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Although not my class, this picture is a great visual for my experience yesterday. The only difference is that I was on the carpet with them. I wouldn’t have it any other way!
Somedays, the stars align and wonderful things happen. I noticed the half-moon driving to work at dark:30 yesterday. It must have spilled moon dust all over my class, because they were on their best behavior yesterday. It was jus that kind of a day.
Told by admin to hold a “community circle” with my class to discuss respect, I wasn’t really feeling it as we all sat around a large carpet ringed with the alphabet. My 20 littles are growing every day. Their behavior is remarkable and exemplary when it needs to be. I’m able to teach without interruption, while they are feeling secure enough to raise their hands for questions.
Teaching 20 first graders isn’t something that is especially easy. By the 3rd grade, my past students knew the ropes. They had the system down. Those that were trouble caused it. Those that were shining stars beamed. It had all been decided in the prior years. Reputations had been formed. In the 12 years of 3rd grade, I just followed the lead of prior teachers and taught them more.
Now, 1st graders are just pure little beams of individuality that are as unique as the colors in the rainbow. Everything is rainbows in my little class. Any coloring project has at least one. That’s refreshing. No politics. No religion. No arguing over points of view. Just beautiful rainbows everywhere. Add a few unicorns for good measure with a watchful T-rex in the back and you can now understand 1st grade a little better. Yes. Unicorns, rainbows, and the occasional T-Rex.
I didn’t have much hope for this assignment. I was to lead a discussion on respect. One by one, each child gave their opinion on the matter. Handing me a blue or white cloth ribbon that I had just handed them minutes earlier, I would add it as a loop to our class chain. The lesson began without any direction other than that. 45 minutes later, we were in the same position, carrying on a really beautiful discussion about respect and what it looks like. I didn’t want the moment to end. Quite possible one of the most beautiful in my career.
That’s interesting, because I almost didn’t do the activity. Feeling overwhelmed and short on time, the ribbons were almost lost under a growing stack of papers needing correcting. I’m so glad that we had that time to discuss something more important than the 30 lesson on beginning and ending sounds.
It’s not especially wise to fall in love with a class of littles, but unavoidable. Their little jokes make me laugh to loudly. Their smiles and quick hugs nourish my soul. Helping them when they skin a knee or elbow comes naturally. I love each one of them as only their teacher can. June 2nd, a little bit of them will stay in my heart with all my former students, as this class marches away towards 2nd Grade. Even now, that thought makes my eyes swell just a little.
This is the REAL retirement year of My own choosing. Yesterday was the last time I’ll hold that lesson with a group of littles. I’m so thankful it made such a beautiful memory for us all.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are some tough hombres that give me a run for my money during the day. Corrections are quick and exact. It’s like Oliver and his new girlfriend when they hit a snag. Lots of growling, a few barks, but no blood when the disagreement is done. Yes. That’s 1st grade.
I found out that a 6 year old knows more than most adults about respect. What must they think as they watch adults behaving badly? Perhaps we should ask them for solutions to many grownup problems? They would surely have ways to solve problems in the most kind ways.
After the lesson was over, we walked in a nearly perfect line to the front of the school to place our chain on the school bulletin board. Ours was the first and only. I thought back to just an hour before when this bullheaded teacher sat on the carpet thinking about the phonics lesson that wouldn’t be taught. What an old poop! School isn’t about how many instructional minutes are in a day. It’s about love and respect. Math and reading are important, of course, but there is so much more to 1st grade.
After all, as any 1st grader already knows, life isn’t worth living without love and respect. They told me so yesterday. All 20 littles, sitting around a lettered carpet in a brick school house at a wide spot in the road in our dusty little town off the interstate. Love and respect. Remember that.
As I turn up the collar on My favorite winter coat This wind is blowing my mind I see people in the street With not enough to eat Who am I to be blind Pretending not to see their needs?
