During the first few years of my teaching career, I carpooled with a fellow English teacher whose schedule matched mine since she stayed at school late to coach volleyball and I was there to work with the newspaper and yearbook staffs.
One evening as we drove home after dark, we laughed about the fact that the majority of our students seemed to think we were some sort of robots that somebody ran around and plugged it just before 8 o'clock every morning and unplugged sometime around 3:30 in the afternoons. At least, that was the best explanation we could come up for with our students' surprised looks if they happened to see us in a grocery store or mall outside of school hours; it seemed never to occur to them that we had lives outside our classrooms.
Those same students appear to be the elected officials who are accusing classroom teachers of draining state treasuries and causing the mounting debts every state and, indeed, the nation are facing. My own state has recently proffered plans to reduce teacher salaries, implement "furloughs" (which is French, I guess, for layoffs without pay), and other steps to reduce this huge and terrible expenditure for education. In our state, the future looks bright: Barbara Bush herself has published at least one editorial that notes that by some measure (or more) we already rank 49 out of 50 states, and with a few deft tweaks, I'm pretty sure we can make it right on down to 50 on several.
I'm pretty sure the reason our state hasn't started a stink about busting teacher unions is that we don't have them, and I haven't heard our legislators say—yet—that teachers have "cushy" jobs because they only have to work from 8:30 to 3. The ones who say that, of course, are the ones my friend and I were laughing about; I'm pretty sure we never dreamed they would be making such short-sighted but damaging decisions.
I don't know that I've heard any legislator anywhere acknowledge that the only way anyone can enter this profession is with at least one college degree, and I don't hear any of them suggesting that their reduction plans will help the younger ones pay off their college loans.
Alpha Bitch seems to know better. I have had a serious student overload with insufficient or insufficiently qualified teaching assistants for the past four semesters. What that has meant is that my day normally starts between 6:30 and 7 in the morning with grading papers until noon or so, when I hop in a shower and dress to go to my offices so I can prepare for a teach class, counsel students, and handle the "administrative" parts of my jobs—all of which typically takes me until 6 or later at night. Weekends are not much different from weekdays except that I don't go to the office, but often my Saturdays and Sunday mornings are consumed by grading time.
That doesn't include time to keep up with changes in theory, technology, or other factors that affect my ability to be a good teacher; those fall into the "after 6" time frame, when I can relax at home with my laptop and download and read relevant literature through the university library and occasionally participate in online meetings for like-thinking souls.
Of course, I have the relative luxury of grading at home because I'm a university instructor. When the kids were small and I taught in public schools, I was determined not to take home anything I didn't have to so I could have some time with my children. I discovered that if I planned very carefully, I could get to school on time at 7:30 a.m., work straight through until 5, and make it back to the day care before closing time. That gave me a few evening hours before their bedtime to spend with the kids, and usually I could finish up last-minute tasks after I tucked them in.
That wasn't a perfect plan, of course. Since I taught English, I had to make exceptions from time to time to take home major writing projects or exams to grade, and except for the "faculty improvement" sessions on student holidays and the required continuing education courses I took during the summer, I had no time in my schedule to keep up with changes in anything, so 12 years into my career I was still teaching pretty much the same way my teachers had taught me 20 years before. I think I was a pretty good teacher; I think that if I had had time to continue to learn as well as to teach, I'd have been even better. But keeping my commitment to "close to 9 to 5" was hard enough without the additional effort of my own education.
At any rate, Alpha Bitch seems to understand something about what it's like to be a teacher. I got up this morning with my usual pile of papers to grade and settled into my easy chair, but AB set up a whine to go outside. I let her out and left the door open when I went back in, but she followed me and set up the whine again. I decided I could give up a couple of minutes on a Saturday morning to play fetch with her, so I picked up our ball chunker to toss it for her.
After a couple of tosses, AB caught the ball and took it back into the house, watching to see if I was following. When I got back to my chair, she started to whine again. Frustrated, I picked up my papers and pencil and followed her back out. She led me over to my favorite patio chair and lay down at its foot.
I think she knew that I needed to be grading, but she also knew I deserved to enjoy the spring weather.
Now if she could just get that across to the legislators.....
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A fun guy
While Darling Daughter and her Prince Charming and I were at the wedding last weekend, PC told me a story that still makes me chuckle. I hope I can tell it right here; it's just too precious to lose.
PC probably met the kids' grandparents the first time he came back to Texas after he moved to Los Angeles, and Granddad spoke fondly of him frequently in the months before he died; if he had any reservations about him, he never let me know.
