serious issues there - I just wish I knew what they were....

Kindergarten Valentines from the Trenches

Today the kids were making Valentine cards for their parents. At my table, during Group Time, they had to draw a picture of something Mom and Dad like to do together, and then write a greeting - like, "Happy Valentine's Day."

At any given time, there are about 6 kids during these open-ended activities sitting at my table. I instruct Jovante to draw a picture of mom and dad doing what they like to do together.
He draws mom and then he looks at me very annoyed and says, "Do I hafta draw them when they fighting? All they say is 'whatsup whatsup whatsup!"
****
Erik is sitting next to Madelin and following my directions, drawing a nice picture of his parents holding hands. Madelin's parents are "roller skating." Erik asks if he can write his greeting in Spanish, since mom and dad don't speak English. I proceed to help him. Erik turns to Madelin and says, "I can write in Spanish."

Madelin keeps coloring and says, "I can't speak Spanish."

Erik doesn't miss a beat. "That's okay," he says, "You just have to keep practicing."
********
Flower is drawing her parents working in the yard. She is trying to draw a shovel. She asks for guidance.

"What are they doing?" I ask."Cleaning up dog Sh**," she replies.

(I remind her there are NICER ways of saying this. Since she can't say "excrement" she settles on "Poop".)

About 20 minutes later she storms OUT of the bathroom up to my table. "Mrs. L.....there was POOOOP all over the toilet seat and I had to clean it up!"

"Kind of like your poor parents, huh Flower?" (I just couldn't resist.)
*********
Then there's Niya..the PERFECT child. She is the kindest, gentlest, sweetest little girl on the planet. She sets to work drawing diligently, her parents sitting on the couch. Mom wears socks and dad is barefoot. She carefully draws his toes. Then she decides it is too cold and adds socks.

"They like to watch T.V.," she explains.

Then she draws the television, complete with little details, like knobs and the DVD player. Then, she draws a picture inside the T.V. screen.

I look away long enough to check on the other kids and am horrified to look back at Niya's paper to see a body with a HEAD laying next to it. She is using a red crayon to depict the blood and gore.

She is coloring serenely, perfect pigtails swaying.
"They like to watch scary movies. This one has his head cut off."
**************
Franky is drawing a detailed scene of his whole family outside in the yard, playing with the dog.
"My mom and dad like to play with the dog in the morning."

"So this is what they like to do together? How nice," I say. He nods in agreement.

A little while later he says, "Well, actually ... my mom doesn't get up in the morning. She doesn't play with the dog."

"Oh. Well.. I thought your mom and dad played with the dog in the morning."

"My dad hates the dog. He don't play with the dog." Then he sighs. "Actually, I'm the only one who plays with the dog in the morning."
***************
Aracely is busily drawing away on the paper.

"What are your parents doing?" I ask... noticing that they both have HUGE baseball-mitt looking things on their hands.

Aracely smiles. "They're making COOKIES," she says sweetly. "Mommy makes them and Papi eats them."
****************

A Molehill from a Mountain....

So my husband had this huge goose egg on his head as a result of colliding with the steering wheel during his heart-attack/accident 2 weeks ago. This "hematoma" was large, red, and rather annoying because it pulled on his forehead skin. (I would have thought - 'facelift!' - but he didn't.)

So, during his scheduled visit to the cardiologist last Tuesday, he asks the guy to "take it off." The doctor had previously said that "the body will take care of it" but the body was slow - and Dan wanted this huge bump gone.

So.. I'm thinking that the request is a simple one. Just poke a hole in it and extract whatever is inside to make it poke out. Since it is called a HEMAtoma, I am figuring it is full of blood that lacks direction back into the body.

I'm also thinking syringe, some guaze, maybe some alcohol or peroxide, and the mountain will be reduced. "Hey, Judy...(or whatever her name is)...bring me a Number 4b syringe, will ya?" I picture the cariologist asking. That didn't happen.