I’m gonna make a change For once in my life It’s gonna feel real good Gonna make a difference Help to make it right
A summer of thinking hard On hot desert sands One girl’s mind on a roll They chase each other on the wind you know With nowhere to go That’s why I want you to know
I’m starting with the gal in the mirror I’m asking her to change her ways No message could be any clearer If you wanna make the world a better place Take a look at yourself and make a change
I’ve been a victim of A selfish kind of love It’s time that I realize That there are some with no home Not a nickel to loan Could it be really me Turning to leave them alone?
A mustang deeply scarred My own broken heart And a storm-blown life of petty little dreams
They follow the pattern of the wind You see ‘Cause they got no place to be
It all begins with me
I’m starting with the girl in the mirror I’m asking her to change her ways No message could be any clearer If you wanna make the world a better place Take a look at yourself and make a change
You gotta get it right While you got the time ‘Cause when you close your heart Then you close your mind!
Change
**********
Autumn is a beautiful time of year to reevaluate life. The desert winter will soon cloak my dusty little wide spot in the road here in Northwestern Nevada. Realizing how very blessed I am in this life, I need to stop sniveling in my soup. The time for personal action has arrived.
Hurricane Ian and it’s massive destruction has awakened the good in millions of people. Disasters always do. Please remember the disasters right on our local streets. Be a Hometown hero and look for ways to help in your own community, even if only by donating a bag of groceries to the local food bank. We can all stand to look in the mirror once in awhile. Might be surprised what changes can be made if we just try.
More tomorrow.
Thank you to the genius of Michael Jackson. I hope it’s okay that I changed the words a bit, Michael. Didn’t think you would mind too much.
The days are flying by now. In two weeks, I’ll be talking to parents during conferences about the children we both know and love. This will be followed by Nevada Day and Halloween as we race towards the Veteran’s Day and the Thanksgiving holiday. Insane how fast time is rolling on.
I’m settling in to life as Mrs. Hurt, although not without some bumps along the way. This is truly a young person’s game. I knew that going in. Now it slaps me in the face every time there is another computerized requirement. I suppose this is great training for life ahead as the professional writer, but, the training is brutal. I’ll never, ever be fluent in computer issues. That’s just a fact. Like trying to run a race with one leg. I know how my struggling children feel. I’m struggling, too.
I need to remember that when frustration arises as I teach reading to littles. Their minds are not geared the same as mine. They want videos, games, and instant gratification. Quite frankly, to them, learning to read is as boring as watching paint dry.
Yesterday, I turned the bunch loose with Dry-Erase Markers on my white board. It is enough to stop one’s heart watching littles equipped with 10 wide tipped black markers. They were to write as many words as they could think of in 8 minutes. It was amazing to watch 16 littles do their best to share, cooperate with a partner, and write words. They are truly adorable littles and I am so glad their mine for the year.
During sharing, a little boy had something interesting to tell.
“I will tell you all. I love girls. Old ones. Young ones. Girls are beautiful.” End of sharing. Profound and from the heart. I smile a lot when I’m with my little friends.
Homecoming alert!!! The Vaqueros are coming! The Vaqueros are coming!
Today will be a day to play, laugh, and rest. Our high school mascot is the Vaquero. Why? Not sure. The name doesn’t fit the culture here. I need to ask the Mysterious Marine who knows everything about our town, being a native and all. For goodness sakes, he holds high school track records in track!
The high school band, cheer leaders, and players are coming to the 1st-2nd Playground today for an assembly of the most fun time. Rowdy kids will be allowed to yell as loud as they can to cheer on our football team!! Cheerleaders cheering!! A band playing!! A celebration will be had by all.
Then, around 1, we will all line the hallways to watch the first batch of Golden Eagles soar through the school. Each class has one. The first of the year are the cream of the crop. Such an honor to be chosen by your teacher to be student of the month. I plan to do a lot of cheering today as the fun unfolds. It’s about time we celebrate, because the stress level has been through the roof.
That being said, I need a weekend to regroup, regenerate, and enjoy some private time. The weekends fly by as fast as everything else. I want to enjoy every single minute and be back, fresh and frisky on Monday.
Whatever you do this weekend, make it grand. Even if it involves domestic chores. Just kick up the music and dance. Life is precious. Don’t waste it.
