The Long-Remembered T-Shirt Crime

My good friend and colleague asked me today if I wouldn't mind stepping into her room to help her finish painting grass on the tee shirts that first grade is decorating for their upcoming zoo field trip.

Every year the first grade teachers buy plain white tee shirts and decorate them with acrylic paint and animal stamps. This helps the kids stand out in the crowd and provides a nice souvenir for the children - since they aren't allowed to visit the gift shop.

She was using green paint and I asked her if she had more than one shade - to make the grass more interesting. She said that yes, she was "allowed" to use more than one shade of green on the grass.

Then she gave me a jaundiced eye and made me promise not to "get her in trouble" by "doing anything wrong" with the tee shirts.

I had to laugh out loud when she very seriously told me that my "tee shirt crimes" were long remembered by first grade and that they were "talking about them today" when giving her the "rules" about making the tee shirts.

Allow me to preface my explanation here by telling you that I came from a school that made zoo shirts every year. However, THAT experience was nothing like the experience of making zoo shirts at THIS school. As I quickly discovered when it was time to make the shirts for the first grade zoo trip.

There are rigid rules for making zoo shirts and these rules are never to be bent, disregarded, or broken. This is because all the shirts must look the same. The deviance allowed is the choice of animals. These rules are sacrosanct. They are to be adhered to with the greatest respect and reverence.

I shall recount them for you:

Rule 1: All children are allowed a choice of TWO (2) zoo animals to have stamped on their shirt. No more and no less. Exactly two.

My crime: I let the children pick as many animals as they wanted. The only guideline is that they had to fit.

Rule #2: Only teachers may stamp the animals. The children are not allowed to stamp the animals because they will make a mess.

My crime: I let the kids stamp their shirts. The kids were to wear the shirts so why not have a hand in making the shirts? (Yes, they made a mess.)

Rule #3: There are to be NO animals stamped on the sleeves. Refer please to Rule #1.

My crime: There are two sleeves with perfectly good surfaces.

Rule #4: Despite the fact that the stamped animals cry out for details, there are to be NO DETAILS applied to the dried stamped animals. No eyeballs, no stripes, no tusks, and no tips on the tails. No claws, no whiskers, and no pink tongues.

My crime: Eyeballs, stripes, tusks, tail tips, claws, whiskers, and pink tongues were added to the animals once the paint dried. The kids had a blast. Once the details were added, you could tell what the animals were supposed to be. (Remember, they made a mess when stamping them in the first place.)

Rule #5: Grass is grass. Just grass. Two colors allowed.

My crime: Grass is good, but numerous flowers and a tree for the monkey is better. (Too much HGTV, I think. Things need to "pop!")

My final faux pas: Writing "Road Trip 2005" on the sleeve with a sharpie marker.

The shirts turned out beautifully. They were full of character. The other shirts were neat, tidy, and tame. My kids' shirts were a bit over the top.

I have never, to this date, been forgiven for this. I think they are putting the rules into a rule book and any new teachers have to sign a memo of understanding now before they are allowed to make zoo shirts. I think my friend and colleague was forced to sign under duress.

So... I helped my colleague with grass. Just grass. No flowers, no trees, no details. ("Was it YOU who added a tree for the monkey? They were talking about that today too. It must have been YOU.")

Her animals were clearly resting or standing in the grass. My animals were clearly hopping over it and bounding through it. She took this in stride and even thanked me for my "help."

My wavy, wind-blown, two-toned grass did give her cause to scratch her head though.

The Dispellation of Rumor

The rumor mill has been busily churning of late and I am happy to report that, having attended an actual "planning committee" meeting, I can dispel some of the more creative false ideas that have implanted themselves insidiously in the psyches of local teachers.

1. The No Cafeteria Rumor: I am told that yes, there will be a cafeteria at the new school and that NO, teachers will not be required to feed children in the classroom. In fact, there will be staff in the cafeteria and NO, teachers will not be required to prepare the meals each day.

2. The No Library Rumor: I am assured that yes, indeed - there will be a library at the new school. It will not be housed in the cafeteria and will actually have BOOKS. Who knows about staffing, though. The rumor mill is free to grist away on this one.

3. The No Office Rumor: The new school will come complete with an actual office. This means that teachers will not have to double as attendance clerks, secretaries, or nurses. Teachers will also not have to answer office telephones on a 'tag team' basis.

