Extraordinary Chickens

While standing in line at Barnes and Noble this afternoon, a book from the "marked down" bin of book offerings caught my eye. They always put these second-class literary citizens near the checkout line so that some kind and dedicated book lover will take one of the titles out of their inventory.

This book was titled, Extraordinary Chickens, and was filled with large and colorful photographs of... chickens. In fact, these chickens were quite extraordinary and the photography was excellent.

The fact that this book didn't sell well is obvious: It is in the Last Chance Forever Bargain Book Bin. At least at Barnes and Noble. The next stop will be some outlet store book store that will plaster a bright red price tag on the tome and hawk it like it is some kind of discounted wonder.

But I must ask why. The fact this book didn't sell well perplexes me. It is filled with pictures of extraordinary chickens. Not "on par" chickens or "run-of-the-mill chickens," but chickens with attributes that place them in the upper echelon of peerless poultry.

These chickens have class, style, and that certain something that plain old chickens don't have. Why the general public would not buy this book in large quantities or give it as gifts is a puzzlement.

Further research indicates that these extraordinary chickens also have a wall calendar. That would be one picture of an extraordinary, peerless, and prized chicken each and every month!

That would be a bargain at twice the price. Really.

Climb that Mountain!

I know I've written at some point about my infamous "Shasta Disasta" of 2003. This was the trip planned by my sister and I after the holidays and involved climbing Mt. Shasta. The fact that Shasta is only a few hundred feet shorter than the highest mountain in California, Mt. Whitney, didn't faze us. I can still remember where I was sitting when she called - in the old brown lounger in our living room on R-11.

My memories of the trip are sensory. It was hot and muggy inside the tent, where Mike, Sue, and I attempted to sleep. It was close and somewhat stinky. It was still light out at 9:30pm. I had eaten too much French Onion soup and would pay for it with severe stomach cramping that forced me to use the "solar outhouse" which was technically unavailable on that particular day of the month. I didn't sleep, which did not bode well when we were roused at 1:30 am to eat breakfast and hit the trail. I remember the clomping of boots and a queasiness that warned me not to do this - but I did it anyway. At some point before a place euphemistically called 'Lake Helen' (there is no lake) I began throwing up and could not stop.

Sensory memories include the long, cold descent with Susan, who gave up her ascent
to take me back down the mountain with the guide who drew the short straw; the tent, a change of clothing, an attempt to sleep - and constant nausea.

None of the group summited that day. The weather and avalanche conditions prevented it. Nonetheless, I was disappointed - very disappointed.

Over the years, I shoved down those feelings and claimed I would never, ever do that again and that it was OKAY, really - it was. But of course, deep down, I knew that it wasn't okay.

There were three factors that contributed to my disappointment that day. First, I was not in the right shape. I was in decent shape, but certainly not as fit as I needed to be for that kind of hiking and carrying a pack. Second, we were not acclimated to the altitude. We arrived in Shasta only the day before and should have hit town at least 2-3 days before the attempted ascent. Third, my inability to sleep the night before caused dehydration and a lack of calories that sent my body into full-on rebellion. We told each other that we needed 3 days, not 2 days, to make this climb. The fact that Shasta Mountain Guides only offered a 2-day was a good excuse not to re-book anytime soon.

Today, I made the decision to book another climb. Shasta Mountain Guides now offers a 3 day expedition instead of an hellacious 2 day ascent. This means better sleep and more acclimation. This means more odds of success.

The trip I want is in June - after school ends. I have a full seven months to get into the kick-ass shape I need to achieve. Training for this trip will help me get off the last of my weight gain. I have been holding steady at 150 pounds for a couple months now - I am ready to proceed.

Knowing that I can be impulsive, I am waiting until next weekend (at least) to book the trip with Shasta Mountain Guides. I am hoping that I will have companions for this adventure.

I am just - hoping. And I dream of success, this time around.

"Practicing" Medicine

I am reminded today why doctors "practice" medicine. It is supposed to take at least 10,000 hours to get really good at something but there has to be more to it than that. What if the right lessons aren't learned, or the practice-part is off-kilter?

These questions swirl around in my brain now because the poor communication skills of my mother's oncologist and his Galleria-mall-trained front office staff is really so much worse than asking the same stupid questions and approaching an ill old woman in front of God and everyone and announcing, "so yeah, you can't have chemo today or you'll die."

The head-smacking part is this: Way before the bladder cancer invaded Mom's pelvic wall and pressed on her kidneys, causing such agony she called 911 and had to deal with the dirty boots of local paramedics on her clean carpet, Mom was seeing this doctor for blood marrow problems. He is a hematologist AND an oncologist. There must have been some kind of special going on when he finished medical school - two specialties for the price of one. Plus, a discount card for the local coffee place.

In keeping with the tradition of this medical group's mantra of never speaking to other doctors unless absolutely necessary, he diagnosed a myo-something-or-another blood marrow disorder that danced all over her immune system and ate platelets for lunch. Since the gastroenterologist was never in the loop, this duo-immersion hematologist/oncologist apparently didn't know about the medication the stomach doctor gave her to squelch that pesky Crohn's Disease. Now here is the funny part: The immeron? The drug that fights Crohn's? (Wait for it...) It wreaks havoc with blood and kidneys!

Why did Mom's kidneys almost fail during chemotherapy, boys and girls? YES! And why did she need 2 blood transfusions, injections of a medication that costs $7,000 for five doses, and require half-chemo doses the last two treatments? YES! It seems patients who had Immeron CANNOT TAKE CHEMO! Go figure!