Framed by the window, she watched Jackson Elementary put on its best face for the most important night of the year. Open House. Her heart wished she could return to be one of the flaming stars of the night.
Miss Teacher Girl.
Back then, student dreams were carefully held in her heart, next to her love of teaching. Yearnings for one more shot at those days made her eyes leak tears that dropped one by one, sprinkling her blouse like tiny raindrops.
Over her classroom years, Open House was always the ultimate explosion of art, writing, books, and pride.
Open House.
The best of nights she remembered as she sat just a window away while watching Jackson Elementary across the street.
Mrs. Wells.
Sometimes, even in her twilight years, she’d be out to dinner, blankly suffering through her loneliness in a venue different than her kitchen table, when a voice from the past would catch her off guard.
“Mrs. Wells? Mrs. WELLS???????? Is it really you?”
Embarrassment caught her every time because the person asking was a stranger she had known as well as their parents, at one time. Someone who held one-year-long spot in her heart with all the others. A former student. She would always pause and respond with a “Yes” as she waited. Sometimes she would know, as she scanned her mental year books, like taking attendance. It was always in the smile. Sometimes she’d give in, saying, “Help me with this, because the years have robbed my brain and you’ve changed a bit.”
She’d love her students until the day she died, which was much closer than all those yard duty days as children raced with their wide open arms to hug the teacher they loved the most in the whole world.
Today, the colors of a brand new springtime were bold. She watched as Sam, now gray and hurting from the long day, was making his way across the school yard. Everyone loved Sam, the janitor. She knew well, on this most important night, Sam would have been at it at least 12 hours by now, with never a gruff word. Teachers would have asked, pleaded, and demanded without a “Thank You”. “Sam, Could You..” “Sam, Right now.” “Sam.” “Sam.” “Sam.”. The man was a saint.
The memories hurt her heart in a cruel way, as she found herself needing to close her eyes, remembering back to one of the best nights of her life. Open House in the infancy of a new century. The most beautiful of nights, a celebration of the taming of a wild, little boy, and the gentling of a brittle, new teacher.
“Jimmy. My Jims.”
She wept as she recalled a beautiful yet sorrowful vignette of past, present, and future. She needed to replay this story for herself one more time, wondering if something so precious could’ve really occurred in a generic classroom over months and months.
“My Jims,” she thought, over and over.
If you could have only visited her innermost thoughts, in her very best story time voice it was this memory you’d have heard her tell. Yes. It had happened in that very new year, in a very new decade, now so long ago.
We met in first grade.
Madder than a hot hornet in a glass jar, that one. Small package of intensity. Rather like a molten shooting star. Something to be seen, but never touched. Streaking. Raging. White hot. He had so much reasons to rage in such a short life. My Jims. I’d watched him grow as he was assigned to teachers from Kinder to my 3rd Grade classroom door.
In those first few years, his fiery temper was the talk in the lunchroom. Overturned desks. Rantings. Raging’s. Temper turned outward, all the while, anger devoured him on the inside. Punishments came because he raged at himself so not even knowing why. Neither did anyone else. Tags. Detention. Estrangement from the others. Separation. Anger on top of anger for years as he grew up.
I asked for him, you know. I prayed he would come to me on an August class list. Year after year, anecdotal stories exploded as warnings. No sane teacher would willingly want this child disrupting her classroom . But, I wanted him. I saw through his exaggerated melodrama, to see a bright, bored, brilliant soul screaming for someone to notice. Raging for someone to demand he stop because there was something worth stopping for. I wanted that someone to be me. I waited for his years to add up to 3rd Grade.
With my new classroom roster in hand, his name RED and UNDERLINED, I found his cum-file filed attached with “year’s-gone” actions that were Un-acceptable. Un-tolerated. Un-understood. Yes. I had to agree. They were all that. Past offences, now expected behavior by everyone in the school. Except me. I filed them away unread.
We’d make a new file. He’d find his good. I wanted to know why he hurt. I wanted to be the one to help. The one to change his course, while helping him set a new one. I didn’t want to know his previous path. I wanted to be the one to draw the road map. He would come with me for the ride.