4. There will be NO Administrator on Site Rumor: Well... the administrator will be like the Velveteen Rabbit. He/she may or may not be "real." He/she will have "authority" but since an administrative credential is lacking within the two likely candidates, the title will be real and the authority will be real but he/she will lack certain administrative things, like... the huge paycheck and the ability to evaluate their own teachers.

5. The We Will Teach Out of Boxes in a Tin Shack Rumor: There are tangible buildings. Teachers are expected - no, encouraged - to unpack.

6. The Porta-Potty Rumor: There will indeed be real bathrooms. Well, no permanent bathrooms. Just "real" bathrooms actually hooked up to a sewer. Or a septic tank. There will be no portable potties with holes for threatening the misbehaving children.

I can't dispel any myths about the lack of playground and landscaping. This will be paid for, according to the superintendent, with funds "left over" from the construction. This means, of course, that we may as well keep that rumor alive and hope to goodness that kindergarten tricycles can be ordered with oversized rubber "dirt" wheels.

First, the Eviction Notices!

It is pretty official that I will be moving to Saddleback when it opens in January. You wouldn't have known it last week, but I am getting rather excited about it.

The picture at left represents some of the inhabitants of the new school site that are being asked to vacate the premises posthaste and forthwith. While some are slithering off to better digs, a few recalcitrant denizens are digging in for a court fight.

They have the home court advantage because so many of their second cousins are lawyers. This makes it difficult to enforce the order to vacate. You know how lawyers can keep things tied up forever in red tape.

It was suggested today in a Saddleback planning meeting that our new mascot could indeed be the sidewinder. Or the Mojave Green. But something tells me that these are not exactly warm and fuzzy mascots that will endear us to students and parents.

Visualize It!

My dear mother, who is in her early 70s, has believed in the power of positive thinking for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I remember her poring over books like, "Think and Grow Rich," and "The Power of Positive Thinking." She also loved anything about Edgar Cayce (the Sleeping Prophet), reincarnation, and hypnosis.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when she went crazy over "The Secret," buying it in hardcover as well as the audiobook format so she can listen and learn while she drives. I've never felt extremely comfortable with her listening to ANYTHING while she drives, considering she likes two speeds: Fast and FASTER.

So today Mom arrives for a visit and barbecue, announcing that she is "visualizing not needing the hearing aide."

My early years, you must know, were punctuated by my mother barking at me to "speak up" and "stop mumbling" and "I can't hear you!" Little did we know she had bad hearing. We just thought she was annoying.

So she buys the cheapest hearing aide in town and then gripes about it until my sister and I convince her to spring for a better model. She still gripes about it and decides ONLY to put it in if you are worth a listen. OR if she paid "good money" to go to a play or concert. Sometimes, she confides, she doesn't put it in so she doesn't have to listen to boring people.

My sister says that if Mom would stop buying clothes she could get herself a decent hearing aide. "But how will we talk about her when she's in the backseat?" I whine. Some of the funniest car rides in my life have included my sister in the front seat, yelling at Mom, who is only hearing every third word, while I run low-volume running commentary in the front seat. The goal is to get my sister almost to the point of laughing but not popping any veins. Mom catches on if her youngest daughter starts snorting water or blood out of her nose. And you can just guess who gets in trouble.

"You have a point. But you must admit that she has an addiction to new clothes," my sister says. Of course she is right. My sister knows about these things.

So today on the way to my favorite antique store she tells me, "I don't need to put my hearing aide in. I can hear you just fine. I am visualizing not needing it. I can't say I can't hear. That's negative."

"You can hear my just fine because I'm shouting at you, Mom," I say wickedly.

"No you're not. It's not nice to tease your mother."

Then she tells me that "this gal" she knows "doesn't need her glasses anymore." She just 'visualizes' being able to see and she doesn't SAY she can't see something anymore. She just - visualizes. And then she sees.

When we returned home, she launched into a story about my Auntie C - who is a true Psychodelic Relic. Seems Auntie C's dog got into the manure and had to be rushed to the vet. Naturally, the vet, seeing her coming, ran x-rays and "discovered" a bladder stone. So the dog "must have surgery" right away to the tune of $3000.00. Auntie C is a bit overboard on this dog - so the vet factors in visits from Auntie C when budgeting his big-ticket expenses for the month.