Being a good reader, I often make connections between texts I read and the real world. That often spills over into real life. At school, we are immersing ourselves in the work of Jim and Charles Fay, the developers of a self-discipline program called Love and Logic.

There are two logical responses I have for this practicing doctor who never told my mother that her bladder would eventually have to come out or that the chemo isn't going to kill everything because it will kill her first, and that 77-year old bladders cannot be called "antique" and made into stylish handbags.

The first response is vintage Love and Logic: I shall call the office, shake my head, and say, "Bummer." After waiting awhile, I will add, "There is going to be a consequence, but quite frankly I don't know what to do about this right now. But try not to worry... I will think of something."

(Now to re-read the NEXT chapter.)

Bummer.

The Surprise Laundry Toss~

At some point during my childhood, Mom gave up on laundry baskets and delivered any and all dirty clothing directly to the surfaces of the washer or dryer. The front door of her current house faces the garage entrance, across a small courtyard. The laundry is done in the garage.

For the past 20 years, Mom opened the front door and tossed her laundry onto the porch, until the good time for laundry presented itself. Mind you, this is not a whole load of clothes. This would be what she wore to bed the night before, some under garments, and maybe a towel or two. Mom has an obsession about laundry. We used to think it was a quirk, but now we call it by its rightful name. She goes through a bottle of laundry detergent in a week, often washing a "load" of clothes that equal one pair of pajama bottoms and a wash cloth.

Sue and I started staying with Mom to help care for her in early June. Our first clue about a laundry issue was the lack of laundry baskets - anywhere. Our own laundry had to be washed out in the tub because Mom swore there was never any room for our stuff - especially the clothes we wore for exercise. (Mom doesn't sweat, so she fails to understand why anybody else does.)

Mom often chooses to toss out the morning laundry while naked. This is because every single stitch of clothing that needs to be washed has to be tossed out the minute it is removed from the body. Soiled laundry on the floor is akin to Big Macs in a Hindu temple. But I digress.

We have attempted to speak to her about this lack of modesty which, for us, is really nothing new. We spent half our childhoods shielding our eyes and dying from the embarrassment of a naked mother carrying laundry around the house. Our concerns are laughed off because, as Mom puts it, she has no modesty anymore. (Ever?)

This morning, as she flung open the door to toss the few pieces of laundry, she was met by a shocked and horrified pharmacy deliveryman. Sue heard him gasping, "Sorry! So sorry!" repeatedly. She dropped breakfast preparations and ran from the kitchen to shield our naked mother and sign for the package.

The deliveryman didn't want to stay for a signature, running off with more apologies.

We hope the poor guy won't need some kind of therapy down the road.

A Note from the Rabbit Hole~

My Mom can't do just one thing at a time. She has always been this way, but since her cancer diagnosis, it has gotten worse. This means that simple, straightforward tasks like making breakfast means going off on tangents, like finding the almonds (already on the counter), doctoring the coffee, and going to garage RIGHT NOW to find the floral piece she needs to make the living room floral arrangement JUST RIGHT. This is followed by heating up the coffee, then going back out to get another piece for the floral arrangment from the box in the garage, and starting a load of laundry.

She finally sits down for coffee, which needs to be reheated. Then, she has to take out the trash, even though the coffee hasn't been finished. She puts the TRASH into the open washing machine and curses while digging it all out aagin.

When she finally comes back inside to have coffee, she remembers to take Lasix and Potassium, which have been sitting next to the coffee. They also make her pee. Since she can't swallow the pills with coffee, she goes back into the kitchen for ice water (with ice and lemon) She sits down and fixates on the bottle of Asacol, which has about 12 tablets left - a week's supply. Immediately, she must go get the FULL bottle from bedroom cupboard and pour the old bottle of tablets into the full bottle. This brings on some grumbling about the cost of the prescription.

She gets up again to go to the bathroom but pees pants and gets annoyed because she wasn't wearing a pad. She changes her clothes and takes the wet pants out to washing machine, while complaining about the Laxix and potassium.

She comes back into the house to return to the bathroom to fix her hair and put on her "face" because Dan is coming down to do some household repairs she has fixated on for weeks and weeks. Bright red lipstick and chola-girl eyebrows later, she comes into the livingroom to complain about the hair that she swears is falling out, although no evidence of this appears in her comb.

Finally, she comes back out to sit in her chair. She turns on "Sweet Home Alabama" for the 23rd time this month, grouses about the televsion and complains that "nobody will let me drink my coffee."

And it's only 11:00. In the morning.

Angry Birds and Rock Stars~

Today was the 100th Day of School, a tradition that grew out of the more child-friendly educational practices of the 1980s. In fact, word on the street has it that a group of young child educators wants to make the 100th Day of School a national holiday. Except that nobody would come to school, which would create a problem.

Some our young learners created 100 Day Projects by using 100 objects in a creative way. Owen was a celebrity for a few minutes when he came to class with a battlefield glued down on tag board - complete with army tanks and 100 little plastic soldiers he counted himself. Zach used 100 Legos to create a facsimile of the space shuttle. He explained that he chose this project in honor of the space shuttle going up into space again soon. His classmates were very impressed. There were projects with 100 pennies, 100 stickers, and 100 Swedish fish in a painted fish pond. (Several kids were caught licking the fish. But I digress.)