On one of their visits, PC had told a joke as a way of making conversation:
A mushroom walked into a bar, but the bartender told him, "We don't serve your kind."
"Why not? I'm a fun guy!" came the answer.
PC figured the joke was innocuous enough for a fourth-grader, so he was a little flummoxed when Granddad didn't laugh. The English teacher in me had quickly processed the joke this way:
Okay, the joke is supposed to be on a mushroom being a fungi, but that doesn't work because "fungi" is plural. If PC just told it wrong, maybe two mushrooms walked into the bar, but then it would be "fun guys," and that wouldn't work, either. So the joke has to depend on the listener knowing that mushrooms are fungi but not being too picky about whether "fungi" is plural or singular. I can do that.
But I also knew Granddad, and he couldn't possibly have been upset about the grammar error. He held a college degree and had graduated from Baptist seminary so he could serve a career as an Air Force chaplain, but he admitted that he had struggled with English all his life and had worked hard to get through school. The fungus/fungi problem would probably never have made his radar.
Then PC told me the rest of the story:
Granddad had let the joke hang in the air for a couple of beats, then broke the uncomfortable silence with his simple explanation:
"I just don't like those racial jokes," he said.
PC probably met the kids' grandparents the first time he came back to Texas after he moved to Los Angeles, and Granddad spoke fondly of him frequently in the months before he died; if he had any reservations about him, he never let me know.
On one of their visits, PC had told a joke as a way of making conversation:
A mushroom walked into a bar, but the bartender told him, "We don't serve your kind."
"Why not? I'm a fun guy!" came the answer.
PC figured the joke was innocuous enough for a fourth-grader, so he was a little flummoxed when Granddad didn't laugh. The English teacher in me had quickly processed the joke this way:
Okay, the joke is supposed to be on a mushroom being a fungi, but that doesn't work because "fungi" is plural. If PC just told it wrong, maybe two mushrooms walked into the bar, but then it would be "fun guys," and that wouldn't work, either. So the joke has to depend on the listener knowing that mushrooms are fungi but not being too picky about whether "fungi" is plural or singular. I can do that.
But I also knew Granddad, and he couldn't possibly have been upset about the grammar error. He held a college degree and had graduated from Baptist seminary so he could serve a career as an Air Force chaplain, but he admitted that he had struggled with English all his life and had worked hard to get through school. The fungus/fungi problem would probably never have made his radar.
Then PC told me the rest of the story:
Granddad had let the joke hang in the air for a couple of beats, then broke the uncomfortable silence with his simple explanation:
"I just don't like those racial jokes," he said.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Missing cheerleader
Darling Daughter was in town all last week with her little Junkyard Dog in tow. JD is a wonderful little beast, but she's used to being the only dog in town: Darling Daughter slipped her into the apartment complex under the no-dogs-allowed radar, so JD has to readapt whenever she finds herself around other barking beasts. (She has cat friends in her apartment building, and she sort of "gets" them.)
Our house, on the other hand, features two large-ish dogs who are used to being part of the pack; Tank is a gentle giant at about 70 lb, and Alpha Bitch lives up to her name at 45. Tank has made Kitty a little skittish around dogs, although she's marginally okay with AB. With JD, maybe not so much.
A couple of evenings, Tank stuck his big head as far as he could under the side of my bed so he could sing along to Kitty, which I sort of assume drives her up into the box springs so he has at least a less-direct view of her. JD, who outweighs Kitty by only a few pounds, decided she could get in on that game.
But instead of sticking her head under the bed and wagging her tail outside while she sang, JD marched right in under the bed and barked her head off. That sent Kitty scampering through the bathroom toward the living room and the relative safety of the crawl space behind the couch, with JD and Tank hot on her heels. AB came flying off the bed to slow JD down, and Tank's plans to cut Kitty off at the pass were arrested while he stopped to check on the skirmish. Both times, Kitty got safely away.
The house dogs love to play fetch. AB mostly likes the super balls that I found for our ball chunker, but Tank will chase or catch just about anything we launch for him. Number One Son and I try to get out several times a day to play with them so they can get their exercise, and we didn't stop when JD was in town.
JD doesn't quite get the rules. She had to work a lot harder to get the ball from the larger dogs, who can jump higher and run faster than she, although she gives them both a good run for their money. And even if we played a sort of seditious keep away to simplify the job of getting the ball back, she occasionally came up with it; then we either encouraged AB to snitch it when JD dropped it (usually to bury it in the sand) or wound up prying it out of her jaws.