The first days were rocky. Constant detours. Turning out on muddy roads. Pit stops in the middle of no-where.
On one of the worst, we had been at odds all day. By mid-afternoon our differences escalated into a picture prior teachers had vividly painted for me time and again. Jimmy could take no more. After spitting verbal daggers at me through clenched teeth, his legs chose flight. Out the door and into the playground he flew, with 15 other students sitting in wide-eyed amazement. Controlled and with purpose, Jim’s and I struggled verbally, him like a Marlon on a reel. He took the line and ran with it, I reeled him back in with a call to his mother to report on his actions. He took the line and ran further. I tired him with demands of compliance. I finally won. In the safety of our classroom, he was back in his chair quietly working, respectfully spent. Never again to flare or flee. He’d returned to Room 20 of his own choosing. The road to goodness and light. He made the choice to avoid certain and known embankments and cliffs, a choice made in his heart. He told me.
He shared so many feelings with those tiger eyes that softened from steel to chocolate over the months we built our team. After that day, I let him drive sometimes, a tiring teacher as the year drove on. I didn’t know the direction he would like to journey. It turned out, he was a good driver. We almost never turned off anymore, unless there was something we both want to see. He read our map quite well. A solid compass guided his heart.
The days leading up to Open House were tension filled on my part. I wanted to race, breaking all speed limits to make our destination before parents arrived to visit Room 20 on April 21 at 6:30pm. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember there is a pace for every activity. A proper speed is needed, less you might lose young passengers clinging on the roof with their bare fingernails. Take the corners gently. Remember bathroom breaks. Be sure to look at the landscape. Encourage them. Love them. That’s tough when you have 16 tired passengers asking “How Much Longer, Mrs. Wells?”
The day before the big event, Jimmy came to me during recess with a question.
“Mrs. Wells? Are you sure you are coming tomorrow night?”
“Jims, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. It’s the most special of nights for a teacher, too. I’ve found it to be magical.”
He pondered this, as many of his past experiences had not held a magical quality. Often, his mom, exasperated and beyond humiliation, had chosen to stay at home in hiding.
“Mrs. Wells? If I dress up really nice for Open House and you dress up really nice, do you think we could dance?”
I was taken aback? In this day and age? Dance with a student? This student? This little boy that had been the source of so many discussions about proper behavior and good choices? My little friend? My co-driver on this year long journey of discovery? This student maligned and allowed destructive freedoms until he arrived to find safety with me?
I found myself smiling and telling him. “Of course!” as if it was the most natural question in the world.
The night arrived. I didn’t wear a dress, but I did wear black. As the children and parents came to “Oohh” and “Aahh”, I remembered that Open House was the most special night of the year, not only for them, but for me. In my mind, I was, again, in grade school, remembering my special nights. I was, again, a young single mom with my beloved sons, amazed at their accomplishments. I was, again, a middle-aged teacher on my very first Open House, and I was, again, the Grandmother wishing I could be in two places at once to see my oldest Grandson’s Open House unfolding across town at the very same hour.
As music softly played, the door opened, and there he was there with Brother and Mother. He had dumped the grubby boy clothes. There was someone else in his place. A little person lost between brat-hood and adolescence. His hair combed and him shining. Eyes sparkling. Graying, white, hand-me-down shirt with Dad’s tie around his neck. Tubbed and Scrubbed. But more than that, smiling from his soul through his chocolate eyes. Jimmy.
He came to my side, and quietly asked if I remembered.
I said I’d been waiting.
After listening to the music playing, he was momentarily troubled.
“I thought it would be violins.”
We’d make do with saxophones and the chatter of a busy room. Immediately, shyness overtook him and he said we would have to wait. I smiled and continued with the night.
Fifteen minutes later, the softest tap I felt on my shoulder.
“Mrs. Wells. It’s time.” Nerves crinkled his brow. His feet wiggled nervously in his hand-me-down dress shoes, polished for just this moment.
Yes, it was time. Time for us to celebrate this amazing evening and success. Celebrate his growth into someone he liked most of the time. Celebrate smiles and hugs.