Nobody was surprised when Beny decided to draw 100 pigs from the Angry Birds game. To say Beny likes Angry Birds is an understatement. Angry Birds define his world at the moment. His project is an instant hit: The kids abandon the other projects and surround Beny with cries of admiration. He is the center of attention and laps it up like a parched puppy. The kids point and make "ooh" and "ahh" noises. They pelt Beny questions and he holds up his hand and tells them he will take only one question at a time. In order to secure the project from admiring fingers, Beny asks me to put it up on the board. I clip it up there with a magnetic clip and admirers stop by all day to gaze at Beny's masterpiece.

At 11:30, Beny and Sam's mother arrives with Sam's drum set. While Beny was busily creating his Angry Bird Magnum Opus during evenings at home, Sam became a Facebook media star, performing a song he wrote tentatively called, "I Love to Count!" Using rhythm and interlude, snare drum and cymbals, Sammy pounded out his rendition of the classroom hundreds chart, complete with a chorus and earnest vocals about the joy of counting. In the video, Beny wears a mysterious hat and sits behind Sam quietly playing the keyboards. At one point, he gets up.

"Make sure you stop at 100," Beny advised Sam once the musician hit 50. The drummer agreed and Beny resumed his role as keyboardist.

So, the arrival of the drum set was not surprising. The K-1 class was promised an encore performance of Sam's famous, "Ode to 100: I Love to Count."

You might wonder why a teacher in her right mind would allow a 5-year old to bang away on drums with a full school in session. You might think that meeting Sammy's needs as a learner and showcasing his talents were the main objectives. You would be correct, of course, but there is just one little thing that appealed to the evil self that lives inside me.

You see, banging the drums would make noise. All day long,everyday, throughout the day and longer, we are subjected to the pitter patter of pounding feet as the children of the school descend and ascend the school stairs. Our classroom is right underneath and slightly adjacent to these stairs. Kids on stairs don't quietly walk. They pound. They run. The hit the hallways running before and after they hit the stairs. Our ceiling shakes. Our bulletin boards rattle. Our nerves tingle.

"Ode to 100: I Love to Count" was loud. The kids loved it and clapped along. Sam hit the cymbols and bass drum during the chorus. Those were especially loud. It was rhythmic. It was a HUGE hit. Move over, Beny - Sammy has just taken down the house.

The kids applauded wildly. They waved their hands at Sam the Drummer. They asked for his autograph and begged for "turns" at the drum. Sam complied with both.

After the drums were packed up and the students went home, Jenny and I fully expected to hear from our upstairs colleagues about the drum interlude. We steeled ourselves for glares and admonitions - but they never came because NOBODY heard us.

The pounding on the stairs and in the upstairs hallways drowned us out.

Red-Handed!

Sara is one of my younger students who stays all day twice a week. This means she gets to participate in first grade work quite often. On Thursday, we continued work on our Classroom Model Community project. Each first grader has selected a community leader or helper to represent. They are creating buildings for the community out of boxes and toilet paper rolls and anything else that captures their imaginations.

Zada is going to build an animal rescue center. She printed copies of such places off the internet and decided she likes a center up north that lacks kennels and cages. Sara offered to help Zada paint the buildings.

Young children love paint, glitter, glue, and other craft supplies. The underlying motto for all kindergarten projects is "More is Better." If a little glitter works, why not more? If a bit of paint covers the targeted area, why not glop the paint on for that tactile, more textured effect?

So Sara began "experiencing" Zada's red paint. As Zada worked on a small out-building for her rescue center, Sara tackled a larger box and painted it red. Disappointed that Zada didn't need her to cover other buildings red, Sara added more red to the painted box. Seeing that the paintbrush was quickly overhwhelmed by the volume of paint, Sara began fingerpainting the box. Soon, red paint covered her hands, dripped from her fingers, and began making its way up her lily-white arms.

Zada was a bit perplexed. She is a conservative girl with paint and supplies and could see nothing good happening from this very wet, very red, and very drippy experience with her younger helper. She backed up and kept working on her little building.

Jenny and I quickly discovered the finger-painter and did the old 'crossing of the arms' and 'hands on the hips' routine. Sara is not one to quickly admit to any kind of wrongdoing. She is, in fact, in the fast-lane to law school. So she opens her mouth to defend her actions - which weren't really as bad as our teacherly body language would indicate. In fact, she was ready to claim that she was out of town while the paint began covering her hands and arms. We know this because we know our Sara.

While I shook my head, Jenny leaned forward with her hands on the table. Zada looked up. "No Sara," my partner teacher intoned quietly, "We caught you red-handed!"

An Ongoing List: Things I Never Thought I Would Say at School~

There are times throughout the school year that I hear myself saying something that, out of context, would sound quite bizarre. I picture the fly on the wall, the secret video camera, the unseen visitor, doing the classic double-take and wishing they had paid closer attention.

I always have students who undress at school. They remove socks, shoes, belts, hats, shirts, and vests. Sometimes I find these things strewn about the room. Usually they are tossed in a corner or left on a chair or table. I have two students this year who remove their shoes and place them in their cubbies.

Sammy removes ONE shoe, then kicks it around the room.

"Sammy," I say, "Put your shoe back on."

He keeps kicking, then happily replies, "I can't."

"Sam, if you can't put your shoe back on, don't take it off," I say, using logic that is beyond him.

"But,I like to take this one off," he says.

We have this conversation regularly. "This one" is the right shoe. Always the right one. Never the left.

Emily and Mari also remove shoes. Occasionally, they will take of their socks but you know Murphy's Law of Socks. Inevitably, one goes missing and the kid goes home with one foot sockless. They swear to God they have NO idea where the other sock went. Days later, I will find it in the blocks or behind the Legos and attempt to return it. At this point, they swear on their mothers' lives that THIS sock does not belong to them. Never seen it before. Ever.