"Judy" had to schedule the "procedure" at the hospital for Friday - an outpatient thing. I'm thinking... okay.... they are worried about blood loss? Isn't that the point? What is the ISSUE here? Seems simple to me. Apparently not.

So - the hospital calls twice during the week to give Dan "instructions" - like this is some huge deal. When he gets there he is given an I.V. and put in a gown and placed in a waiting area. A nurse even comes by to play 100 Questions with him.

"Do you have any heart problems?" she asks.
"Uh yeah. I had a heart attack," Dan answers.
Her eyes widen and she gasps, "WHEN?"
"Two weeks ago. When I got THIS," (he motions to the forehead.

She acts surprised. "Wow," she says, writing something on the clipboard.

Dan waits for over TWO hours. They tell him there is an issue with "the room" and when they can move him into "the room" they will but for now, he will have to wait "here."

The cardiologist shows up. He is chagrined to find that the hospital, acting upon his office's communications, has actually prepped Dan for surgery. They even had the anesthesiologist on call - for when the doctor finally arrived.

The good doctor apologizes and then asks for THE SYRINGE and he ... guess what? Just guess!
Yes.. it takes him less than 20 seconds to extract most of the contents of the hematoma. The nursing staff has gathered around to watch, impressed with the volume of the bloody contents.
Then he is bandaged and....sent home.

And I am thinking, when all of this is related to me..."Sheesh! I coulda done that!"
For the price of the syringe I could have done THAT in my bathroom. I just can't wait to get the bill for THIS little mountainous expedition.

Dan's Excellent Hospital Adventure

Dan got booted from the hospital last night - not too soon, considering the free side-show they call "roommates" in the hospital. ICU was great, but once you're in a regular room, it is like White Trash Meets Ghetto. Dan called it "free entertainment."

He was wheeled into the room at 6am Saturday morning - to find Fleck and Patty. Seems Fleck had given himself a bit of alcohol poisoning and Patty had rode in the ambulance with him. They'd spent 2 days in Emergency while he "got it outta his system" but then there was "trouble with the oxygen" in his blood so he had to stay. Patty made herself at home - climbing into the bed and snoring like a freight train, while Fleck, still attached to his tubes, IVs, and monitors, walked up and down the hallway yelling for "Nora" and "stepping out" for a smoke. They used the phone constantly (when she was awake) and discussed everything from money, drugs, "ak-ahol," "the damn kids," and how they were going to get back to Palmdale once Fleck was kicked loose. Patty also ordered food - thinking this was room service. The hospital provided a taxi voucher - probably to get rid of them.

Then there was John. He was in for his diabetes. He had family problems and we heard ALL about them during the plethora of phone calls to the mother of his daughter, ANNdrea, who had apparently made a terrorist threat at school and was suspended pending an expulsion hearing. Once daddy went into the hospital, it seems young ANNdrea needed funds to she emptied John's pockets, took his cell phone, and her whereabouts were unknown. John's older boys sauntered in for a visit and we were treated to details about their many shenanigans, including getting kicked out of school (but making up credits), losing jobs, "staying" at friends' houses that were loaded with dope and drug paraphenalia, and the best way for one of the boys' mama get disability.

During the height of what, at times, sounded like a rap concert, the nurse's assistant came in to drill Dan loudly and tenaciously about his potty habits. "IS THIS ALL YOU'VE PEED today? Since MY SHIFT? WHAT ABOUT A BM? YOU HAVE ONE OF THOSE YET?"

Turns out HER name was Nora, the one Fleck kept looking for during the early part of the day. I asked Nora if Dan could take a shower - if for my sake only since he was getting kind of ripe - all that testosterone and adrenaline. "OH NO, he can't shower... it'll shock him." (?? I didn't ask.)

Seems you can't shut the room door at night - "the nurse will want to keep an eye on you," which is funny since we can count using half a hand just how many times a nurse actually showed herself (or HIMself - "Michael" is another story) once Dan was booted from ICU.

