Friday, December 17, 2010

Orphans

Three days ago, on Tuesday, an hour before the phone call, I had finished a day of teaching and was writing lesson plans for today, when my wife and I were planning to arrive in Puerto Vallarta right about now.

It was my sister on the phone calling to tell me that she was with our mom at the hospital, and that it was time for me to come.

I left the next morning to cross the country so that I could be with Mom at what, that same evening, became her death bed.

Tomorrow is the first of two memorial services we will hold. It will be at the retirement home where Mom has spent the past 4 years living on a unit along with others who have memory problems.

My sister, from whose house in Virginia I am writing this, has been a weekly companion and caregiver for Mom during this time.

Our plans are fragile flags claiming country we hope to inhabit. The earth can shift in a second, changing boundaries, rivers, lives.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Downstream Bohemia Redux

We are looking forward to our upcoming visit to Yelapa, a small Mexican fishing village on Banderas Bay, accessible by boat from Puerto Vallarta. Ana Rosa, our landlady, has graciously invited us to share Christmas dinner with her family. We will be combining our vacation there with a trip to Guanajuato capital.

This is a re-post written after last winter's idyll.

As a schoolteacher, I get a two-week vacation every December. In lieu of a raise in these hard financial times, BFF was given extra time off. That allowed us to spend over a week in a tropical paradise—a small fishing village in Mexico to which the only reasonable access is a 45 minute boat ride. Heaven.

As a consequence of its isolation, there are no roads, and hence no cars in the village. Virtually all the heavy lifting is done by human, and occasionally mule, power. We were fortunate enough to have rented a casita overlooking the town pier, where most of the people and goods are offloaded from the small boats, called pangas, that arrive two or three each hour.

Upon arrival, crates of beer, produce, dry goods, plastic pipe, you name it, are unloaded and moved by a small team of men with wheelbarrows. They work industriously for 15, 20 minutes, or so after every boatload, fanning out through the labyrinth of uphill alleys and paths to the ferreteria, the several tiendas, or wherever anyone has a delivery. Then they come back with their wheelbarrows to the benches near the pier to sit, talk, laugh and rest until it’s time to do it all over again.

As a person who has spent most of his working life in manual labor, I appreciate both the effort and the satisfaction these laborers must feel with the rhythm of their day. But, I have to admit, more than that I appreciate simply being able to watch their muscular and good-natured ebb and flow.

One fellow in particular attracted my attention. He was older, and he worked more often than the others. Roundly built and dressed a little more shabbily, he wore a sweat-stained baseball cap over his thatch of black hair. He was good-natured, and greeted me with a friendly, “Hola, amigo,” whenever we passed. He was also tireless, humping load after over-loaded load up the winding cobblestones, back and forth, until all the goods had been moved. My name for him was “El hombre mas fuerte del pueblo.”

Over the course of several days, looking out over the pier from our balcony, I produced a not-very accomplished sketch of this gentleman. I then got it into my head to give him the sketch, as a sign of friendship and appreciation for his labor. Our last hours in Yelapa, I hunted “El Hombre” down. He seemed a little taken aback, but smiled and shook my hand. Leaving him, looking back, I saw that he had carefully folded the picture and put it into his pocket.

About half an hour later, as BFF and I sat nervously with our bags waiting for the possibility of a panga back home, “El Hombre Mas Fuerte” reappeared. The two of us endured smiles, awkward attempts to converse, and even more awkward moments of silence as we tried to think of how to converse, until it became clear that he had assumed the role of our protector and handler, assuring that we would make our boat safely without having to worry or lift a finger. On parting, we shook hands--the solidarity shake. “Gracias amigo, hasta el ano proximo.”

I look forward to seeing "El Hombre" [whose name I now know as Cipriano] again this year. I flatter myself to think he might still have, somewhere, that poor sketch I gave to him. What he gave to me is an enduring memory of friendliness that transcends borders.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Snow Day!

The weather here, two days before Thanksgiving, is colder than it's been for nearly 50 years. Yesterday evening the snow was blasting madcap out of the north, swirling wildly in the streetlights' halide haloes.

I woke early to moonglow on the back garden, reflecting brighter onto our bed than usual. Checked the school district's website for the news I knew would follow: school closed due to weather conditions. Yahoo for the break in routine!

Today, with customary good cheer, Saint Francis bears his burden of snow. The birds have returned, braving the chill now that the wind is not such a killer.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

RA 11 875 290

It’s been about 40 years since the much-anticipated day I separated from the US Army. I had been drafted during the last years of the Vietnam War, enlisted for language school, studied Russian for a year, gone to interrogator training, and spent 16 months stationed with a Military Intelligence detachment in Alaska.