I tell Mom I think Auntie C should wait, since the dog isn't showing any symptoms or having any problems. At the very least, she should get a second opinion.

Mom informed me that she and C went to the "good psychic" in Carlsbad and he told her to hold off. He doesn't see anything wrong with the dog. For good measure, Mom and Auntie C swung the pendulum and asked if the dog should have surgery. The pendulum swung no.

So, turning away to hide my smirk and knowing I am going to burn in Hell for this, I say to Mom, "Is she visualizing? Is she visualizing the dog not needing surgery?"

Mom pops up off the couch, eyes wide. "No! I don't think she is. I should tell her!"

In for a dime, in for a dollar, I always say. So I casually add (feeling the flames licking my toes already), "Well, Mom.. how about YOU visualize and get the process going? Visualize the dog without any bladder stones. Visualize clear, clean, smooth, healthy dog bladders."

"I'm going to write that down," Mom says, pulling out her trusty pad and pen. "That's a good idea. Are you sure you haven't read "The Secret?"

After dinner, I walked Mom to her car. "Click it, or ticket," I warned good-naturedly.

She is getting into the car.

"What?" She barks. "Speak up! I can't hear you!"

"CLICK IT OR TICKET MOM!" I yell.

"You don't have to yell. Remember, I am visualizing not needing my hearing aide."

As she whips the car around to leave, she pops her head out the window.

"I have a shield around my car," she says. "I visualize it."

Then she speeds off down the street and takes the corner on 3 wheels, no doubt popping in "The Secret" for her listening pleasure.

I forgot to ask Mom to visualize me 20 pounds lighter.

:-)K

This Tract House

If I still had a first floor bedroom, I could rip up the carpet and find.... a cement foundation. No hardwood with character that some poor misguided soul in the 1970s decided to cover up with orange and avocado shag. No fun floor discoveries here!

I'm not saying that all houses in California are like this, just the post-war cookie cutter tract houses, whose builders determined that basements were morally wrong and hardwood floors simply too expensive. Attics? Good GAWD man, just shoot them full of insulation and be done with it.

I see the renovation shows on HGTV and just gasp with envy - all that hardwood covered up by linoleum and carpet - rediscovered by some zealous and lucky homeowner, who polishes the new treasure to a rich gloss and then yells "neener neener neener" to all the poor saps stuck in tract housing.

Older homes in California have basements and moulding and hardwood floors. But you have to venture near the older communities to find those - and they are nice and cheap. Want an old craftsman in Pasadena? Get ready to write a check in the high six figures. An old Victorian on the outskirts of San Francisco or San Diego or some other San-something community? Don't make me laugh. You can't afford it.

My house was built by a builder with a dream. A dream to make money, quickly, without real effort. Work crews were hired for minimum wage, which would guarantee that no pride in workmanship would ever be present. Walls aren't straight because most of these workers flunked geometry. The roof might leak because the foreman only brought by one case of beer instead of two on the day the roofing tiles were nailed in place. The walls are literally shot with "texture" in order to camouflage the fact that they are not built to the specifications of the previous generation, let alone the guys on This Old House. I think Norm Abram would gnash his teeth if he saw how the corners meet in my family room.

My house looks exactly like every other 2 story house in this development. I mean, exactly. They used the same paint can after B&B Ubiquitous Stucco Surfaces came through in one afternoon and spewed a premix of stucco and coloring to the outside of each house. They had to count up from the end so they knew which house to "do" next.

And here's the good part. There is raised "trim" along the outside of the house that we thought was wood mistakenly covered by stucco in the interest of saving time. Because of course, time is money. I wanted all the stucco removed from the trim because I have this idea that I want my little piece of cookie-cutter suburbia to have "character" and be somewhat unique. Well, there is no wood underneath. I lifted a bit of peeling stucco from the trim by the door to discover to my amazement that it is (ready?)... styrofoam! Yup! Honest to goodness styrofoam that was nailed on or superglued or something to the house and then covered with stucco. This gave the appearance of raised trim.

Do you realize how disconcerting this is? To realize that your HOUSE is covered with the same material used by Dixie plates and disposable coffee cups? That you could literally tear this stuff off your house and recycle it as a floatation device? (Which makes me wonder - if we had a flood, would the house float?)