Between times, she parked herself behind the other two dogs and barked. She might have been trying to get our attention so we would throw the ball to her (which was long since futile), but she appeared just to think it was her job to bark until we threw it, because she shut up as soon as it was in the air. NOS and I are pretty good at ignoring barking when the dogs are outside as long as we know what the cause is and we don't appear to be annoying the neighbors, so we mostly just let her bark and laughed back at her and called her the cheerleader.
Yesterday was our first day without JD around. I work at home in the mornings, and usually I toss the ball a few times when I take "coffee breaks" a couple of times during the day, but yesterday they weren't very enthusiastic about the game. NOS played with them a couple of times, but their play also seemed to end sooner than usual.
Today NOS spent most of the day in his room, so playtime was up to me. I worked at home all day today, so I took one play break during the morning, but only AB played, and that wasn't for very long. This afternoon, only Tank seemed to want to play, but he only took a few balls before he decided to go in, too.
It can't be the weather; today has been mild and bright. It can't mean they're off their feed; I've made sure they're both eating just fine. It can't mean they're feeling lonely; they both have each other and the cat.
I think they miss their cheerleader.
Our house, on the other hand, features two large-ish dogs who are used to being part of the pack; Tank is a gentle giant at about 70 lb, and Alpha Bitch lives up to her name at 45. Tank has made Kitty a little skittish around dogs, although she's marginally okay with AB. With JD, maybe not so much.
A couple of evenings, Tank stuck his big head as far as he could under the side of my bed so he could sing along to Kitty, which I sort of assume drives her up into the box springs so he has at least a less-direct view of her. JD, who outweighs Kitty by only a few pounds, decided she could get in on that game.
But instead of sticking her head under the bed and wagging her tail outside while she sang, JD marched right in under the bed and barked her head off. That sent Kitty scampering through the bathroom toward the living room and the relative safety of the crawl space behind the couch, with JD and Tank hot on her heels. AB came flying off the bed to slow JD down, and Tank's plans to cut Kitty off at the pass were arrested while he stopped to check on the skirmish. Both times, Kitty got safely away.
The house dogs love to play fetch. AB mostly likes the super balls that I found for our ball chunker, but Tank will chase or catch just about anything we launch for him. Number One Son and I try to get out several times a day to play with them so they can get their exercise, and we didn't stop when JD was in town.
JD doesn't quite get the rules. She had to work a lot harder to get the ball from the larger dogs, who can jump higher and run faster than she, although she gives them both a good run for their money. And even if we played a sort of seditious keep away to simplify the job of getting the ball back, she occasionally came up with it; then we either encouraged AB to snitch it when JD dropped it (usually to bury it in the sand) or wound up prying it out of her jaws.
Between times, she parked herself behind the other two dogs and barked. She might have been trying to get our attention so we would throw the ball to her (which was long since futile), but she appeared just to think it was her job to bark until we threw it, because she shut up as soon as it was in the air. NOS and I are pretty good at ignoring barking when the dogs are outside as long as we know what the cause is and we don't appear to be annoying the neighbors, so we mostly just let her bark and laughed back at her and called her the cheerleader.
Yesterday was our first day without JD around. I work at home in the mornings, and usually I toss the ball a few times when I take "coffee breaks" a couple of times during the day, but yesterday they weren't very enthusiastic about the game. NOS played with them a couple of times, but their play also seemed to end sooner than usual.
Today NOS spent most of the day in his room, so playtime was up to me. I worked at home all day today, so I took one play break during the morning, but only AB played, and that wasn't for very long. This afternoon, only Tank seemed to want to play, but he only took a few balls before he decided to go in, too.
It can't be the weather; today has been mild and bright. It can't mean they're off their feed; I've made sure they're both eating just fine. It can't mean they're feeling lonely; they both have each other and the cat.
I think they miss their cheerleader.
Monday, April 11, 2011
April wedding
I can't remember when I didn't love April in Texas, so when Darling Daughter told me her best friend was getting married in April, I was pretty sure the bride had made a pretty good choice.
Darling Daughter stepped right into the wedding arrangements, offering to help in any way she could with preparations and planning. The bride has two sisters and several aunts who were eager to pitch in, too, so when she put out the word that this was to be a "country church picnic" wedding at her family's lake house, the calicos and ginghams and Mason jars took center stage. When I got there, streamers of cotton "flags" were draped through the trees, the tables had been covered with bright "quilt top" cloths, and several rows of old-fashioned wooden folding chairs had been lined up in front of an arbor decorated with paper flowers.