It wasn't bad duty at all for that time, although it took me away from one path and set me on another one that for many years I resented.

I've pretty much put all that behind me though now, and hardly ever think about it anymore.

Tuesday, during writing class, we were working on personal narratives about a single event we remembered from our life. This is a new topic and I always begin by writing along with my students. The event that popped into my mind was something that happened during that time 40 years ago.

After writing, we share a little of what we've written. When I introduced my piece, these nine- and ten-year-olds were incredulous.

"You were in the Army?" “Mr. D, were you really in the Army?”

I assured them that although it was a long time ago, I had been indeed. Their response could hardly have surprised, moved and confused me more.

Each one of them applauded.

It wasn't just for me, of course. I stood for everyone who has ever worn the uniform of service to our country.

I can't say what prompted them to that simple and spontaneous act, but it seems churlish of me to hold resentment for something they recognize with such innocent gratitude and honor. Sure, it's much more complicated than that, but isn't it ever.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Liveblogging Halloween, 2010

We are not expecting many trick-or-treaters this year. There are child-filled enclaves here and there throughout the city, where a critical mass gives impetus to join roving hordes of young superheroes and villains, but we are not among them.

Our neighborhood's business district has joined most others in the area, encouraging parents to bring their kids into the shops for guaranteed plentiful and safe, if homogeneous, treats. Ever optimistic, though, BFF bought some Reece's Peanut Butter Cups and special Halloween Kit-Kats to tempt tiny revelers.

It isn't long after the sun has gone down, the ritual jack o' lantern been lit, and rooster head put in place, that we do indeed hear our first excited, high-pitched voices, and the doorbell rings. Let's see what 2010's Halloween brings:

6:37pm PST. Boy and girl both about eight years old, Transformer and Wonder Woman store-bought. Kit Kat and Reece’s each.

6:40. Four boys all about eleven, different costumes, mostly home-made except a Scream carrying a Pulaski. Cautioned to be careful with that dangerous tool while going down the steps, he hollers, “I will, it’s only for killing people.” Rooster doesn’t blink.

6:47. Cute little boy about three wearing perhaps a mutant turtle costume. Father wearing ear flap cap, smiling. Boy wants to stay and talk but we can’t understand him so we shut the door on his face. Just kidding.

7:07. BFF, going out on the porch for a smoke, offers the conciliatory observation that at least it's held off raining. Moments later she comes back in and whispers that she thinks we might have a Spanish-speaking family coming up. Her clue: "Hola," and "Gracias" heard from the street. They arrive! A little girl about three years old, not sure about the costume since she's wearing a coat over it. Very cute! Mother accompanies her as father remains at the curb holding an even younger child and speaking softly en espanol.

7:15. BFF is dispirited by the lack of neighborhood participation in the giving ritual, as evidenced by the few houselights offering welcome for costumed children, especially the little ones.

8:02. We get through dinner without interruption, counting only eight kids in all, but when BFF goes out to snuff the jack o' lantern's candle, she's met by our neighbor with his friendly and garrulous three-year-old boy dressed as a Holstein cow. A good close to the evening.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

What Moves Me

It was miserable weather today, but surprisingly not a bad commute. Here in one of the most famously rainy cities in the country, drivers are usually strangely mincing in their habits, braking at the first drop of precipitation, and then proceeding reluctantly and at a slug’s pace.

But swinging onto I-5 early this evening all was copacetic; especially with Miles Davis's 'Flamenco Sketches' popping up on the iPod to accompany me down the pike.

Ten minutes later, gliding Red Ed into the parking space in front of our house, IZ brought my “Best of the Best” playlist to an upbeat close with his ukelele version of 'Over the Rainbow.'

I’ve got 67 songs on the playlist that accompanies me on my daily commute —over five hours of music for the road. That's almost two week's worth of head-bobbing inspiration to replace profane grumbling behind the wheel.

It’s strange how proud we are, as a species it seems, of our musical tastes. Witness the bass-thumping lowriders we all recall from the too much time we've spent together at the same stoplight. Just about anyone is willing to share their favorite song at the drop of an octave.

Tomorrow morning I’ll get into Red Ed in the cold and rainy dark, and plug back into the beginning of “Best of the Best:” Van Morrison mumbling and moaning his way through 'Vanlose Stairway.'

A couple of months ago I read in the new Marcus Greil book that once the lyrics are written, the Man sings them for the sounds of the syllables rather than the words' meaning. That's why I've always heard 'Vanlose Stairway' as the more cryptic line, “We’ve lost their way,” I guess.