And it gets better. The stuff doesn't just come off when you whack at it. It comes off in bits and pieces that fly all over hell and gone when loosened from the house. It has been glued down with some space-age substance. AND.. you can't just nail down a wood board to replace it. Nosiree! They have to be glued down because the surface of the house will not, under any circumstances, accept nails or bolts or anything remotely similar.

I would love to discover something unique and wonderful about this house, I truly would. A hardwood floor, a hidden passageway, a subterranean wine cellar - how fun would THAT be? Instead, I am doomed to find old beer cans and bits of stucco when I dig in the yard.

Maybe I can recycle the styrofoam.

Half a Whale

Today in Kindergarten I read aloud the story of Humphrey, the humpback whale who took a wrong turn and swam up the Sacramento River a few years back. This is a nice story and the kids tend to enjoy it very much.

But first, we have to discuss why this is such a big deal that Humphrey ended up in a river instead of out in the open sea where he belonged.

So, we were discussing what we knew about whales prior to actually reading the story. Most of the kids have little background knowledge about oceans and the animals in them.

Alex raised his hand and announced that he could eat a whale. Without missing a beat, I replied, "No, you can't" and called on another student.

But Alex will not be so easily trifled with - he folded his arms and said, "Yes! I can!"
Before I could reply, Genevieve folded her arms indignantly and said to Alex, "No, Alex, you can't eat a whale."

Alex whirled around to face Genevieve and argue that yes, he could indeed eat a whale.

Genevieve, who has clearly had enough of Alex for this school year and next, shook her head. Her eyes were wide and she leaned forward for emphasis.

"Alex! You cannot eat a whale!"

Alex, equally convinced now that surely he CAN eat whale, shot back, "Yes. I can!"

Genevieve huffed out her breath and rolled her big brown eyes enough to simulate a seizure.
"Alex. Listen. You. Can. NOT. eat. a. whale. It. is. too. BIG!!"

Alex shook his head wearily.

"Yes, I can. I cut it in half!"


****

The New School

For several years now the topic of "the new school" usually evokes snickering and eye-rolling because it's been "all talk and no action." The pundits would fold their arms and say knowingly, "It will never open."

The only thing slower that the release of matching state funds for the building of a school is the relocation of a Mojave Ground Squirrel, who lived there first, hired lawyers, and gave the district a run for the state's money.

When we actually got a date for opening - this last September, which came and went, the pundits laughed that low-laugh chuckle of the all-knowing and repeated, "It'll never open."

Then came declining enrollment.

I think that's the elephant in the livingroom right now. It's a fact rarely discussed and when it is mentioned, it is done so in whispered tones with furtive glances. "Don't we have declining enrollment? Why are we opening a school with declining enrollment? Doesn't the Board say we have no money? How can we open a school if we don't have any money?"

But what do we know. What do the crossed-armed pundits know, really? We are only teachers. We have trouble with the copy machine. We forget to dial 9 first and we aren't allowed to laminate things.

Will there be a cafeteria? No. How about a library? No. An office? Don't think so. How about a playground? Will tricycles ride on dirt? Will there be water in the classrooms? And how do I know any of these things? Secondhand, thirdhand - from the pundits.

If we were opening a charter school and planning things from the ground up, I would be excited. I would feel a part of something. But so far, the meetings to plan have been opened only to "invited" attendees and I don't make the short list.

I drove by the new school site today and noticed that a bus driveway has been graded. It is a semi-circular thing that looks like 2 buses will fit in it at the same time, end to end. I guess one could squeeze in 3 buses if one hangs out onto the road, or if all the buses are short buses. But really - is it wise to go work in a school that is only serviced by "short" buses?

I volunteered to go to the new school out of respect and consideration for 2 of my colleagues, who really did not want to go. My 3rd colleague is retiring, so I assumed her replacement would go - with me. I found out today that only one teacher from our site has to go - so naturally I asked if I could stay - since the replacement teacher should go.

I was told no - I have to go. Staffing issues make it impossible for the 'replacement teacher' to go.

I am starting to commiserate with that ground squirrel. I wonder if he got any relocation expenses.

Drudgery

Last week I starting adding more art to the group time activities since we are creating a Wonderful World book for Kinder graduation. The pages require different art media to match the lyrics and it always turns out quite nice.