Well-meaning parents put their kids in layers, sending them to school certain that their little learners will be toasty and stylish. If it is a flannel shirt layered over a tee shirt or tank top, I will bet you money the shirt will be flung over something in the classroom and its owner will be reluctant to claim it.

Sara has them all beat. Her mother dresses her in layers too. No sooner does Sara hit the classroom, she begins to disrobe. Off goes the sweatshirt, sweater, or blouse. Then the tee-shirt. When she is happily bouncing around the room in her spaghetti-strapped undershirt, I start shivering.

"Sara, it's 10 degrees outside. Put your clothes back on."

"That's okay," says Sara, clearly not getting the point.

I gather up the strewn clothing: A sleeveless red sweatshirt, a blue and white tee shirt, and a bright pink scarf. I hand them to her.

"Put these back on," I say in my best teacher voice.

"I don't want to," counters Sara.

I clench my teeth and lead her to the bathroom. "Put the clothes back on. Hang the scarf up."

Sara emerges from the bathroom in the same state of undress as when she entered.

"SARA! I am not kidding. Put your shirt and sweatshirt back on."

"Okay," she mutters. I stand there while she dresses.

Eight minutes later I see her bouncing around the room again. In her undershirt.

I point to the bathroom. "Get your shirts back on. I am not kidding."

"I'm HOT!" moans Sara.

The thermostat reads a balmy 66 degrees.

"NOW, Sara."

"Okay," she sighs, trudging off to the bathroom. She emerges completely dressed. I smile and pat her shoulder. She bounces off to find her friends.

Fast forward about a half hour. Sara is nowhere to be seen. A quick scan of the room finds her curled up in a fetal position on my desk chair, in her undershirt, shoeless, sockless, with eyes squeezed shut, just certain that if she doesn't "see" me, I somehow won't see her. Some people will tell you they just LOVE this age!

"Sara," I say slowly. I breathe deeply. I think about safety pins and duct tape. She sheepishly stands up and I hear myself say it. The thing I never thought I would say in class:

"How many times do I have to tell you not to take your clothes off at school?"

Beny and the Bone~

At some point during our writing time today, Beny drew the outline of a dog bone, then cut it out. He carried it around for awhile, very proud of his handiwork.

After recess, we settle down for some reading and I hear barking.

Students begin to approach me because they are certain that I don't hear the same stuff they hear. "Beny is barking," they report. "He's barking at the wall."

Sure enough, I turn around and see Beny, sitting on his haunches, facing the wall, and....barking.

Knowing that this question is going to go on the "Things I Never Thought I Would Say at School," list, I ask, "Beny, why are you barking at the wall?"

Beny doesn't miss a beat. He yips, paws the wall with his hands, then replies, "Because that's where I taped my bone!"

The Magic Word~

There are two words guaranteed to send a classroom full of kindergarten students into gales of laughter. I am talking about 'horse laughing,' often accompanied by falling over and the clutching of bodies. Ask any teacher of young children and they will agree. These words are "naked" and "underwear." The fact that they all came into the world naked and hopefully WEAR underwear is superflous. The words evoke early childhood hysteria. (The other thing you can do as a teacher to provoke this same reaction is to drop something. But that is not germane to this topic.)

I tend to adore the quirky ones and this child fit the bill. She was later diagnosed autistic, but high functioning. She had a lot of repetitious behavior and often mimicked me to a degree of authenticity that gave me shivers. During large group discussions, she would sit aside from the group and rock back and forth, to keep herself calm. Sometimes a single word would evoke a response and she kept things lively by throwing a monkey wrench into my best laid plans and intentions. I loved this child.

On this particular day, I had a parent volunteer named Lori who knew the girl's mother well. During my lesson, she was taking down a bulletin board. Lori was drinking coffee, but listening with interest to our lesson.

I had been working with the kids on a book called, The Seasons of Arnold's Apple Tree. It illustrated the changing seasons very well and the children were engaged in a multiple-day project to create a piece of artwork that reflected the change of seasons. We'd drawn the 'winter' tree previously and discussed how the trees were bare - no leaves. This, of course, led to one of my boys (Michael!) declaring that the tree was NAKED and the entire class erupting in gut-wrenching laughter. So on this, the following day, I tried to quickly review the winter tree before introducing the tree in spring. I quickly sketched the winter tree and one of the kids called out that this was the winter tree and another one said that it had no leaves and then....... of course....... somebody (Michael!) loudly declared that this tree was NAKED.

I worked quickly to add leaves to the tree, praying that their attention would stay on the tree and not the fact that the somebody (Michael!) had said the word, NAKED in front of God and everyone. It almost worked.

There were a few little laughs but I was adept and quickly drawing and talking and keeping their attention. But then... my little special girl suddenly stopped rocking and shouted out, spurred on by the word.

"YES! Mommy and daddy... they were in the van... and they were.....NAKED!"

I was shocked and tried to keep working. Marisa loudly declared "that's disgusting" and poor Lori had to bolt from the room because she was choking on coffee and spewing it everywhere. (Seriously. Everywhere.)

The kids collapsed in laughter and I did my best to restore order. Since I was using my "teacher look," most of them (except MICHAEL!) calmed down right away. I continued the lesson and frantically drew leaves on the spring tree. But my special little girl wasn't finished. Apparently, this word had layers of meaning.

"Yes! Mommy and daddy were NAKED! I kept seeing mommy's..........elbows!"

At this point I put down my marker and had to get up. Lori had re-entered the room at this point and was trying to maintain her composure. The kids were slapping their shins and my little special girl was happily rocking back and forth.