Van Morrison comes in second, on the iTunes playlist, after Tom Waits--the most frequently played--and tied with Neko Case and Bob Dylan.

Oh, I could go on and on, through BB King and John Lee Hooker, Lucinda Williams, Marshall Tucker Band and Mark Knopfler. Don’t forget Cesaria Evora and the Drive-by Truckers.

Somebody stop me!

Buena Vista Social Club. Billy Bragg and Wilco. Bettye Lavette and Bruce—

This is who I am. These are my values!

Blind Boys of Alabama! Joan Osborne!

This is what moves me!!

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Ahhh, Autumn

Is there any common, natural wonder more invigorating than a crisp autumn morning? Taking care of the usual Sunday chores, opening the back door, recycling bin in hand, I take a breath of that bracing air, and squint at the sun rising over leaves turning scarlet and plum. Steam billows off the shed's asphalt shingles as last night's frost evaporates in the spreading, chilly warmth.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Tough Afternoon in Class, With Kindness

Blain came late to school Wednesday—nothing unusual in that for him. What was a surprise were his apologies for the tardiness. After returning from PE, he remained cooperative, completing his brief spelling worksheet. And even held in for study hall during lunch recess, he finished a math test without complaint.

After lunch, however, he became angry with his writing partner, rose from his seat, throwing erasers and a pencil in Ben’s direction, and threatened to beat him up. He ran from the room, and walked quickly down to the end of the hall, but when I called for him to come back, he did, staying to calm down outside our door.

The last time this anger surfaced, Blain had shouted similarly at Ben while pressing a sharpened pencil into each of his own temples. That was the day before he was committed to the hospital for a week.

This was only his second day back.

At recess I walked with Blain to the office where our Family Advocate calmed him, and brought him back to our room just before the end of recess. He asked to not sit next to Ben, and not have to speak with him. I agreed. As I let the rest of the class in from outside, I spoke with Ben, relayed to him Blain’s wishes, and elicited Ben’s verbal agreement to cooperate.

After about ten minutes of class time, Ben moved from his seat and passed by Blain to the supply area. I did not see, nor did I observe, any interaction between the two. Blain, however, must have perceived something I did not. He rose from his seat and began loudly cursing his partner, two or three times loudly tossing the “f-bomb” as he gestured angrily, stumbling in circles.

I moved Blain, still shouting, through the door and had him again sit in the hall to calm down. About ten minutes after this incident, he was speaking relatively calmly to me, and agreed to go to the office to await his mother for early dismissal.

I spoke with the class and said the obvious: that Blain was upset. Mollie raised her hand.

“I think he has some problems,” she said sympathetically.

“We all have problems, don’t we, at some time?” I replied. “I have problems and I get upset. How many of you have had problems and gotten angry?”

Nearly everyone raised their hand.

“What do we do when someone has a problem, to help them feel better?”

“We can be nice to them.” “We can be nice to Blain.”

“Let’s do that.”

I love these kids. They are kind to one another. They understand.

Next week Blain transfers to a small program in our district for other kids similarly afflicted with demons.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Field Trip!

Today was the fourth grade's traditional field trip to the Washington State Corn Maze. A good time was had by (almost) all. Farajan was disappointed we couldn't navigate the hay bale maze as well: an unfortunate glass-half-empty girl. But, on the almost completely full side, we spent upwards of an hour deliriously lost in a field of corn manicured to the shape of our beloved state, had lunch with Creamsicles for dessert, saw the Pig Race (funny), the Duck Race (even funnier), and picked the pumpkin of our dreams from the pumpkin patch...oh, and rode home in a school bus singing songs and playing hand games, arriving back at school just in time for recess.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Friday Night


I’ve never been much of a boozehound,
But I really like my liquor:

Tequila straight,
With a beer chaser,
Every Friday Night.






Saturday morning is when I have
Second thoughts.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Indoor Recess

Raining like an old dog outside at noon. Indoor recess: teacher's bane and students' change of pace. Combine that with a full moon. Kind of crazy. We talked about it, the kids and me, at the end of the day. Agreed that next time it would be helpful if we got up and ran in place, did calisthenics.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Ipod Wisdom

Oh, am I ever full of life here
On the health club’s upright cycle,
Facing a bank of TVs silently presenting
College football games.

Ipod is in place, pumping
Bob Dylan into my ear.

“Forever Young!” Bob howls, and,
Head bobbing, my legs churn faster.
Up the burned calories!
Up the heart rate!

“Forever Young!’ Bob Dylan yowls, and
I agree with the sentiment, humping
Legs, heart, hands beating time,
Flailing my upright cycle.