So - all night long phones ring, hospital staff converses - loudly - and floors get mopped, waxed, buffed, and spit-shined. Need blood? Come and get it RIGHT when the patient finally drops off to sleep. Need to check on Potty Progress? Don't do it during the day when he is AWAKE. Jar him awake at night to demand details about the urinal levels. The answers will be more coherent then - especially if the patient has been given a sleeping pill in order to actually SLEEP during the cacophony that is called "night" at the hospital.

He was released with what looks like a thesis of post-instructions, plus a half page of prescriptions, each with varying sizes, instructions, and times for ingestion. The nice little pharmacist at Target took pity on me when I showed up at 10 minutes to 6 last night to fill them. She also got me a pill-splitter and a blood pressure cuff.

The boys are enjoying the blood pressure cuff very much. Well, Dustin is - he and I register as "Dead" on the machine while Danny's comes up higher than Dan's - something that is perplexing him to no end. He checks it every hour, certain a fate similar to his father's awaits him next Tuesday.

I've only tried to kill Dan twice. The first time I won't tell you about, but the most recent occasion concerns his plethora of pills - one of which is supposed to be a HALF pill twice a day and I gave him a whole pill this morning. He told me the "pretty colors" and other hallucinations were quite interesting.

So now - Dan is home, resting upstairs - right next to the phone, which is ringing about every 12.5 minutes. (It's always for him.)

I am letting him answer the phone - weaning him gently off the hospital routine is the kindest way, isn't it?

:-)Kim

Trail Dog

Duke is a mountain goat.

I don't mean that literally, but the dog just loves to hike and there's no stopping him. He just goes and goes and goes. Pretty amazing for a miniature dachshund, huh?

Duke is the smallest of my dogs and runs on pure nervous energy. It's not that he's a barker or that he's neurotic or anything, he just seems perpetually wound up. He rarely relaxes and when he does, you can still see him twitching every 30 seconds or so.

Duke is one of the only dogs I've ever seen who can smile. He smiles in greeting, usually, and if you don't watch carefully, you're likely to miss it. Smiling is accompanied by much wiggling of the hindquarters and vocalizing about whatever it is that is making him so happy - like cheese. Or the prospect of a hike.

Duke just loves to hike and nothing slows him down. On general walks he stays right next to me but when hiking, he plays scout and runs off ahead or takes the rear and makes sure I don't get attacked by a bear or something. He's stepped on foxtails, sharp rocks, and pointy cockleburrs - he just keeps going, hobbling on 3 legs if necessary. I'd like to think he looks at me like the lion looked at Androcles when he removed the thorn - but it's hard to tell with Duke. He usually looks wide-eyed and nervous. Once he tangled with some red ants - they bit him on the paw, rear-driver's side... he didn't even pause. Just hitched up the back end and kept going.

Sometimes I wish I could get inside that little dog's head and figure him out.

When he was a puppy, he lived with Connie and Dave out in Mojave. They had this plan to breed and sell miniature dachshund puppies and Duke was to be the stud. No sooner had they adopted Heidi than the two of them took off for an 8-day adventure in the Mojave Desert. They crawled back to civilization without having learned their lesson - because after birthing 2 litters of pups, they up and did it again. Sadly, Heidi did not return that time and Duke was a bit worse for wear when he hobbled back to the Mojave spread. His hindquarters were very sensitive and he developed a slight hitch in his back leg.

When Connie and Dave moved to Antelope Acres, Duke was penned up and miserable. Dustin and I would often go out to the house when Connie and Dave were up in Washington - to take care of the plants, the house, and Duke. The sight of that little dog peering through the gate, praying for somebody to throw a ball for him really stuck with me. So when Connie and Dave decided to put Duke up for adoption because they couldn't pay him enough attention, Dustin and I leapt at the chance.

