A few weeks ago I attended my nephew's special education conference. The team gathered there helped me see with new eyes that some of his quirky behavior is a manifestation of obsessive compulsive disorder. His need to walk a certain route in the halls, making him late to class daily. His carrying his backpack to breakfast, and fastidiously returning it upstairs afterwards each day. His refusal to stay out of the street on a walk .... maybe the sidewalk was something he could not allow himself to touch. Hmmmm.... knowing him as I do, the explanation of this thinking pattern made sense and answered a lot of questions that have had us stumped.
OCD. Aren't we all a little OCD?
Take the kitchen at our house. Each of the three of us has one stubborn OCD pitfall. It gets us every time.
Son will inspect every spoon for water spots before using one to eat. If it has a spot, it's rejected. Back into the drawer. Sometimes he has to go through six or eight to find the one with flawless shine. Hubby and I roll our eyes. Son now has to set the table each day, because if he does not pick the spoons, the whole meal is delayed.
I don't care about water spots on my pretty spoons. But I have my own offbeat tangent. The IKEA tumblers come in the colors of the rainbow. And they must be stacked in the order of those rainbow hues. Indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, pink. No one else seems to understand that this is necessary, so I constantly happen upon the stack done wrong. And I must fix it. People! How can you live with yourselves, letting this slide?
Hubby smiles at spoon inspections, and may not even see the rainbow. But he has his stumbling block too. The utensil drawer has only one compartment for forks, and we have two kinds of forks: salad and dinner. Hubby maintains them in neat and separate stacks in that compartment, straight as soldiers. If Son or I empty the dishwasher, the forks are in wild disarray, jumbled together catawampus. Hubby patiently cleans them up. It's as necessary as making the bed in the morning.
Yep. I can understand that special walking route, and the backpack routine. How could I not?
Well, it's time to go tighten the lightbulb and check the door latch. 52 times. One for every year.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Paper
An elegy
Touch its gentle heft.
Breathe
Its smell of words.
Hear
Its powdery lament.
Stardust, house dust
Glitter, must
Do even diamonds
Turn to rust?
I like the weight
The pull of gravity
The charm
Of real books
In hand, in lap
In crook of arm.
The neon scream
Of ebook readers
Tablets, pads
Flags the spirit
Tires the heart
A wearing, tedious fad.
Some day on the eternal shore
The book of life
Will open
And no more
The flash of manmade light
And speeding streams of bits
To bear.
O hurry time
To find a resting there.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Autumn
A glorious summer with its long run of sun has given way to fall. The temperatures have dropped. I love the change.
A new season comes along just in time. Right when we had begun to yawn and glance at the clock.
Frosty breath in the morning. The familiar feel of my coat. Darker days. Longer nights.
And the leaves scurrying out in every direction under the headlights' beam on slick streets. They scatter like a flock of songbirds, startled into flight.
Or a coven of tiny witches, racing into the shadows, cackling as they go.
A new season comes along just in time. Right when we had begun to yawn and glance at the clock.
Frosty breath in the morning. The familiar feel of my coat. Darker days. Longer nights.
And the leaves scurrying out in every direction under the headlights' beam on slick streets. They scatter like a flock of songbirds, startled into flight.
Or a coven of tiny witches, racing into the shadows, cackling as they go.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Tipping the Universe into Balance
We made it to the finish line. The school year that threatened to take us all down didn't. Record class size numbers, downsized staff, teachers laid off, others transferred willy-nilly according to licensure and seniority and everything that is not about students and their best interests.
We paid for it all year, every day, every minute. Teachers were stressed and overcome with the volume and intensity of the work. Students reacted as they do. Some flew below the radar and learned less, made less progress, got less attention. Others sensed the adult disarray and acted out, causing greater distress. And some learned and produced and contributed in spite of it all.
We the adults worked as a team. Tired, glazed-eyed and scared, teachers never said die. Parents swooped in to support in ways they have never before offered. Relationships settled. Learning got underway. And there was a harvest at the end of it all.
In early June, the local paper reported that the superintendent had accepted an $8,000 raise based on his stellar evaluation from the school board.