Lori and I were locked in a head-to-head embrace while Lori whispered, "Her mother would be so proud."

This of course, got US laughing which got the kids going into Round 2. But I had to step out when Lori continued, ".......kind of makes you wonder what she thinks 'elbows' are......."

The rest of the day is a blur. We must have completed the spring tree at some point and the spewed coffee got cleaned up and I couldn't look my little girl's mother in the face for several days after that.

I bolted to the other side of the room when my girl was dropped off my her mother. I wanted to shout, "THE VAN? Are you kidding me? You couldn't WAIT?" The VAN?"

But I didn't. I just laugh about it periodically again and again, especially when I hear the word, "naked."

You wanna know what my dad says?

This story is prompted by the posting on Facebook of a clas picture from kindergarten class that will be graduating from high school next year. I got tagged in the photo and had fun naming all the kids and showing them to my new colleagues. Having your former students "find" you and "friend" you on Facebook, I think, is an honor. It means they remember you in a positive way. (That or they remember you lighting something on fire or sliding across the floor and landing on your butt. But I digress....

I had a principal at the time that I dearly loved. She was an outstanding leader. She respected me, shored me up, and joked around with me - a LOT. As the school year began, I noticed her walking around the outside of my classroom quite a bit during the morning drop-off. After a week or so, she asks me for "the scoop" on the father of one of my students. We both agreed that he was easy on the eyes. Then she peppered me with questions.

"Is he single? Does he have a girlfriend? What's the story?"

This line of questioning meant only one thing. I had to find these things out. I knew he was single because he'd told me he was raising the boy on his own. But I asked around and was told he had a gorgeous girlfriend who made the boy's lunch. It was not easy to tell my boss these things. Being a principal meant long hours and not a lot of time to scope out the local dating scene. I think she had her heart set.

So, a few days after I crushed my wonderful principal's hopes with this news, the boy is sitting with his classmates coloring something. I can't remember what it was, but the activity was part of a larger activity and means for me to begin pulling the kids to me individually in order to accomplish something more meaningful. But, first, I had to pick up scraps of paper off the floor. As I bent to do this, the boy, who was mischevious, articulate, funny, and quite the character, casually asked the boy next to him, "You wanna know what my dad says when he comes home from work?"

I didn't think much of this question since I am predisposed to believe all parents come home and ask relevant, probing, meaningful questions. As I continue to pick up paper, the boy asks his classmate again, "You wanna know what my dad says when he gets home?"

The other boy is rather shy and quiet. He doesn't know my little charmer very well and he refrains from answering. His Air Force father has him believing all kids shouldn't speak unless poked with a cattle prod. I don't think this admonition lasted very long.

Finally, my smiling boy raises his voice just a bit. "You WANNA KNOW WHAT MY DAD SAYS WHEN HE GETS HOME?"

Being one those kids willing to go along and get along, his table partner finally replies, "O.K. What does he say?"

Skipping only one beat as I am picking up the last of the paper scraps on the floor, the boy proudly exclaims: "You wanna have sex!?"

Since the other boy hasn't a clue about what his new friend is telling him, he doesn't say anything. I, however, am choking on the floor and trying to be nonchalant. I look up my little cherub, who is smiling at me quite proudly. I refrain from responding at all.

Instead, I walk to the newly-installed classroom phone and I call the principal.

"What do you want, Lingling?" she says. This is what she calls me. "Lingling" like the Chinese panda. I'm okay with it.

"You want to know what Mr. Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love says, first thing when he gets home?" I ask.

She pauses. "What?"

I am laughing and trying not to draw the attention of the kids. I lower my voice and try not to choke.

"He says... 'You wanna have sex?'"

Dead silence greets me on the other line. This is unusual since my wonderful principal is a talker. Non-stop, yak-yak. We tease her that the "all call" intercom system was installed so she could hear herself talk. She doesn't deny it.

But anyway. After the pause, she says, "Looks like you are going to have to call him."

"Um, NO," I reply. "This is the job of Administration. I have to teach. YOU call him."

She is firm. "No, Lingling... you call him tonight."

I protest but she reminds me that she is in charge and how in the world will I grow and develop if I don't take these risks and meet these challenges?

So after work, I arrive home, dreading the phone call. What do I say? I actually HAVE to use the sex word with a drop-dead good looking guy 10 years younger than me and I have to say it in my own home and not to my husband.

My kids are home so I go into the bedroom and place the call.

Mr. Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love answers the phone.

"Um. Hi. This is Mrs. L. Your boy's teacher."

"Uh oh," he says warily. "What did he do?"

Well. What to say, what to say?

"Um. Well... (I use his name.) You about 'life's little embarrassing moments?'" I ask.

"Yeah...." he answers slowly.

I take a deep breath. "Well. You had one today."

Their Last Conversation?

My father-in-law, Bob, and his cousin, Aunt Trudy, are the children of first generation immigrants. Their parents came to America on a boat from Germany in the late 19th century and both grew up speaking German as a first language. They both claim to not remember German at all. English was the language of America it was demanded that they speak it. So they did.

Trudy remembers that her aunt, Bob's mother, was given a fresh tomato by somebody working on the boat. She was perplexed by this gift since she had never seen a tomato in her life. So, she threw it at him - thinking it a toy or a piece of a game.