Duke seemed to remember Augie Doggie - one of the pups from Heidi's first litter. Even though he was, by all accounts, a terrible father to the puppies, Augie quickly forgave him and they became best friends. As long as Augie gets to be in charge, that is.

Sometimes I take just Duke out for a hike - in compensation for getting picked on by Seamus or bothered by Little Beans. He was the one I took when I first discovered the Pacific Crest Trail in San Francisquito Canyon. He really seems to strut when he is by himself.

I think his favorite hikes are with me and Augie - the two of them run off ahead, side by side, father and son - enjoying life and thinking about whatever trail dogs think about as they run up the trail toward the sun.

On the Topic of Christmas Bows

I'm wrapping presents today and started ruminating about bows. I wonder how many people really THINK about bows? I think bows get shortchanged.

I love bows, especially the real fancy ones that are tightly looped. Deep reds and greens make me salivate but I appreciate a good white, cream, silver, and gold bow too. Cheap bows annoy me. Why bother?

Some people THROW bows away after unwrapping a gift. I have never understood this. It's not like they wear out or anything - they are perfectly good!

I always dive for the bows and save them, but not after hawking out the situation to make sure the recipient isn't saving bows too. It's not very classy to snatch a good bow away from a bow-saver. It can get kind of embarrassing. I've recycled some bows several times. This is a matter of great pride.

You have to divide your bows into categories before wrapping. Some people, like my father-in-law, get the cheap bows because NOTHING in his house is allowed to hit the floor in the form of trash and bows fit this category. He just stuffs them in the bag and I learned long ago not to complain. (Just dig 'em out later.)

Some people KNOW you recycle bows and just remove the bow and hand it to me. This is quick and easy. Other people have to be told to give me the bow. If they put the bow in the box with the gift, I've learned to ask if they save bows too. Especially if it's a really, really GOOD bow, because they may not realize what they have. Heaven forbid they return home, stack the box and throw away the bow!

The more often you recycle your bows, the cheaper they get to use. If you take the cost of the entire bag of bows and divide it by the number of bows in the bag, you get the FIRST price. But then the price is HALVED each time you recycle it. Pretty soon your bows are costing you fractions of a penny and this HAS to be good for the universe.

If you buy bows one year but don't use them all, you will have them for the following year. Finding a bag of last year's bows is ALMOST as good as getting a bag of bows free! After all, the cost of the bag is depreciated from last year - so it's much cheaper.

Packages with good bows don't need ribbon - ribbon is redundant. The only time you should use ribbon is if you're curling it - and you have to work pretty darn hard to make a curling ribbon "bow" look half-way decent. A well-done curly bow is a work of art.

Bows should be dead-on center of the package - not placed in some obscure corner, throwing off the balance of things. Especially well-done curly bows. They need to cascade JUST SO.

:-)Kim

Franky's Gift Tag

Yesterday, the kindergarten kids made beaded necklaces for the mothers for Christmas. Once this fine jewelry was completed, the kids brought their creations over to one of the middle school helpers for wrapping. (We went through an entire roll of tape. More tape is better when you are five.)

The final link in this process was the creation of a gift card for Mom. The kids would dictate what they wanted to say on the card, Lupita would write it out on a white board, and the kids would copy it. (Except for Jasmine. "YOU write it," she ordered me.)

All the kids at the table were hard at work copying their personalized greetings:

"Merry Christmas Mom."
"This is for you, Mom."
"Feliz Navidad, Mami."
"Happy Holidays Mom."
"I love you Mommy."

So Lupita asks Franky what he wants to write on his mother's gift card.

"Happy Halloween," replies Franky.

"But Franky... it's Christmas," reminds Lupita.

Franky is unfazed and doesn't miss a beat.

"I'm okay with that."