Until
The Ipod shuffles to its
Next random selection:

And the "random selection" is? Check out That Oughta See Us Out blog. Or better yet, finish the poem yourself and send it in as a comment.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

First Day of School, 2010

This is the gist of the Rah-Rah speech I gave this morning to my 31 new Fourth graders:


Is everyone the same height?

Does everyone wear the same size shoe?

Does everyone learn the same way?

No, of course not. In none of those things are we all alike.

Some people are really fast at their basic math facts. Some can already read chapter books that are 300 pages long. Some draw beautiful pictures.

No two people are the same. But everyone belongs.

In this classroom we have a learning community.

A learning community is a place where everyone belongs—that’s the community part—and where everyone is trying to do their best—the learning part.

You might do your best at multiplication facts by learning strategies for finding the products, and by practicing with flash cards.

You might do your best at being a better writer by learning how to make a complete sentence, and how to organize what you write so it is more effective.

Whatever you are trying to learn, whether it’s math or writing or soccer or science, in order to do your best in our learning community there are five things you must do, and our success will be guaranteed:

  1. PAY ATTENTION
  2. ASK QUESTIONS
  3. TRY
  4. HELP YOUR CLASSMATE
  5. ACCEPT YOUR CLASSMATE'S HELP

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Adios al Verano

From my desk in our homely house at the northwest edge of the country, I can see the setting sun burning orange into an archipelago of clouds scattered above the horizon. The neighbor lady has rolled her week’s worth of trash and recycling to the curb for Monday pick up. Tomorrow, I say goodbye to another summer. Parents and kids? You have another week.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Custodians of Memory

I just got off the phone with Sis. Hard times for her lately. Mom continues to lose touch with her ability to behave appropriately, and Sis is bearing the brunt.

Four years ago Mom moved into a retirement community near Sis, into a wing called Comfort Cove, where they keep the ones who are losing their minds more quickly than most.

Of course, there has been deterioration. Through it all, though, Mom has remained almost always sweet, babbling goodnaturedly, and often touched with amusement. Lately, however, her occasional feistiness has begun to turn belligerent, angrily confused and ranting.

It was BFF's suggestion I send Sis a card. I wrote her a message, letting her know that I thought she was everything to Mom that a good daughter should be, and more. (It was Sis's care for Mom that an in-law had questioned, and that had occasioned today's tearful call to me.) I told Sis that she would always have my appreciation and respect for the blessing she was giving.

When I got through to Mom on the phone she spoke aimlessly, listlessly. Aimlessness is expected; she has great difficulty voicing a complete sentence that makes sense in the context of a conversation. She relies on stock phrases that she repeats quite often. She conflates me and and my dead dad.

Listlessness must be the effect of the Ativan she's now taking for anxiety. It was upsetting to not hear vitality in her voice--the sweet essence of our mom that has always shone through the hazy maze of her mind.

I kept repeating that I loved her, what a sweetheart and what a good mom she was, until she thought it was time to go.

Mom and Sis live on the opposite coast. I was last there in April. I used to go once a year. I'm feeling that I don't want to wait that long to see them again.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Oops

I don't remember
Why it was
I put all that Vicodin
In the glove compartment
Of my car.
But I'm glad I found it.



What happens next? Check out That Ought To See Us Out blog. Or better yet, finish the poem yourself and send it in as a comment.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Traditonal Summer Holiday

My daughters and I have a tradition of taking a summer camping holiday. We haven't made it every year the past decade or so, but most. This year we went to Mt. Rainier. Oh, the joy!

Three moments stand out:

First daughter and I walk along Sourdough Ridge, stopping to admire the views and wildflowers. She waits patiently as I pose scenery into pictures. We have time and place to appreciate together both our love of nature, and our pleasure in scuffhuffling up and down this rocky spine.

Second daughter follows me in creating balanced sculptures from among the river rocks. It’s something I have done for years, happily addicted to the tactile stimulation of the stones’ grain and heft. Add to that the concentration required to make subtle shifts to maintain balance...all while in a land of shattering beauty and vastness. What’s not to love?

After dinner I make a perfect fire. As the air turns chill, we chat until darkness seems to have suddenly developed around us. My daughters are separated by ten years and different mothers, but share a love of S’mores. They compare marshmallow roasting strategies while I facilitate. The crackling of the fire, the moving glow it throws on the wall of my tent, and mumble of their quiet, good-natured talk give comfort as I read myself to sleep.