“Celebrate life,” as he would say.
We went near the music, and we danced.
We talked, while Mom and Brother laughed as they looked on. They hadn’t experienced the journey. The wrong turns we’d corrected. The flat tires. The anger. The missed landmarks. Now, these were in our rear view mirror. There would be no more Un-acceptable, Un-wanted, or Un-Anything added to his cum folder. In fact, just a string of “A’s” he’d earned for the first time in his life, while finding pride in doing so.
Together, we had made it through 3rd Grade.
As we created a twirly, awkward, heart-smiling, “3rd Grade-Magical” dance, my love of teaching was apparent to everyone there. His new love of learning poured through his smiles shining back to me. His heart sang sweet “Thank You, Mrs. Wells” to mine. Forever one of the moments in which I knew, with certainty, I was my version of The Best Teacher Ever.
“Jimmy. My Jim’s. We dance on in my heart, sweet child. 3rd Grade Special you will forever be to me.”
Returning to the present, new parents were arriving bringing their shining children brimming with excitement. Kate Wells smiled and settled in for the show. She, Mrs. Wells, framed by the window and surrounded by her beautiful memories. She watched, her smile affirming all that goodness right outside her door.
Joy Hurt — Spring 2000 — And yes, I was Mrs. Wells. My student — Bailey. A great heart. A wonderful boy who made me a better person for having known him.
Getting up at 3:30 AM to write before work is a challenge. When the website goes down it makes it all for nothing. This morning, I have already talked to India about the problem, but my writing time has vanished.
The last two days have been trying to use a word nicer than the one in my head. Monday, I was at work by 5:30 am. I got home that day at 5:00 pm. Yesterday, I was at work by 5:30 am. I got home last night at 7:15 pm.
I will regroup and be back tomorrow when the computer is not glitching and I am not………..complaining.
Over twenty years ago, on another playground a sweet little red-headed girl with the biggest blue eyes became my heart friend. The best conversations happen on the playground. That’s where true friendships are formed. The lasting kind. My little red-headed friend is now almost 30 with a beautiful life all her own. She is earning her doctorate at University of North Carolina to help little children. We remain heart friends to this day. It doesn’t get better than that, or so I thought.
It has been a long six weeks, as I now enter the 7th. I have decided the sixth week is so bad because the brain is turning to mush. At week 7, the numbness sets in as the expectations and requirements bury a teacher in e-mails and paperwork. This is why recess is so vital. I’m pretty sure my littles feel the same.
If the weather permits, I take the long walk across the gravel playground to the lawn. Beautiful, lush, green and inviting lawn. There are the lawn kids. The monkey bar kids. The basketball kids. The tree kids. I prefer to be with the lawn kids. The kind that look deep into the grass to discover the life of the roly-poly. Roly-poly’s are those little bugs (not real bugs) that roll into little balls. Heck, they fascinate me, too.
There are those that are itching to do their summersaults and cartwheels. The football kids. The runners. The lawn lovers. I fit in the last category. I love lawn, and our school has the most beautiful lawn anywhere around.
As I was walking over the gravel to the lawn (a good walk for an old gal), a very quiet and lovely young girl joined me. She is struggling in 1st grade, slowly catching up, but struggling. Quiet and shy, it takes a lot for her to find her voice, so I was pleased that she decided to take the long walk beside me.
She began speaking about her beloved Grandmother and how much she loves being with her. Grandmother helps her with everything that grandmother’s do. They love doing math together. They read together and have a blast playing. In our conversation it became obvious that she adores this woman she calls “Grandma”.
We were almost to the lawn when she started to talk about her spiritual growth with Grandma. The sweetest things can be learned in the quiet of a walk together.
“Mrs. Hurt, my Grandma is teaching me all about Jesus. Do you know who Jesus is, Mrs. Hurt?”
In a school setting, this subject came from left field in just the way I needed. It was a jolt to my system. Here was a child making sure her teacher believed in Jesus. In 22 years, this conversation has never been one I’ve had with a student. With such a faint voice, I wondered if I had heard her correctly, but of course I had.