I thought the kids would enjoy using Vano starch to affix sunshine-colored tissue paper squares to the manila paper, creating a "bright blessed day." This page is supposed to remind you of sunshine. I had reds, oranges, and yellows - all cut up into squares and ready to be "painted on" to the paper.

To my surprise, the kids were less than enthusiastic about this project. Painting they like - gluing down construction paper - they like. This they approached with fear and trepidation, unsure of what they were supposed to do.

"Just paint the starch over the tissue paper," I said cheerfully, demonstrating on Aracely's paper. "Look what happens when you layer the colors - red over the yellow - what do you get?"

The small group at the table didn't answer. They just peered at Aracely's paper suspiciously and then slowly began gathering bits of tissue paper and stirring the paintbrush around in the cup of starch.

"What is this stuff?" asked Tony, wrinkling his nose. "It stinks."

"It's starch," I replied. "People use it for ironing shirts - to make the collars nice and stiff and for getting rid of wrinkles."

I doubt that any of them had any idea what I was talking about so I had to decide whether it was worth it to launch into a teaching point about starched clothing to kids who will probably never iron a shirt in their lives.

"Is it like glue?" asked Tony, looking up from the starch.

"Yes. It's like glue," I said, taking the path of least resistance. They all nodded with resignation and some satisfaction. Glue, they like. The more of it, the better, in fact.

"Okay." Tony wasn't sure, obviously, but he began carefully placing tissue on his paper and cautiously using the starch, with his nose wrinkled and his face set in a grimace.

"Teacher - like this?" asked Oswaldo, pointing to a lone piece of yellow tissue, held to the paper by a tiny drop of starch.

"Cover the whole thing with the brush, Oswaldo, like this," I said, demonstrating again how to brush the starch over the tissue paper.

None of the small group seemed to like this activity at all and one by one they attempted to leave after placing several pieces of tissue on the paper. None of their papers matched what I envisioned - a colorful array of sun colors that would match bright and beautiful sunshine, making anybody looking at it smile at the whimsy and delight that absolutely MUST accompany a picture like this.

"I done, Teacher, " announced Abraham, getting up from the table. He had applied exactly 3 pieces of tissue to his paper, one of each shade of orange available.

"No, Abraham, like this - " and once again I demonstrated how to add more sheets and to layer the colors and make the paper yell, "SUNshine!"

He reluctantly sat back down.

I started helping Nancy and Oswaldo by putting little piles of tissue by the papers.

"No, Abraham, not like that!" Aracely huffed, stopping the reluctant artist from pouring starch over a small volcano of tissue he had piled on his paper in frustration.

I couldn't believe it. So I let them have it - my best teacher spiel.

"Guys, this is ART! You are supposed to love art! This is your chance to experience color and texture and create something beautiful! You act like this is drudgery!"

"Drudgery," repeats Nancy, who is learning English and always repeats new words to herself when she hears them.

"Yes, Nancy. Y'all are acting like this is pure drudgery."

I bent over to retrieve some fallen tissue pieces and look up in time to see Aracely smacking piles of tissue over her paper after having "dipped" them in the starch. The conglomeration stuck to her hands and when she discovered this, she leaned over to put her hand in Gisela's face, giggling wildly.

Gisela naturally protested and drew back.

"Aracely, what are you doing?" I asked, reaching for her hands in order to peel off some of the tissue.

Nancy sighed. "Drudgery."

"What, Nancy?" I asked, looking and feeling a bit perplexed.

"Yeah. Drudgery. She doing drudgery."

********

Alexandra and Her Sister

This morning I was gathering supplies from the cupboard when Alexandra tracked me down. She is usually one of the first students to arrive and often she is brimming with news about her family. With great seriousness she will tell me about her brother, who apparently just got out of jail, her mother's injuries, and how her father "points this finger (she demonstrates)" when he's mad at somebody. She is never particularly happy because she has a lot of worries for a six year old. I swear she is getting a furrow in her brow - or maybe it's the florescent lighting.

"Teacher," she said seriously, "my sister had to go to the doctor's."

"Really," I replied distractedly, trying to locate enough paint for an upcoming project. "What's the matter with her?"

I must point out that some member of Alexandra's family is always going to "the doctor's." They must have an open account or at least a standing appointment.