“My daughters and I…” never rings truer than during these outings. It’s a good tradition.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

History 101

A week ago, an old friend, a high school girlfriend, happened to pass by in the ethernet and we ended up sharing what had been happening in our lives during the last twenty-five years or so. This is a slightly re-worked version of what I wrote to her:


My current, future and final wife and I first met about a quarter century ago in an arty bar downtown. It was, for both of us, love at first sight. Our first date a week later ended up lasting four or five days. She called in sick to work--"love-sick," we joked.

At that time I was living in a surplus elementary school that had been turned into a commune for less-than-successful artists. (A fellow communard had been dressed as a gypsy, telling fortunes, that night in the back of the bar.) We each made our living and studio quarters out of a classroom or two. My connection to the place was directing a couple of the resident dancers in a street performance that became popular the year before. My work for pay at that time, and for many years before and after, was as a self-employed gardener.

My second wife and I had been divorced for several years, and she had moved into another room at the school. We split custody of our 5-year-old daughter. During the half week she was with me, I lived at the school and took care of her. The rest of the time, I stayed with my lover in her apartment.

I remember standing outside her door at the beginning of our weekly sojourn, holding a bouquet of freesias; I could hear her exclaiming, “Oh boy,” as she came down the hall to let me in. In every way that matters we were and are, nearly perfectly suited for each other. We felt blessed, and for karmic payback we both volunteered as end-of-life caretakers for several people afflicted with AIDS.

She had a master’s degree from a prestigious university writing program, and had lived and worked in artists’ colonies in New York and California. She was working on a novel; her day job was coordinating temp help at a big law firm. At the end of that first summer—this was the mid-80’s—she spent several weeks in Guatemala doing research and writing.

We lasted together for two years. Living the bifurcated life, which was the only one that seemed possible, became too difficult, and we did not give enough credit to the love we had found together. Fights became more frequent and dramatic, until, when I thought it was finally over, I killed it for good by having a fling. She made it clear she didn’t ever want to see
me again.

Back at the schoolhouse commune, a female glass artist moved in next door and began flirting. I was flattered, drug-addled, and responded accordingly. A faulty rubber was credited with the birth of my second daughter. Using a sledgehammer, I broke open a doorway between our rooms, the three and a half of us now sharing both spaces.

Bowing to her father’s insistence that we cement our nascent family’s togetherness, we got
married in a more or less Jewish ceremony held on the stage. Guests gathered to view a strange kind of school assembly, among massive concrete heads of 18th century Transcendentalists being fabricated by a sculptor friend in this, his studio and living space.

I continued gardening, and, after displaying my chops in a quixotic theatrical venture (see Il Teatro Pescatore blog), worked as a hired hand for the local puppet cartel. I spent a lot of quality time with our little over-the-top craving girl—a quality that would bear some bitter fruit in later years. First daughter continued being a model child, with quirky sleepwalking and aura-perceiving habits that were also harbingers of trouble ahead.

The glass artist changed her focus and began making good money selling a line of arty nightlights. We got a divorce. The settlement was contentious, but we shared custody. The door was sealed and the wall made whole again. For the next several years it was just my part-time girls and me.


Meanwhile, I was invited to, first, a regional, and then an international, though locally staged, puppetry festival. The exposure garnered an invitation for Il Teatro Pescatore to yet another performance event, prestigious but further away. It was a tough decision not to attend, but I didn’t want to give up hands-on fatherhood by going down that road, especially in an unreliable vehicle. The sun had set on the traveling theater adventure.

Still paying the bills with pruning shears and clippers, my creative attention turned to storytelling as I began a new relationship that moved me out of the commune to a place not far away on a shady dead-end street. Second daughter made fairy shrines along the creek below our little house.
First daughter won a scholarship to a small private college in eastern Washington State.

During our increasingly frequent fights, my lover would retreat to the attic and bunk among
the boxes. It was crazy. However, as we floundered, fought, and eventually--thankfully--separated, the storytelling became increasingly popular at libraries and schools. Instead of the four or five street people who wandered in and out of ITP’s tent, I was emoting to hundreds of appreciative kids and their parents.

In the last few years of the twentieth century my girls and I began a tradition of spending a summer week or more vacationing with a California man and his daughter.
Our felicitous first meeting was by chance at Yellowstone where our campsites adjoined. First daughter was old enough to appreciate, as did I, his witty and erudite ramblings. Second daughter and the California girl were exactly the same age and a perfect match of opposites.

Next year, they joined us on the Olympic Peninsula. The following summer we met them on their turf at King’s Canyon. On the way down we passed through Ashland, Oregon, and memories of my one-and-only came flooding in. We had spent several idyllic vacations there and had fantasized about settling in that theater town. I could not get the thought of her out of my mind, even—especially—after the girls and I returned home.