“Yes. Of course. I believe in Jesus. Couldn’t get through the day without him.”
This was so strange, I wondered if this was a set up? Was there someone behind us, listening? But no, just brilliantly blue little eyes looking up at me with the purest of hearts. In that very moment, I had to smile, knowing God has always brought me to the children I needed. Littles that would teach me as much as I would teach them. Probably more.
We discussed the churches we attend. Grandma takes her to two different places. At one point two other little girls joined us, but were disinterested in our conversation and left. A good thing because I can’t be holding seminary on the school playground, as much as I might like to.
Recess was different yesterday. Something changed. I’ve been praying for angels to surround my classroom to take away the heat. I’ve asked them to shield the doorway, keeping away those with ill intent. I never expected a pint sized Evangelist to council me on the way to the lawn under a perfectly glorious desert sky.
Miracles surround us every day. The smallest little things occur that many people might miss. I could’ve been talking to another teacher or blowing my whistle to stop unwanted behaviors. I could’ve been tending to a scraped knee or listening to a tattle, but I wasn’t. I was listening to my little as she asked me an important question.
Boy am I glad I knew the answer!
“Yes. Of course. I believe in Jesus. Couldn’t get through the day without him.”
Skipping along the yellow brick road, somewhere I landed in Oz and hadn’t realized it. Who knew purple potatoes would thrive in the desert? Certainly not this gardener. I never thought of planting such a thing, let alone enjoying a 10 pound harvest of the beauties. Thank goodness for the Mysterious Marine and his bountiful garden. By the way, his were prettier than these in the stock photo.
The last few days have been the best kind of normal. These days each Friday afternoon arrives with a gigantic sigh at 3:30 pm. With a week of stress and strain in the rear view mirror, weekends are now to be enjoyed without worry of kids or classroom.
Friday night, I ventured into a place that I’ve never been. In such a tiny town, there are still so many discoveries to be made. This weekend began at the bowling alley, where many very tired and stressed out teachers met to laugh and share a cold drink. With my choice being a tall glass of ice water, it was fun to sit and listen to these wonderful women that give their days to children. We are all growing our town one little child at a time. It was nice to meet these gals in a different setting.
With a dinner date looming, I had just enough time to laugh a bit and then it was time to dash. Now, how often does a gentleman prepare fresh caught Alaskan Salmon reeled in on his very own line? The Mysterious Marine is a man of many talents, cooking being the most special of all. He can turn anything into a marvelous meal. Everyone who knows me well knows this. Fish and I don’t get along. Ever. This man has introduced me to a different kind of fish. The fresh from the ocean kind. Although it will never be my #1 meal request, under his watchful eye, fish is delicious.
On Saturday, it was time to retrieve Oliver from his delightful time at Puppy Camp. He was worn out in the best kind of way. Then, it was on to a day of shopping at Costco. Just as I remember from so long ago, Costco had everything I needed and more. From packaged rotisserie chicken breast to Gummy Halloween Candy Eyeballs for my kiddos, walking the aisles was so much fun. In 1989, the first Costco opened in Fresno, California. What amazing things they sold then. Costco products have changed over the years, but it still holds treasures of the best kind.
In the evening, still stuffed from lunch, MM and I decided to skip dinner. Sitting outside on his deck under the beautiful desert sky, he decided it was time for a down home potato harvest. And so it began. Truly, I haven’t had this much fun in awhile. Just under the soil, we found at least 10 pounds of purple potatoes of every shape and size. Big ones. Little ones. Misshapen ones. Ones that were perfectly formed. All purple. In a matter of minutes, the harvest was over, while we continued to marvel at the crop. If you have never planted potatoes, do it next year!
Yesterday was a day for church and family. Greeting all my gal-pals in the House of God was nourishment for my soul. Sunday has become my day of rest and worship. A time to think about the upcoming week and all the duties and responsibilities that wait. With a visit to a sweet Mom and a turkey dinner with all the fixin’s, the weekend evaporated. I enjoyed every last moment.