Bob and Trudy were raised as siblings, which was common in those days of the Depression, when families saved money by living together and getting on each other's nerves. She had to take care of him but didn't mind too much. She put him in the buggy and volunteered to go the market, a daily task in those days of iceboxes and milk deliveries. While she was praised as being 'such a good girl' and taking care of the baby, she had an ulterior motive. The baby buggy could hold the groceries and she wouldn't have to carry the heavy bags back to the house. This girl was smart. The problem, according to her impatient father, was that she was a girl.

Aunt Trudy turned 100 on her last birthday. Bob had turned 87 a few weeks earlier. They had a habit of speaking to each other on the phone about once a week, talking about the same old things since nothing exciting happens in your house when you rarely leave it.

It has been apparent for a few years that Aunt Trudy is losing her memory and she finally allowed for live-in companions to keep her safe from heaters, matches, and stoves that won't turn off.

We thought Bob's old age meant a lot of crankiness. It has become shockingly apparent to us that it is much more than that. He is losing his mind in bits and pieces, coherent and mindful one minute and wandering the house and asking for his long-dead parents the next. It is worse at sundown, when he is constantly adjusting the heater, looking for bills that have already been paid, fixating on his calendar of names and dates, and trying to take out empty trash cans at 4:00 in the morning.

Aunt Trudy was a brilliant money manager who worked for the County of Los Angeles. She supervised 80 people and had the eyes of a hawk. She travelled extensively and could carry on a conversation with anybody about just about anything. The first time Aunt Trudy met my mother, they talked for 2 hours about shared memories of living in Hollywood - landmarks, stores, churches, and the famous people they saw. This they did while eating Chinese food at a South Pasadena eatery, with me wedged between them, my eyes going back and forth in this conversational tennis match.

Bob was a supervisor at Western Electric, the company he went to work for before he was drafted in World War II. At the end of the war, they calculated his back pay, gave him a raise, and welcomed him home. He retired after 42 years, disgusted by the lack of work ethic shown by younger, newer employees.

So I think about Aunt Trudy and Bob and I wonder about their weekly phone conversations. When was the last time they had a decent, coherent conversation? Was there a particular date in which all things were normal and then they weren't? When tangled memories meet, where do they overlap? Is there comfort in that? Bob would complain to me that Trudy was "losing it" one minute but brush her lapses off as "an act to get attention" the next.

They've known each other for 87 years, the one and only constant in each other's lives. She lived her first 13 years on the planet without him and then he was there and she reveled in the fact that his little strawberry-blond head fit "right there" in the crook of her shoulder. He was a bright spot in the dreary upbringing and heavy workload expected by immigrant parents.

At which point will that constant be lost? Where do those fleeting, treasured memories go? Can they be held onto for dear life? What happens when one of them forgets? What kind of heartbreak is that?

I wonder these things. I wonder about the cruelties of dementia and the stealing of somebody's mind.

I wonder about their last conversation.

Recollections of a Childhood Friend~

When I was in the third grade I met my first-ever best friend. She was slow in coming to me but one day she arrived, standing in the door of Mrs. Fletcher's 3rd and 4th grade classroom, accompanied by the principal, a rather imposing woman by the name of Margaret MacDonald. I always swore to my mother that Mrs. MacDonald was in love with Mr. Dieter, the vice-principal, but mom wasn't convinced. "Then her name would be Mrs. Dieter," she said, discouraging my romantic fantasy about these two authority figures at Mingay Elementary School.

"I would like you to meet Debra Pats," Mrs. MacDonald said from the doorway, and my new best friend was led to a desk right next to mine. I was awestruck, to say the least.

I figured that it was MY fault Debra was there, because I had complained to Mrs. Fletcher only days before that I was the "only third grade girl" in the classroom. What power I yielded! Bill and Ruth Pack bought a house on Rose Street and answered my prayers for a best friend.

Of course, what Mrs. MacDonald really said was, "I would like you to meet Debra Pack," but I heard "Pats" and continued to believe that to be Debra's last name for quite awhile. I do believe I argued with Debra about the matter, but she took it in stride.

I had neighborhood friends, of course, but we were thrown together by proximity and the friendships of our parents. I liked them well enough, but Debra was a true friend who loved me no matter what I said or did.

Debra knew how to draw and had the most beautiful handwriting I'd ever seen. She admired mine but it was nothing compared to hers - flowy and wavy, with capital Ds that I tried to copy by the hour. She taught me to draw a horse's head, but I never quite got the body.

We became inspeparable. School ended at 2:50 and Debra and I would join hands and race home to her house to watch Dark Shadows. To say we loved that show would be an understatement. We recited plot lines, acted out entire scenes, and argued over who got to be Sarah Collins, the doomed younger sister of Barnabus, the vampire. The show started promptly at 3:00 and rushing home was critical. We devised methods for getting home faster - skipping sidewalk squares, jumping over squares adjacent to sprinklers, and whiplashing each other up Maple Street, across Jeffries, then past my street, Evergreen Street, and finally - Rose Street.

Debra and her sister Sherrie lived next door to Brian McGill. Brian was in our 4th grade class and played the guitar. We both loved him but Debra agreed to let me be the primary Brian admirer. Sherrie and Brian became addicted to the show that followed Dark Shadows, and new soap opera called One Life to Live. At first, we made fun of them but within a few weeks we were hopelessly hooked.

Early in the 4th grade, Debra had her appendix out and, not to be outdone, mine was removed a few months later. When Debra broke her arm, I was beside myself. Sheer terror kept me from hurling myself off the monkey bars, so I simply called up the Pack residence and announced that I had broken my arm.

The gig was up when I was picked up for an outing. Mr. Pack was driving and Debra and I were deposited in the backseat. Mrs. Pack turned around in her seat, faced me with a smile and said, "Now, Kim, what's this I hear about you breaking your arm?"