Outcry erupted from every quarter. Letters to the editor, blog posts, Facebook pages popped up in a hue and cry. Parents buzzed to teachers who hemmed and hawed and tried to stay professional.
We have had the toughest year in memory. Money has disappeared, from school district budgets and from the paychecks of school employees. Furlough days have effected a de facto anti-raise for all. People have worked harder than ever before, for uglier results than ever before, and all of it was because of a long stagnant economy's fallout on the state budget coffers.
Now this. The guy at the helm takes a high profile raise that amounts to about a third of a year's salary for some of our instructional assistants. $8,000 is not much in his world. But this $8,000 may be the most expensive $8,000 he's ever received. And if he had refused it, it would have bought the cheapest PR he could have purchased.
On Fathers' Day we went out to eat. Our favorite authentic Mexican bistro in the high style NW district of the city. I don't know why they only had one waitress on duty on Fathers' Day, but there she was. Alone, zipping between tables, combining tasks to keep everyone happy, responding to the odd request with a smile, and assisted valiantly by the lone busboy who pinch-hit as waiter at a table or two.
I watched them. Both of them were smart and hard-working. They kept it all together. But they were doomed by the poor management that placed them in such a no-win situation. Parties of guests walked in, waited for a second too long, and walked out. Others flagged for their check or an extra margarita or more water from across the room with exasperation in the very gesture. The place was remarkably full, and tables eating, but this poor young woman and man had no hope, no chance of keeping up.
I thought about the money the hip nouveau Latin restaurant would make that day - personnel costs low and receipts up. But the wait staff would go home with fewer tips than usual. After all, service was far from par.
Our check came to $36. Yeah. Great deal. I left her $60 and told her to keep the change. She deserves it.
We paid for it all year, every day, every minute. Teachers were stressed and overcome with the volume and intensity of the work. Students reacted as they do. Some flew below the radar and learned less, made less progress, got less attention. Others sensed the adult disarray and acted out, causing greater distress. And some learned and produced and contributed in spite of it all.
We the adults worked as a team. Tired, glazed-eyed and scared, teachers never said die. Parents swooped in to support in ways they have never before offered. Relationships settled. Learning got underway. And there was a harvest at the end of it all.
In early June, the local paper reported that the superintendent had accepted an $8,000 raise based on his stellar evaluation from the school board.
Outcry erupted from every quarter. Letters to the editor, blog posts, Facebook pages popped up in a hue and cry. Parents buzzed to teachers who hemmed and hawed and tried to stay professional.
We have had the toughest year in memory. Money has disappeared, from school district budgets and from the paychecks of school employees. Furlough days have effected a de facto anti-raise for all. People have worked harder than ever before, for uglier results than ever before, and all of it was because of a long stagnant economy's fallout on the state budget coffers.
Now this. The guy at the helm takes a high profile raise that amounts to about a third of a year's salary for some of our instructional assistants. $8,000 is not much in his world. But this $8,000 may be the most expensive $8,000 he's ever received. And if he had refused it, it would have bought the cheapest PR he could have purchased.
On Fathers' Day we went out to eat. Our favorite authentic Mexican bistro in the high style NW district of the city. I don't know why they only had one waitress on duty on Fathers' Day, but there she was. Alone, zipping between tables, combining tasks to keep everyone happy, responding to the odd request with a smile, and assisted valiantly by the lone busboy who pinch-hit as waiter at a table or two.
I watched them. Both of them were smart and hard-working. They kept it all together. But they were doomed by the poor management that placed them in such a no-win situation. Parties of guests walked in, waited for a second too long, and walked out. Others flagged for their check or an extra margarita or more water from across the room with exasperation in the very gesture. The place was remarkably full, and tables eating, but this poor young woman and man had no hope, no chance of keeping up.
I thought about the money the hip nouveau Latin restaurant would make that day - personnel costs low and receipts up. But the wait staff would go home with fewer tips than usual. After all, service was far from par.
Our check came to $36. Yeah. Great deal. I left her $60 and told her to keep the change. She deserves it.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
That Kind of Day
Today by Billy Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Yep, today was just that kind of day in western Oregon. Spectacular.