No Tip for the Newspaper Dude

Here is the note I plan to enclose in the fake Christmas card lodged into my L.A. Times when it arrives sometime this week:

Dear Newspaper Dude:

I am in receipt of your thoughtful and obviously "personalized" Christmas greeting and I bet you think that my response includes a cash gift, in acknowledgement of your "service" this year. I am a generous person and considered enclosing a crisp $10 bill - but cannot for the following reasons:

1. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, my "plastic wrapped" paper continues to land in the sprinklers at least 2 mornings out of 7. The plastic wrap does little good. Why do you bother? Call me a tree-hugger.

2. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, the paper ends up UNDER one of my vehicles at least once a week. This means that I, in my work clothes, must get down on my hands and knees at 6am on these currently frosty mornings, to shimmy under a vehicle to retrieve my paper. I don't like having to do this. Call me a wimp.

3. Wet papers are messy and often unreadable. My calls for replacement papers always mean that the readable version won't arrive until AFTER I've left for work. You know darn good and well I leave the house early - because when you deliver my replacement - I AM NOT HOME. Doofus. Call me cantankerous.

4. AND.. at least once a month my paper doesn't show up at all. This may not seem much to you - but I pay $52.00 every other month for this service and do appreciate timeliness. Call me picky and unreasonable.

When you remedy these issues I will enclose a cash gift commisurate with your improved service.

Sincerely,
KimKca

Poinsettia Parts?

We have been making My Poinsettia Book in class, one page per day. This is part of our ELA and ELD lessons for the week.

Today, the kids had to cut out 4 poinsettia leaves from construction paper and glue them onto the page, then add the cut-up text: The leaves are green.

After several reminders, Dominique finally came over to my table and began cutting out the leaves. After gluing down the text, she arranged the leaves artfully on the page. I asked Dominique to come over to me and read the book to me - so I could check the correctness and her developing concepts of print. I noticed that she had glued the arch-shaped scraps from her cut-out leaves to the opposite page.

"Dominique," I asked patiently. "What part of the poinsettia are these?"

Dominique carefully caressed each one and then looked at me seriously, as if she felt very, very, sorry for me.

Then she leaned over and whispered: "The eyebrows."

The "Little P.E. Lady"

Most of you know that my school has been under Nazi-review the past few years and in addition to the usual Nazi Crew coming in to wag fingers at us, we had a state team come in to do a once-over on our overall program. They used to call it Program Quality Review but now it has a new name and a new acronym.

So Janice, my principal, has been sweating bullets because she knows that our P.E. "program" (rolling on the floor trying not to lose my liver here) leaves a lot to be desired. Not that she really wants to DO anything about it, but she is tired of being "dinged" for stuff. She went to some meeting to let administrators know in advance what this Gestapo Review team is looking for - and she came away quaking in her pointy shoes over the "little P.E. lady."

Apparently this lady wants to see lesson plans, in plan books. She wants a prescribed curriculum that adheres to the California State Standards and she wants those kids SHIP SHAPE and having P.E. every waking minute they aren't learning to read or using the bathroom.

So you know what rolls downhill and the next thing we know there is a fire-drill of the "P.E. in the Planbook" sort. Whether or not you actually DO it seems open to interpretation - but it needs to be in the book and done often enough that the kids don't say "huh?" when asked about P.E.

I have worried about this myself - feeling less than exemplary as a teacher of P.E., I have asked for a curriculum or at least a Binder o' Suggestions. But nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about S.P.A.R.K. P.E.... they have handy little binders chock full of suggestions. Nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about Sue, my sister the P.E. Guru who is willing to come down here FREE and inservice the staff. I sensed a great big YAWN from Janice's office. At least I think it was a yawn since I never heard from her about it.

I sat down with Janice and waved my arms wildly about the crap that is served to our students disguised as school lunches - and was told this was "a battle you will not win." Not that she doesn't agree. But she doesn't eat school lunches.