It’s not as if I had never thought of her in all the time—more than a decade—since she sent me packing. On numerous walks with my friend John we would pass the two apartment houses where she and I had shared good times, and I would lament the loss of the ‘’love of my life.” Now, though, it was different; thoughts of her were with me nearly every moment. Weeks passed and I finally decided to get in touch with her again, but that would not be easy.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

“Re-Decorating Will Be Our Move”

We decided not to move—a relocation that had been our focus for the past three weeks.   What happened was this:  a condo for rent with all the qualities we were looking for became available yesterday. (Well, all the qualities except price—a little too high—but we were ready to go there.)  A skookum place as we say around here—local Indian for “swe-e-e-et.” 

This place had its drawbacks, of course, and one of them was a deal-breaker:  we still have too much shit to move; there just wouldn’t be enough storage space, we realized, even after all the sorting.

We don't consider rental of a storage locker an option.  It's not what our kind of people do.

The decision comes as a relief, after all.

As BFF said, “Re-decorating will be our move.”

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Moving Soon

A year ago we moved from a home, and a neighborhood, that we loved.  We have not been so happy in our present house, and we are soon moving again.  However, one of the things we will miss most is our—or rather the landlady’s—garden.  That possessive, though, kind of tells the tale—it’s not our creation.  In fact, we have discovered that BFF can’t even go outside without breaking into hives.  It’s the raspberries.

So we’re giving a big raspberry to this place and moving on to a condo apartment, but I, and she, will really miss the garden. 

My Chosen Profession

I just finished reading and responding to the above-headlined Atlantic article discussing the President's contention that teachers "must be accountable."  This was my response:

As an elementary school teacher with six years experience who came into the field after a long career as a small businessperson, I have a few observations pertinent to the current debate about public school education.  My college's teacher training poorly prepared me for the classroom.  A “rigorous residency” would have helped me, at least, present a higher quality education earlier in my career.  However, subsequent professional development is often wasted because there is not enough time or resources for its adequate implementation.  If I could wish for one thing that would help me do my job better it would be qualified assistance with my lowest performing students in reading and math.  This worked well at our school during the year when funding was available for a single grade.  To ask one person, for six hours a day, to consistently and appropriately engage 30 or more students who are learning over a range of three or four grade levels is asking too much, regardless of the pay incentive.   Finally, I have been consistently impressed by my colleagues’ skill and hard work on behalf of their students, but it has been my observation that the most reliable predictor of a child’s success in school is not the teacher but the parents.

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Evening, in the Backyard

Sun setting deeper behind the mountains; cool, still air sinking to the earth:  twilight, its quality impossible to capture in a photograph.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Hard Times

There’s a fellow removing the siding next door so they can replace it with something more attractive.  I’ve spoken with him a couple of times; he’s friendly, warm even, about 35, I reckon.  Regular-looking—round face, short blond hair, a little pudgy, but muscles, I’m sure, and a tan, both from his line of work.  Family-type of guy.

A couple of hours ago, our daily “Mornin’” morphed into a conversation about government regulations and illegal aliens, both of which he’s against, in a mild mannered but heart-felt way.  It was getting uncomfortable talking with him, especially when the topic turned from paper to people.  I avoid confrontations, sometimes to a fault, but I couldn’t be real and not express my disagreement with some of what he was saying. 

Fortunately the conversation took a turn and he began telling me about his personal situation.  He’d been accustomed to making upwards of $35 an hour but was doing this, his first major job in 18 months, for $10 less.  The kicker, though, was his six-hour daily commute.  There’s only scratch work out in the small town and logging-based county where he lives, and not much of that.  He feels real fortunate to have landed this job 75 miles from home; now he can make enough to keep that home out of foreclosure, even though it means these long, long days, barely seeing his family.

Damn.

Another "there but for the grace of God."

When I inquired about future prospects, our carpenter fellow said he was looking to retrain, in fact had a plan to work at the big Navy shipyard hereabouts.  He'd almost gotten a job there but it just fell through.  The necessary security clearance was denied because he was in default on this home.  Now that it looked like he would soon be out of that hole, he was planning on applying again.  I hope he makes it, and I hope the work lasts.

As he kept talking I learned the back story, and it put a human face on all the news articles you read.  Three, four years ago our carpenter friend was pulling down 75, 100 thousand.  He saw lots of others a little higher up in his trade making that much money, a lot faster, flipping houses.  He borrowed to build a couple himself and had just finished when the economy tanked.  Finally sold one for a 38 K loss, ended up giving the other back to the bank.  The American Dream, "it's not what it seems," as Willie Nelson has poignantly put it in song.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Free LiLo

I just had a nice phone chat with my old friend Bob.  Having a nice phone chat is not at all something in which I ordinarily indulge.  I just don’t take the time; there’s always something else to do.  Bob is retired, and during the summer, being a schoolteacher, so am I, in a way.  So I have more time to nourish my poor neglected friendships.