I gave poor Debra fits by correcting her spelling and calling her on all manner of errors. She retaliated by never mentioning my abyssmal abilities in math and always complimenting my endless attempts at creative writing.

My life was thrown into turmoil when Debra announced that her family was moving to Orange County. I was devastating and kept trying to argue her out of it. I remember when she stopped by to say goodbye. Mr. Pack overshot my house and Debra came to the door and we were at a loss for words. We promised to write.

I wish I had saved all our letters. We shared everything but a lack of transportation kept us from visiting each other over the years. We excitedly met at Disneyland for my high school's Grad Nite and had the best time. She came back with me on the bus and spent the night. My stepsister had borrowed my car the day before and left a cooler of beer in the back seat. Debra and I were awakened by my mother, screaming at me for having beer in my car.

I have always been sporadic about Christmas cards. Debra is devoted - sending new holiday newsletters each year, replete with family details and the latest research she has conducted into her family history and a nefarious missing link to the patriot Patrick Henry.

Last week I received a package in the mail. It was a signed a copy of Debra's book,
Unmarked Grave: Remembering an American Patriot. I read the book in 3 sittings. My friend's research is amazingly detailed and filled with historical antecdotes that do my history-major heart good. I grew to love these characters and was disappointed when the story ended.

Does my dear old friend know that I have been dabbling in genealogy over these many years and I also have a famous ancestor whose story I would love to tell? How could she know this? She is the one sending Christmas letters - I am the one reading the letters, intending to write back, and never making the time.

My friend wrote a book. I feel pride. I feel pangs. I need to write my own book. Luckily, I won't have to jump off monkey bars or get abdominal surgery.

Tonight I ran my finger over her name and chuckled at the mispelling of her maiden name. It should have read, "Pats."

Clubs~

Today, during our word work study, I dicatated the word club and the kids began sounding it out and writing it down.

Several of the young spellers wanted to know what "club" meant. I explained that clubs are groups of people who tend to like the same things, like a bicycle club, a chess club, a service club, a car club, etc.

After a few seconds, Noah looks up and calls out, "MASSAGE CLUBS?"

Accidentally Overheard in First Grade~

After lunch today, the first graders filed in and sat on the rug for one of their favorite times of the day: A read-aloud. Jenny picked up November, by Cynthia Rylant, selected because it provides closure for our Thanksgiving celebrations and sets the tone for our upcoming holiday festivities.

As Jenny reads, she models the 'text-to-self' connections between the story and her family's Thanksgiving celebration. The kids share their own connections and then Jenny carefully and quietly instructs them to open their journals and write down their connections. The kids get busy writing and everybody is on task for quite a while.

After about 20 minutes, Marcus comes up to Jenny with his closed journal. Jenny asks him if he is finished and he replies that, yes, he is done.

She asks him to read his Thanksiving writing to her and he hesitates.

"Uh, Miss Jenny?"

"Yes, Marcus," replies Jenny.

"Um. I, uh.... I uh..... Well. I ACCIDENTALLY wrote down whatever I wanted."

Nonie's Sewing Box~

I finally bought a sewing machine. This purchase has been a long time in coming, put off by the confusing and pricey sewing machine displays at JoAnn's designed to make anybody who doesn't sew a little nervous.

What happened was this: My couch cushion needed repair. I bought some fabric and hunted around for somebody with a sewing machine to help me. Said machine owners were miles away, at work, or otherwise engaged. Discouraged, I went to Sears to buy an iron, which would allow me to repair the back of the couch with heat-activated adhesive. On my way to the iron display I saw it: A sewing machine on sale for $79.99! (My iron is missing. How does one lose an iron? I don't know. It's a mystery.)

So, I bought a sewing machine, determined to repair the couch cushion myself. It took me several hours to read the manual, thread the machine, and figure out the bobbin. (The latter still has me confused.)

Once the machine was ready, I cut the fabric for the repair and realized I needed pins. I looked in my paltry little sewing box, which is actually a re-purposed 1980s bacon storer from Tupperware. No pins! Picturing boxes of pins, I looked other places but the pins were in hiding.

Suddenly, I remembered. Nonie's sewing box has been sitting in my livingroom for several months now. If pins were to be had, they would be in Nonie's sewing box. I remember her little red pin cushion that looked like a tomato or a strawberry, and the balsa wood pin holder my father made her in Boy Scouts. Surely, they would be in the sewing box!

I opened the box and caught a whiff that I can only describe as Nonie, my grandmother who sewed like a professional and made Susan's and my clothes while we were in elementary school. They were beautiful clothes, frilly dresses, skirts, button-down shirts, and even pants. Nonie made us pajamas, pillows, bathrobes, and matching outfits.

The smell from the box was pure nostalgia. I could picture her. In the box there are needle packages from the 1950s, an array of thread, knitting needles, crochet hooks, packages of vintage snaps, and some mean-looking tools for affixing grommets. For a minute I just touched the things she touched - and remembered.

Alas, there are no pins to be had, so I used needles to hold my potential cushion seems together. They worked well and I think Nonie would have been proud.

But... I still need an iron.

Test Tube Trials~

In my ongoing attempt to be a better teacher of science, I bought two packages of test tubes from Steve Spangler Science. These sturdy little tubes are actually 2-liter soda bottles, before they are blown up by extreme heat and filled with soda.

Our first classroom experiment involved colored water and vegetable oil, an exploration of the density of liquids. The kids were most impressed by the food coloring diffusing through the measuring cup of water, I think, than the actual travel of the colored water through the vegetable oil to settle at the bottom of the test tube.