So, we all had to live in fear today that the "little P.E. lady" would come in with her Nike sweatsuit and $100 running shoes and brightly colored lanyard with a great big shiny whistle attached. I pictured a cross between some Asian dominatrix and Richard Simmons, 5'1" and all of 100 pounds soaking wet - with buns of steel and a finely cut bicep. I figured she would make us all drop and give her twenty.

Well, friends, I gotta tell you.... if I'd been drinking a soda it would have shot out my nose when I saw this "little P.E. lady." If this lady is little, then I'm Thumbelina. I think it would be generous of me to say that this lady's pants size probably rivals the age range of my two sons. She didn't have a whistle - only a clipboard and she apparently loves to count minutes because our kids only got 10 minutes of actual movement time during their hour of P.E. today. (Heaven help poor Kenny tomorrow.) I have to admire her for standing out there for an hour during an icy windstorm, painstakingly counting minutes.

We will be "dinged" she reported in her most severe voice, because 85% of our 5th graders are at risk for heart disease. We do a crappy job of teaching P.E. and she really wants us to know about it.

My mind flashed back to Arroyo Seco Junior High School and my P.E. teacher, Mrs. Hammond, who had a pot belly that rivaled any solid 8-month pregnancy, and liked to scream at us during calisthentics in between drags on her Pall Mall.

If this lady has had ANY exercise in the past year, it has been a walk through the parking lot when everybody and their mother decided to beat her to the grocery store.

I did speak up, of course. I talked about the poor food choices and the necessity for staff development. I didn't mention the apparent dichotomy between HER and her JOB.

She "thanked me for sharing" and then wrote something on her clipboard.

I went an extra ten minutes on the treadmill tonight - just for good measure.

Dad's Birthday

Today is my dad's birthday. On this day in 1938, my grandparents welcomed into the world, gave him a good family name, and proceeded to give him a good childhood.

How does anyone really determine what a "good life" is? Did he live a good life or did he not? How to measure such a thing - that indeterminable quality that defines a life as having been well-lived?

If we measure by accomplishments, we could balance positives by degree. A good job, a loving wife, children, and a head full of hair. But is that enough?

If we measure by pursuits, we can look at life-long literacy that translated into a love of books and curiosity about many things. He loved a good conversation and could entertain people for hours with his wit, knowledge, and good humor. He loved the "manly pursuits" modeled for him by his father and uncle - strong, decent men of integrity who worked hard all their lives and enjoyed outdoor pursuits and working with their hands.

My father certainly didn't lack for looks. Until the day he died that man looked good. Women watched him and on what he would say were too many occasions in his life, he watched back. His weight problem just wasn't an issue. He still looked good - and therein lies one of the differences between men and women.

Did he courageously fight his demons? Those addictions that dogged him relentlessly his whole life? I think he did put up the fight - but something inside him just couldn't be convinced that tenacity needed a hold here - that sticking to something required more than good-looks and a winning smile. He had been beaten by them all his life - and not tasted success. To taste that success might have made all the difference. But how are we to know?

My father was a man of voracious appetite, telling one of his best friends that he "just couldn't stop" and push the plate away. When he was briefly successful, he was miserable - the demons just kept gnawing. So he opted for pills and surgery - what he perceived to be the "reasonable" way out. Medically speaking, I suppose it was - but was it the right way? The only way? In the end, did those drugs for weight loss contribute to his death? They are easy to blame.

And the drugs and alcohol - now there's an elephant in the livingroom! Drugs and alcohol - twin demons who took up residence with my father early in his life and steered him away from the very accomplishments he would have used to gauge his life in years to come. Drugs for pain, alcohol for release - from what?

Did my dad think he didn't measure up to my grandfather's standards? Did my grandfather ever take him to task for being weak in this way? Or did he remain taciturn and take refuge in his garage? These things I do not know. He certainly couldn't have been pleased - these were never behaviors the firefighter and cabinet maker pursued. He liked fast cars - but gave them up when one damn near killed his son. (Did he blame my dad for crashing that Austin-Healy? Or did he blame the car? Did my father feel blamed? By the time the story got to me it was a family legend. Humorous. Innocent.)