About the time the wedding was set to start, the bride's younger sister rushed over to where her brother and sister-in-law were allowing me to cuddle their baby. Little Sister explained to brother that his job was to walk his wife and their baby down the aisle, after which she was to be seated on the front row (next to a shade tree where the stroller would be parked) and he would take his place nest to the arbor. Clearly, the slip of paper Little Sister had in her hand was about it for "dress rehearsal" for the event, and she looked a little frantic about whether the members of the wedding party were likely to arrive at the right place, much less the right time.
A few minutes later, the wedding guests were sort of herded off in the direction of the chairs and a guitarist started playing soft music I didn't recognize. The guitarist turned out to be a member of the groom's band, and the music could have been something he wrote. Whatever it was, it was definitely nontraditional and pleasant, and I was pretty much hooked on the kind of wedding this was turning out to be.
The first person down the aisle was probably one of the groom's brothers, with a woman on his arm I believe to have been his sister or aunt. (I'm horrible names on a good day, and this crowd was way too far over my head for me to keep track.) The woman had the bride's little dog in her arms.
Each member of the wedding party came down the aisle with an escort—but instead of "groomsmen" escorting "bridesmaids," in this case the wedding party served as ushers to members of the family who wouldn't be at the front of the ceremony. I wasn't paying enough attention to who was with whom when the groom's family came in, but I'm pretty sure either he or his son by a previous marriage escorted in his mother. And the son stood at the front, right next to dad.
The bride's brother escorted in his wife, then took his place on the bride's side of the stage. How cool for the brother to be the bride's attendant! Maybe I just haven't been to enough weddings lately, but I loved it. Her two sisters were her other attendants, one escorted by her significant other and the other ushering in their grandfather. The bride appeared on the arms of both parents.
As the procession unfolded, I loved what I saw: not only was this the sort of nontraditional wedding I'd have loved for my own event in the early 70s. My mothers and sisters were champs about pitching in to bring my wedding together, but this one also involved the whole family in being a part of this union in ways mine didn't. It reminded me a little of the only Catholic christening I've ever attended, where the priest made a point of telling the parents and godparents that the ceremony was not just a matter of making the baby a Catholic but also of reminding them of their responsibility to be sure the child was raised right. In fact, the preacher at this wedding had a similar message of family and friends being important to ensuring that the marriage formed that day had all the help they could give to be sure it endures. I liked that.
The photographer took far to long with the "requisite" pictures. I can think of maybe five or six that make sense to me: the "big" new family, the bride and groom with each other's families, and a posed shot or two of the bride and groom. But the hour or two this photographer spent on those poses mostly kept the bride away from people who wanted to wish her well and be on their way; with all the "photographic overload" we have these days, I'd rather have the photographer roam around for an hour and capture candids that might ultimately have more meaning.
Once the photographer finished the list, the bride and groom were free to enjoy their evening, and enjoy they did. The "church picnic" had the requisite iced tea and lemonade, but it also had a couple of washtubs filled with iced-down soft drinks, a couple of kinds of wine, and several cases of beer. Except for the beautiful gown the bride wore, the wedding had not been "traditional" in very many ways, but after a washtub full of beer, it was certainly a celebration. As the sun went down, the music came up, and the laughter came up with it.
The bride confessed to me a time or two that the boning in her strapless gown was somewhat less than comfortable, but she shed her shoes and kept the gown on right up until the party died down sometime after 2:30 in the morning. That made perfectly good sense to me: she must have forked over a fortune for that dress, and it's a shame to wear it for only a couple of hours. She danced a couple of waltzes with her groom and one with her father, clearly relishing the sweep of the full gown as she twirled, and then she took as many opportunities as she could to turn and swirl and run in it, carefree as an eight-year-old.
A little after midnight, she was dancing on the lawn with a clutch of her friends from high school who had made it to the show, when she mistepped and fell. Once on the ground, she rolled into a somersault and came up laughing. Her groom—who had long since changed into jeans and a t-shirt—watched her play and observed drolly, "My bride is getting grass stains on her wedding gown. I love it."
I don't think the family and friends will have much of a challenge in helping this marriage last.