Purple potatoes are now my vegetable of choice. The potato harvest is over, but the memory will live on. A weekend of friends, family, and autumn harvest. It just doesn’t get better than that in this little dusty town at the wide spot in the road off the interstate.
Whatever you do today, marvel at the smallest of blessings. Even when the days are their darkest, there is something worth smiling about. Find YOUR purple potato. You might need to scratch the surface a bit to find it.
Rain. Beautiful rain. As I write this, the rain is falling on Winterpast creating a relaxing atmosphere. Wonderful, because life right now is anything but relaxing. As Adele says, “I created this storm, it’s only fair I have to sit in its rain”. Such are the crazy days I spend under the weight of work related demands.
The children are my rock. 20 littles that are trying their very best to do their very best. They have finished all their initial testing, which took focus and thought. I’m proud to say not one hurried through, and because of that, I have a very high scoring group. That being said, they are littles that have more energy than I could have imagined. Rain yesterday cost them another recess. Keeping children busy for hours on end is an exhausting art. I’m hoping the rain this morning is gone by recess time this afternoon.
The bureaucracy, on the other hand, will be the reason I will truly retire with a party and trip to Hawaii planned for June. It will be the party I should have had but never did. One with BBQ, friends, music, and laughter. This time, I am sure. No more. I have hit the organizational wall and will not longer subject myself to moronic demands. As VST would have commented, “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze, Darlin’.”
In my darker moments, I’ve hoped for terrible evaluations. Performance evals so bad that the district will never hire me back if I ever get the insane idea to try this again. Hahahaha. Don’t worry. I’m sure you all remember how the A- nearly did me in this summer. Giving my all is how I role in the classroom. My students were given to me by God and I can see reasons why we’re spending these next months together. They need me as much as I need them. Any other craziness is just that and I will ignore as much as I can.
Of course, today is payday. That sweetens the experience a wee bit. Money was never the driving force, but I won’t complain about the automatic deposit once a month. I just wanted to teach one more year. Ah, if only it were that simple.
Winterpast is a lonely place these days with Oliver in puppy camp. Mysterious Marine has been keeping me fed and in laughter during the evening hours with dinner invitations. To have a gentleman know his way around the kitchen is something I haven’t experienced in my entire life. My Dad was too busy. VST juggled everything he could throughout our 32 years together. The kitchen is still a foreign land to me, especially when I’m exhausted at the end of the day. Just like that, in walks the most adorable guy in his Levi’s and t-shirt to whip up a little steak and lobster, just because.
Just yesterday, the seasonal shift caused my automatic tire sensors to alert me to low air pressure in two tires. Just like that, this adorable Marine came to my rescue to correct my tire pressure. Yes. Of course I could have done it myself. I’m learning I don’t need to do everything myself. Independence is a heavy cross. It’s nice to finally know the guy that can help at a moment’s notice.
Oy Vey in the very best way.
With autumn here, I need to dig out my sweaters, turtle necks, jeans, and hoodies. Two weeks ago, it was 104. This morning, 50 degrees in the middle of a downpour. That’s desert life.
Two days ago, as I left Winterpast, there was the most beautiful rainbow behind my house. The end was right there, just beyond the hill where I set VST free in that violent windstorm early in the summer. I took that as a sign. Everything really is as good as it seems, and it doesn’t get better than this. Busy days and happy evenings. I don’t know what pieces of the puzzle are yet to be found, but they are the happy ones I’ve been searching for. Of that, I have no doubt.
As for evaluations, testing, and other meaningless crap, it will come and go. Maybe I will make deadlines and maybe those deadlines will just pass silently with no comment from me. At this point it doesn’t matter. They can always fire me and I wouldn’t complain.
Whatever you do today, look for hidden rainbows. Life is wonderful. If we didn’t learn another lesson through the horrors of Covid, we should’ve learned that every single second is a blessing. Choose wisely those things that are important, and ignore those that are meaningless. Always choose a smile over a furrowed brow. Worry just makes us old before our time.
More tomorrow.
PS — To K — Today, you are free from some pretty heavy chains. Time to dance in the rain, Miss Skinny!!!! Can’t wait for the 7th!!!!!