My father battled depression his whole life. Nobody discussed it. Nobody talked about it. Nobody petted or dressed the elephant in the living room. This depression was chemical and he came by it naturally - his mother assuaged hers with alcohol every evening of her life. (But always after 5:00pm.) His maternal grandfather was apparently quite the drinker and left deep and abiding wounds that his family will never discuss. To discuss it would be admitting weakness - moral weakness, not physical - after all, if you ask God to cure your affliction and it isn't cured, then you just didn't ask hard enough.

He was the most intelligent man I know. This sounds grandiose - after all, I've met many intelligent people. So take it with a grain of salt. But he was extremely smart in so many ways. What options this man had! Talk about the path not taken! A true scotsman lament - the would have beens. The coulda-shouldas. My father regretted many things. He told me this. He promised me he would wean off the pain-killers and I do believe he was trying. He supposedly stopped drinking but I have heard otherwise - and this is something best not discussed, right? What about that other road? The road that would have him sitting in his chair in South Pasadena right now and some pile of ash in a livingroom shrine.

So how to measure the man - this very fallible man born on this day 68 years ago in Glendale, California, to very loving parents and a warm, extended family?

I can only measure him by the depth of my love for him. I always forgave him - from the first days of my life he was never held accountable. I adored the man would forgive him anything. I miss him terribly and want to call him up almost everyday and tell him something, relate some tidbit to him, share a book, tell a joke. I miss him with a pain and a void that is unending.

I watch these psychic shows on television and fantasize that he is around me, watching me, wanting to tell me things. What would he tell me?

I wait for inevitable dreams of the man, since I have dreamed a lot in the past few years. But he has shown up twice. Once comically - the details I won't divulge but it was vintage dad, telling me he "couldn't go." The other was more recent - he drove up looking like my favorite professor and then put on sunglasses and became my dad - who walked by me without looking at me while those sunglasses got bigger and bigger and I'm thinking "Hobo Kelly" glasses. But this wasn't a funny dream.

I wish a happy birthday to the memory of the man because I can't tell him directly anymore. He is a pile of ash sitting in a shrine in a dark and sad apartment. He is surrounded by the detritus of his life - his things - the possessions that somehow link him this world in some tenuous and sad way. These things that we hold and caress in an attempt to conjure up the essence of the man, thinking, "He touched this. He touched this."

I am sad, bitter, and angry. I am these things because he should have been with me a lot longer. He shouldn't have died when he did. He was killed by his weaknesses - and what kind of justice is that? Where is the justice in the world when a man unable to control his appetites, his addictions, his needs - is done in by these very things? Definitely a human condition.

I miss my dad. I love him still. I wish a happy, happy birthday.

Seamus and the Trash Can

My long-haired dachshund, Seamus, has a fascination with the downstairs bathroom trash can. Once upon a time, he found treasure in there and that was enough to compel him to knock the can over every single day of his life.

I don't know what the treasure was, but - knowing Seamus, it was probably something disgusting. Each day he seeks this elusive treasure by knocking the can over and rifling the contents before walking away, tail between his legs in disapointment.

The can is round and metal - with raised designs to emulate something antique. It is a cream color and very attractive. It is also very loud when it topples - so we are clued in right away that the bathroom floor is littered. But it holds very little on a daily basis - used tissue, an occasional soap wrapper, and dryer lint. The really good stuff is upstairs in the master bathroom or the boy's bathroom - but for some reason known only to Seamus and his cognitive deficits - he doesn't bother those.

Seamus is my dog with little brain. I always say that this is probably a blessing for him since No Brain = No Headaches and Seamus is a very happy dog. Happy, but tenacious. He always looks for lizards when we hike, cats when we walk, and treasure in the downstairs bathroom trash can every single morning.

He rarely finds either - but that never stops him from trying.