It was sweet to talk, sharing things we hadn’t in ages, especially as we wound down our conversation in a manner that has become our custom: working up a juvenile fantasy about the current crush object.

We’ve decided to form a Lindsay Lohan support group. That was Bob’s idea but I enthusiastically jumped on board, being a big fan of freckles.   I’ll skip the details; just say they betray our arrested development while lapping at the swill of mass media.

Let's see...What's next on the "To Do" list?

Monday, July 19, 2010

A Chaos of Objects

The past two weeks I’ve been sorting through a chaos of objects, from large as a drill press to tiny as a post-it, in boxes and piles so spread about it was a dangerous dance getting through our good-sized basement. This is not a skill area for me, although I’ve come to, if not enjoy, at least be obsessed with its completion.

Much of the work has been fairly straightforward: put the chisels with the carving tools with the screwdrivers and call them all long-handled tools with a business end. Crescent wrench goes with pliers go with sockets and drivers because they’re all about loosening and tightening. Et cetera. That part was relatively easy.

The hard part came with all the papers and pictures and cards, letters and journals, the objets de whatever. That’s what got me to thinking about the larger meaning of this strange but commonplace activity. It’s like, “Are you on the bus or off the bus?” over and over again.

For example, take the daughters’ pictures. It’s not easy consigning a half dozen of sweet Second Daughter’s preschool graduation pics, even though I’ve already saved one good one, to the same box where I have thrown a leaky liquid nail cartridge. Ditto the Father's Day and Birthday cards. What do I look for when deciding which one makes the cut?

At least initially, that was a question I wrestled with when it came to assigning a fate to the embarrassing things, like the volumes of indescribably puerile writing trying to masquerade as something worthwhile. Fortunately, I argued myself out of the stance that saving a least a selection of such crap is important for understanding "my development."

Some of the stuff I've been going through is cringe-worthy and some of it downright sad, like Mom’s hour-by-hour description of what Dad went through his last two days on this earth. I imagine her detailing his suffering as a way to maintain her own sanity and semblance of poise in his time in extremis.

The sorting is complete now, at least for this move. I never came up with a formula. Every day it seemed like I had different criteria for the task, and some things I just put in boxes to give to the daughters. Let them perform their own triage. For me, for now, this shit is squared away:

Friday, July 16, 2010

Ripped Raw

Last night BFF and I went to a local jazz club to hear Bettye LaVette. Every ache and yearning in her 65-year-old mind and body comes through the strongest and most raw voice you can imagine. It had me gulping back what she had touched inside, wiping the tears away after every song. One of life’s crowning glories is our ability to be moved far beyond our present circumstances by music.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Walkability

A year ago BFF and I moved into a smaller and cheaper (rented) house, just downhill and a little south of a place where we’d lived for three years, half that time shared with Daughter Two. We’d liked that house and loved the neighborhood. Not so much here, though, down in the flats. We’ve decided to move again.

Two goals: less money and better location. We’d gotten spoiled having a great little grocery next door, cafes and taverns, book and hardware store, dry cleaner, boutique video, and coffeehouses galore, all along a shady not-too busy street. I recently discovered something called the “Walkability Index.” Our former house would have rated about 90. The one where we're living now? 25?

Money is the other thing. Now that retirement is only a couple of years away, we want to salt away all we can for our move down south. An apartment the size of our current house, even condo-quality, would save us a bundle.  The calculus goes something like this:  three months of savings here and now equal two months retirement rent in Guanajuato, or wherever.

Walkability--isn't that a great concept?  A neighborhood that pulls you outside.  We're craigslisting places near the central business district of our neighborhood, within easy strolling distance of an urban park with musicians and water features, public library, my fine gym, excellent movie theater and coffee houses, the best Mexican restaurant in town, sushi and other bars and clubs, plus acceptance for the many homeless around here who offer a bracing dose of "there but for the grace of God."

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

What a Way To Go

As a consequence of
A troublesome bout of
Lower back pain—
Intimation of mortality—
I’ve recently begun imagining myself,
And it’s gotten so it’s hardly a stretch,
Retired, you know...

Read the rest of this poem at That Oughta See Us Out blog.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Lloyd or Floyd?