The kids dutifully took the test tubes home and explained to their families what the experiment was about. Accompanying each test tube was a hand-labeled diagram of the whole process, our attempt to be "scientific" and "document things like scientists."

About half the young scientists returned the test tubes, despite my wheedling, cajoling, and elevated nagging. We piled them in the bathroom sink at school for washing. And this is where the adventure begins.

The attempts to wash the test tubes in the sink with scented handsoap were unsuccessful. So, I piled the oily lot of them into a basket and took them home, where they sat for a couple days in my school bag. Yesterday, I dumped them all into a sink filled with hot water and dishwashing liquid, where I let them soak while I did other things.

That didn't work. The tubes remained oily and I was perplexed. I switched the tubes to the other sink with a fresh batch of really hot water and more liquid dish soap. That didn't work either.

After a couple hours of unsuccessful soaking, I decided to add some bleach. Clorox is the mainstay of my deep housecleaning. If bleach can't clean out that oil, I figured, nothing can!

Well, I am here to tell you that trusty Clorox did not do the trick. The test tubes remained oily and my kitchen smelled toxic. After rinsing out the now-sparkling sink and still-oily test tubes, I began pondering what I always use to clean icky messes. The answer came in a flash: Cleanser.

"Cleanser won't work," Dan said, when he saw me sprinkling the sink full of test tubes. I added water, ignored Dan, and waited for the cleanser to de-grease these obnoxious test tubes. I dutifully waited a couple of hours, allowing the trusty cleanser to do its dirty work.

The cleanser was a huge disappointment. Not only did the test tubes remain oily, they were now covered with a film of oily cleanser. Big ick factor here!

Dan is a huge fan of Pine Sol. He suggested I try soaking the tubes in his favorite floor cleaner and see if the "fresh pine scent" would do the trick. Pine Sol always reminds me of public restrooms, but I agreed to try. Not only did it NOT work, it didn't work overnight, and my whole kitchen smelled like a public restroom.

I asked Dan to pick up some dishwashing soap that cuts grease, like Dawn. He came back with Simple Green, which made no sense until he explained that it was the only cleaner he could find that actually promises to cut grease.

Simple Green's label lies. I scrubbed out each tube with a toothbrush to tackle the patina of cleanser and then gave up. The offending scientific tools sit in my dish drainer, oily as ever.

Our next scientific adventure will entail dry ingredients only.

Hebrew School~

This is a bonafide transcript of a conversation I had early one spring morning, before my first cup of coffee.

Me: "So, Juliet, how was Hebrew school?

Juliet: "Fine."

Me: "How did you do?"

Juliet: "Fine."

Emily: "How did I do?"

Me: "When, Emily?"

Emily: "At Hebrew school."

Me: "How did you do at Hebrew school, Emily?"

Emily: "I don't go to Hebrew school."

All Tied Up ^~^

Walking up the stairs from lunch one spring day, Jenny notices that one of our first graders is missing. She asks the boys at the end of the line, "Where is Azariah?"

Dylan: "He's tied."

Jenny: "Tied?"

Nathan: "Tied up."

Jenny and I exchange glances.

Dylan: "It's okay. He likes it."

Writerly Wregret and the Lizard Story~

I have been remiss this school year in keeping up with my blog. It isn't that I haven't been writing, but most of my commentary, reflections, and anecdotes have been sent via eMail or posted on Facebook. This has left my blog a bit bereft.

It is a sad thing to lose those precious "writerly moments" that provide the grist for my writerly mill. My task today, at various times, will be to dig these things up and report them here, where they really belong. Otherwise they get lost.

I am reminded of the Lizard Story. It took place back in 2003, with my first T-1 (transitional first grade) class at Wilsona School. We were walking to lunch and passed by a stretch of overgrown bushes that provided shelter for a variety of critters, including an extremely fat lizard.

My students looked forward to the possibility of finding this lizard each time we filed past, on our way to somewhere else. Occasionally, they were rewarded, but usually, the lizard remained incognito.

On this day of the Lizard Story, the lizard was in the shade, under the bush, and very still. The kids located him and some very funny exchanges ensued. I know they were funny because I raced back to class and immediately and wrote the story down in the form of an eMail that I sent out to everybody I could think of at the time. This meant less time for lunch, but a great story is a great story.

My friends and family howled at the Lizard Story. I received many accolades, including a message from my father advising me to keep track of these stories. I took his advice - but too late for the Lizard Story.

My friend Ann reminded me of the Lizard Story after I began my blog. She said it was hysterical and that I simply MUST include it. She, however, didn't save it. She meant to - but she didn't. One of my favorite professors said she saved all my messages in a folder, but for some reason she couldn't locate the Lizard Story either.

I remember asking my dad by eMail and he replied that yes, he recalled the story. He even chuckled. But, he didn't save it and he couldn't recall exactly which kid said what and when with regard to this lizard. He could only recall that the story was very funny. The timing, he said, was impeccable.

There are two fat lizards that live in my backyard right now, tormenting Eadie at every opportunity. They flip her the bird and scurry up the wall, out of her reach, and then just... sit there. When I see them, I get annoyed about my lost Lizard Story all over again.

So there was this lizard under the bush and the kids looked forward to finding it each time they walked past the bush. I remember that Justin wanted to catch the lizard but the other kids were against it. Somebody said something and somebody else said something else and half the kids were flat on their bellies on the cement when they were supposed to be filing into the cafeteria for lunch.

It's kind of like retelling a joke and messing up the punchline.