"Her foot got swellen up."

"Well... I certainly hope everything is okay," I said, reaching back into the cupboard for brushes.

"Yeah," said Alex with a shrug, "she's still alive."

First Annual 'I Hate Electronics' Day

This day began like any other. And then....

1. My cat Otis got very ill this morning and I had to rush him to the vet. Went online to ensure the catfood we bought in good faith was still not on the recall list. Fancy Feast is okey dokey. Otis is hiding under the bed. He is caterwauling in pain and is reluctant to get into his cat carrier. I have to move the night stands out of the way and remove the mattress and box springs out of the way in order to retrieve this very distressed cat. Did the designer of these cat carriers actually ever get a cat INTO one? No idea.

2. On the way to the vet, cell phone wouldn't turn on, despite being fully charged yesterday. Completely dead. Stupid cell phone. Otis is caterwauling in the back seat.

3. Returned home to go online to retrieve student midterms and some other stuff I wanted to do. No internet service. This is annoying. I have places to go and things to see on the internet. No internet service. Turn off computer, disconnect the wiring, wait 15 seconds, reconnect the wiring, turn on the computer. No internet service.

3.a. Call stupid cable company and go through the hoops with some gal who acted as if I disturbed her Free Cell game. She concludes, after 35 minutes, that the problem is with Norton Internet Security and to call them. I ask why Norton would be messing with me after I paid them all this money to protect me from bad internet things. She has no idea.

3.b. Spend the next 50 minutes on the phone with some dude in India who puts me through the paces drop-kicking Norton and trying to find the problem. Concludes the problem in is NOT Norton and to stupid cable company back. I ask him why the gal at the cable company would tell me the problem was with Norton when obviously it wasn't. Was she guessing? He has no idea.

4. Call Stupid Cable Company and go through Phone He11, only to get a recorded message telling me that "my area" is experiencing internet problems but not to worry cuz they are ON IT so "hang up." They also apologized for inconvenience. Inconvenience? I lose 90 minutes on a precious day off and they call that an INCONVENIENCE? Obviously they have no idea.

5. Decide to go upstairs and watch DVD from Netflix. Looking forward to this, in fact. Cannot get TV/DVD player to talk to each other. D cannot get DVD/TV set to talk to one another. Can't watch movie. It has worked before. Why won't it work now? No idea.

6. Go run errands and discover Shell gasoline card is expired. No new cards received. Call Shell and go through Phone He11 only to discover that no real live person is there anyway and must call back tomorrow. Why would Shell forget to send me cards? I have been with them for 20 years and always pay my bill - sometimes in advance! Nobody can tell me anything but my guess is they would have no idea.

7. Find out that trusty HP Printer is being replaced by newfangled huge-looking copier/fax/photo printer/dishwasher/telescope thingy that skeers the he11 outta me. Can't print anything cuz I know I will hit the wrong button. There are so many. I was perfectly happy with the trusty HP Printer. But Dan loves gadgetry and thinks this is a terrific Mother's Day gift. You get the idea.

8. Call to find out Otis has run up a $1000 vet bill with a stupid pancreas infection. Leave it to Otis. Just wish he'd eaten the cell phone, peed on the DVD player, and buried the new printer thingy. Why is Otis so sick, I ask. What happened to my kitty? They're running more tests, the office gal assures me. She really has no idea.

Nine for a Line

My father died on June 7 of last year and did not get an obituary. Nobody could think clearly enough to compose anything worthy.

This morning, as I perused the paper, I realized that I could write a "memorial" or "tribute" to dad and have it run the anniversary of his death. This would be fitting and since he had so many friends and coworkers over the years, such a memorial might we well-read.

So - I called the L.A. Times to inquire about the cost of such an endeavor. I should have known this wasn't cheap when ObitLady asked me if I was sitting down.

"$9.00 a line," she said, no doubt biting a bullet when she said it.

"Well, how many words in a line," I asked, thinking that a line could be really really long or really really short. ObitLady didn't miss a beat because I bet she has this conversation all day long.

"28 characters is a line, and that includes punctuation and spaces."

"A line isn't sold by the word?" I ask incredulously.

"Well, no..." she says, patienting tittering at my ignorance. "Some people use really big words."

"I tend to use really big words. I LIKE really big words. They are more expressive that really little words."