In the beginning I thought the neighbor’s name was Lloyd but BFF insisted it was Floyd. Now we compromise and call him Oyd, and not just between ourselves. On the occasions when the man is due a shout out, we swallow the beginning of the name but end it firmly. This innocent social deception has been going on way too long for us to comfortably ask Oyd again what his name is.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Il Teatro Pescatore – Part 2 - Pinball Becomes Carpo


A flying fish with the face of Groucho Marx? Giant clam shells dripping pearls from a pirate's booty? Head of a goldfish swollen a thousand times its natural size? What creatures we are to have such creations spring from our minds, eyes and hands!

Read the rest of this post at Il Teatro Pescatore blog.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Over and Over Again


...We laughed, muttered,
Staggered in circles,
Tried on faces and voices,
All across the wide backyard.

My mom was
In a suburban rest home
Not far away,
Up on the top floor
In a sheltered wing
Called Comfort Cove...

Read the rest of this poem at That Oughta See Us Out blog.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Il Teatro Pescatore - Part 1 - Christopher Columbus

Ten years ago I performed at an international puppetry festival. These were puppets for adults. The show was my liberal adaptation of a surreal political satire written in 1929 by Michel DeGhelderode, a Belgian.  “Christopher Columbus,” it was called.


Read the rest of this post at Il Teatro Pescatore's blog.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Punching Cardboard


Trying to feel more at ease
In this wet and cold climate,
And not give in
To the twinges of pain in my lower back,
I decide to invest Saturday’s chores with
More than my usual panache.


Read the rest of this poem at That Oughta See Us Out blog.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Get NYT Behind Me

I've removed NY Times, Huffington Post and the BBC from my Foxfire toolbar. Since we got back from our downstream bohemia, I've laid off the news a bit, but now I gotta kick this media addiction completely. It's bad, leads to worse. We don't need to discuss my reasons; they're plentiful.

I'm spending more time reading blogs, practicing my Spanish on Livemocha and writing.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Downstream Bohemia Found

As a schoolteacher, I get a two-week vacation every December. In lieu of a raise in these hard financial times, BFF was given extra time off. That allowed us to spend over a week in a tropical paradise—a small fishing village in Mexico to which the only reasonable access is a 45 minute boat ride. Heaven.

As a consequence of its isolation, there are no roads, and hence no cars in the village. Virtually all the heavy lifting is done by human, and occasionally mule, power. We were fortunate enough to have rented a casita overlooking the town pier, where most of the people and goods are offloaded from the small boats, called pangas, that arrive two or three each hour.

Upon arrival, crates of beer, produce, dry goods, plastic pipe, you name it, are unloaded and moved by a small team of men with wheelbarrows. They work industriously for 15, 20 minutes, or so after every boatload, fanning out through the labyrinth of uphill alleys and paths to the ferreteria, the several tiendas, or wherever anyone has a delivery. Then they come back with their wheelbarrows to the benches near the pier to sit, talk, laugh and rest until it’s time to do it all over again.

As a person who has spent most of his working life in manual labor, I appreciate both the effort and the satisfaction these laborers must feel with the rhythm of their day. But, I have to admit, more than that I appreciate simply being able to watch their muscular and good-natured ebb and flow.
One fellow in particular attracted my attention. He was older, and he worked more often than the others. Roundly built and dressed a little more shabbily, he wore a sweat-stained baseball cap over his thatch of black hair. He was good-natured, and greeted me with a friendly, “Hola, amigo,” whenever we passed. He was also tireless, humping load after over-loaded load up the winding cobblestones, back and forth, until all the goods had been moved. My name for him was “El hombre mas fuerte del pueblo.”

Over the course of several days, looking out over the pier from our balcony, I produced a not-very accomplished sketch of this gentleman. I then got it into my head to give him the sketch, as a sign of friendship and appreciation for his labor. Our last hours in Yelapa, I hunted “El Hombre” down. He seemed a little taken aback, but smiled and shook my hand. Leaving him, looking back, I saw that he had carefully folded the picture and put it into his pocket.

About half an hour later, as BFF and I sat nervously with our bags waiting for the possibility of a panga back home, “El Hombre Mas Fuerte” reappeared. The two of us endured smiles, awkward attempts to converse, and even more awkward moments of silence as we tried to think of how to converse, until it became clear that he had assumed the role of our protector and handler, assuring that we would make our boat safely without having to worry or lift a finger. On parting, we shook hands--the solidarity shake. “Gracias amigo, hasta el ano proximo.”

I look forward to seeing "El Hombre" again next year. I flatter myself to think he might still have, somewhere, that poor sketch I gave to him. What he gave to me is an enduring memory of friendliness that transcends borders.