Darling Daughter stepped right into the wedding arrangements, offering to help in any way she could with preparations and planning. The bride has two sisters and several aunts who were eager to pitch in, too, so when she put out the word that this was to be a "country church picnic" wedding at her family's lake house, the calicos and ginghams and Mason jars took center stage. When I got there, streamers of cotton "flags" were draped through the trees, the tables had been covered with bright "quilt top" cloths, and several rows of old-fashioned wooden folding chairs had been lined up in front of an arbor decorated with paper flowers.
About the time the wedding was set to start, the bride's younger sister rushed over to where her brother and sister-in-law were allowing me to cuddle their baby. Little Sister explained to brother that his job was to walk his wife and their baby down the aisle, after which she was to be seated on the front row (next to a shade tree where the stroller would be parked) and he would take his place nest to the arbor. Clearly, the slip of paper Little Sister had in her hand was about it for "dress rehearsal" for the event, and she looked a little frantic about whether the members of the wedding party were likely to arrive at the right place, much less the right time.
A few minutes later, the wedding guests were sort of herded off in the direction of the chairs and a guitarist started playing soft music I didn't recognize. The guitarist turned out to be a member of the groom's band, and the music could have been something he wrote. Whatever it was, it was definitely nontraditional and pleasant, and I was pretty much hooked on the kind of wedding this was turning out to be.
The first person down the aisle was probably one of the groom's brothers, with a woman on his arm I believe to have been his sister or aunt. (I'm horrible names on a good day, and this crowd was way too far over my head for me to keep track.) The woman had the bride's little dog in her arms.
Each member of the wedding party came down the aisle with an escort—but instead of "groomsmen" escorting "bridesmaids," in this case the wedding party served as ushers to members of the family who wouldn't be at the front of the ceremony. I wasn't paying enough attention to who was with whom when the groom's family came in, but I'm pretty sure either he or his son by a previous marriage escorted in his mother. And the son stood at the front, right next to dad.
The bride's brother escorted in his wife, then took his place on the bride's side of the stage. How cool for the brother to be the bride's attendant! Maybe I just haven't been to enough weddings lately, but I loved it. Her two sisters were her other attendants, one escorted by her significant other and the other ushering in their grandfather. The bride appeared on the arms of both parents.
As the procession unfolded, I loved what I saw: not only was this the sort of nontraditional wedding I'd have loved for my own event in the early 70s. My mothers and sisters were champs about pitching in to bring my wedding together, but this one also involved the whole family in being a part of this union in ways mine didn't. It reminded me a little of the only Catholic christening I've ever attended, where the priest made a point of telling the parents and godparents that the ceremony was not just a matter of making the baby a Catholic but also of reminding them of their responsibility to be sure the child was raised right. In fact, the preacher at this wedding had a similar message of family and friends being important to ensuring that the marriage formed that day had all the help they could give to be sure it endures. I liked that.
The photographer took far to long with the "requisite" pictures. I can think of maybe five or six that make sense to me: the "big" new family, the bride and groom with each other's families, and a posed shot or two of the bride and groom. But the hour or two this photographer spent on those poses mostly kept the bride away from people who wanted to wish her well and be on their way; with all the "photographic overload" we have these days, I'd rather have the photographer roam around for an hour and capture candids that might ultimately have more meaning.
Once the photographer finished the list, the bride and groom were free to enjoy their evening, and enjoy they did. The "church picnic" had the requisite iced tea and lemonade, but it also had a couple of washtubs filled with iced-down soft drinks, a couple of kinds of wine, and several cases of beer. Except for the beautiful gown the bride wore, the wedding had not been "traditional" in very many ways, but after a washtub full of beer, it was certainly a celebration. As the sun went down, the music came up, and the laughter came up with it.
The bride confessed to me a time or two that the boning in her strapless gown was somewhat less than comfortable, but she shed her shoes and kept the gown on right up until the party died down sometime after 2:30 in the morning. That made perfectly good sense to me: she must have forked over a fortune for that dress, and it's a shame to wear it for only a couple of hours. She danced a couple of waltzes with her groom and one with her father, clearly relishing the sweep of the full gown as she twirled, and then she took as many opportunities as she could to turn and swirl and run in it, carefree as an eight-year-old.
A little after midnight, she was dancing on the lawn with a clutch of her friends from high school who had made it to the show, when she mistepped and fell. Once on the ground, she rolled into a somersault and came up laughing. Her groom—who had long since changed into jeans and a t-shirt—watched her play and observed drolly, "My bride is getting grass stains on her wedding gown. I love it."
I don't think the family and friends will have much of a challenge in helping this marriage last.
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