"Well," ObitLady says with glee, "YOU will be spending a lot more money than people who use little words." She is clearly pleased by this.

"But shouldn't we reward the educated and erudite use of language in this world?" I ask, hoping she'll offer me a discount based on my successful navigation of high school and college English.

"Well, of course. Obits with longer words are certainly more interesting to read," she says, "But the cost of running one in the Times is still $9.00 a line."

"Okay. Well, what about a picture? Can we run a picture?" I ask, tapping my bright purple crayola market on the counter, hoping she will tell me that YES, pictures may be included at no extra charge.

"Are you sitting down?" she asks.

"That much, huh?" I ask, getting a bit deflated.

"Yes. Tell me you are sitting down," ObitLady says with what I consider too much enthusiasm.

"I'm not sitting. But give me a second to lean on something."

She chuckles. Apparently I amuse her.

"Okay. It's $850.00 MINIMUM. And I mean MINIMUM."

"$850 to run a picture?" I ask. I DID hear her the first time but clarification is a good defense to use when you are bowled over by something. $850 to run the picture I have in mind bowls me over. Forget running TWO pictures.

"Yikes. Okay. $850 for the picture, MINIMUM, and $9.00 a line. Yer killin' me here."

She chuckles again. No doubt she will repeat this conversation.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she replies. "I suppose so."

"You do this in order to keep yourself in business," I say, in my most accusatory tone.
"Job security. Yes. Definitely."

We discuss deadlines and I tell her that if I unearth some buried treasure today I MIGHT eMail her a fittingly worded and erudite memorial essay about my father and MAYBE, just maybe, if I use the next paycheck from my 2nd job, I will sacrifice it to run the picture and keep HER family clothed and fed another week. Or two.

She thanks me profusely.

I am thinking this post here would cost me about $3000.00.
:-)K

Stupid Questions, Part 2

Today I took small groups of the afternoon kids outside to splatter white paint on black paper. The finished product will be a page in their Wonderful World book, which they will present and sing at Kindergarten Graduation next month. This page depicts the "dark sacred night" and is always a hit. Not only do the kids get to splatter paint, they get to add glitter when they bring the masterpiece back inside.

I take the time to model for the kids how to do a Jackson Pollack and splatter the white paint all over the black paper so that it looks like the night sky. I use words like 'constellation' and 'orion' and 'nebulas' and the kids just can't WAIT to get their hands on that paintbrush.

I have learned through experience it is best to stand back (way back) before they let loose. And they splatter. They splatter white paint all over the place - the grass, the sidewalk, their friends, their clothing, and often - their paper and their friend's paper.

Most of the children do not want to stop. The fact that the night sky is just perfect matters not at all. The experience is the thing. After all, how often does anyone REALLY get a chance to splatter paint? Gleefully? Gloriously? All over the place with wild abandon?

Most of them are good listeners and will stop when I say something about how marvelous their night sky has turned out and when I say something about the glitter on the table in the classroom, well - they pick up their masterpiece and head inside.

But some children simply can't stop. It is almost a physical need. They never get to do this kind of stuff.

I was ready to wrap the activity up for the day but Clemente was just not wanting to stop splattering. His paper looked quite good and I told him so. But he wanted more.

I poked my head inside the room to check on the glitterers - because a little glitter is never enough. MORE glitter is much better. This is a Kindergarten Rule. More is Better.

I glance back at Clemente to see him sitting down on the paint splattered grass. He has both paint brushes now and is wildly splattering all over what was once a nice little green patch of lawn. The paint in the cup is long gone but no matter - Clemente is clearly lost in the moment, sitting on the grass, eyes half closed, wildly pummeling two paintbrushes up and down and all around.

And along comes Stupid Question #2 for the day.

"Clemente," I ask with as much calm and patience as I can - after all, his blue jeans are now looking mysteriously, uh - splattered. His shoes, shirt, hands, legs, and arms - splattered. He looks like a professional house painter after a long day of vaulted ceilings.

"Clemente, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Clemente stops and looks at me as one might view a much adored but truly unhinged elderly relative. His jaw slightly drops and he looks truly, truly, sorry for me.

"Drumming," he replies, before going back to the task at hand.

"Of course you are," I say, "OF COURSE you are!"

How silly of me.

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.