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Yep, today was just that kind of day in western Oregon. Spectacular.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Fierce, Proud, Scary
A.A. Milne wrote
Now We Are Six
When I was one I had just begun.
When I was two I was nearly new.
When I was three I was not quite me.
When I was four I was not much more.
When I was five I was just alive.
But now I'm six.
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now
For ever and ever.
And I wrote
Now We Are Three
Today I'm a pirate
Fierce, proud, scary!
Tomorrow, round and red
I'll be a cherry.
Yesterday it wasn't me
Who got out of my bed.
It was a cow instead.
I went into the kitchen
And mooed for some toast.
Mommy cow smiled at me.
She understands how cows can be.
When I'm a bat
I flap my wings
And let my tongue hang down.
Bats fly in crazy circles
And their tongues are fuzzy brown.
One day I didn't move at all.
I was a leaf. Green and small.
I wasn't fierce. I wasn't tall.
Just very leafy me,
Growing quietly.
Sometimes I roar and show my claws
And Grandpa says, "Now who are you?"
A lion doesn't say his name,
So I just roar and shake my mane.
Last week when we went to the store
I was a worm upon the floor.
Mommy looked at me and sighed.
It's hard to wait for a worm.
They don't walk; they squirm.
I can be a frog. Or a barking dog.
A bug in a bog.
But today I'm a pirate.
Fierce, proud, scary.
Tomorrow round and still,
I'll be a cherry.
Now We Are Six
When I was one I had just begun.
When I was two I was nearly new.
When I was three I was not quite me.
When I was four I was not much more.
When I was five I was just alive.
But now I'm six.
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now
For ever and ever.
And I wrote
Now We Are Three
Today I'm a pirate
Fierce, proud, scary!
Tomorrow, round and red
I'll be a cherry.
Yesterday it wasn't me
Who got out of my bed.
It was a cow instead.
I went into the kitchen
And mooed for some toast.
Mommy cow smiled at me.
She understands how cows can be.
When I'm a bat
I flap my wings
And let my tongue hang down.
Bats fly in crazy circles
And their tongues are fuzzy brown.
One day I didn't move at all.
I was a leaf. Green and small.
I wasn't fierce. I wasn't tall.
Just very leafy me,
Growing quietly.
Sometimes I roar and show my claws
And Grandpa says, "Now who are you?"
A lion doesn't say his name,
So I just roar and shake my mane.
Last week when we went to the store
I was a worm upon the floor.
Mommy looked at me and sighed.
It's hard to wait for a worm.
They don't walk; they squirm.
I can be a frog. Or a barking dog.
A bug in a bog.
But today I'm a pirate.
Tomorrow round and still,
I'll be a cherry.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Leprechauns (again)
In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I am reposting an account which was the inaugural post of my now defunct blog, The Principal's Prattle. Leprechauns never get old.
The school day was punctuated at either end by wide-eyed children with extra bounce in their step. At 8:35, 3rd grade Aileen, dressed in a lime green flare skirt and shiny green tennies, burst into the copy room asking if there were footprints to be found.
"They're all over our classroom! They're everywhere! Any in here?"
And out like a flash with an undulating tail of jibbering followers.
At 3:30 I entered the staff room to check on the St. Patrick's Day pot-luck clean-up crew.
1st grade Xochitl announced, "There were leprechauns in our classroom! They messed up the traps, left fingerprints on the window and one even left his boots behind!"
I followed her to the room to verify the scene of the melee, tsk-tsking all the way that they hadn't managed to catch even one.
The school day was punctuated at either end by wide-eyed children with extra bounce in their step. At 8:35, 3rd grade Aileen, dressed in a lime green flare skirt and shiny green tennies, burst into the copy room asking if there were footprints to be found.
"They're all over our classroom! They're everywhere! Any in here?"
And out like a flash with an undulating tail of jibbering followers.
At 3:30 I entered the staff room to check on the St. Patrick's Day pot-luck clean-up crew.
1st grade Xochitl announced, "There were leprechauns in our classroom! They messed up the traps, left fingerprints on the window and one even left his boots behind!"
I followed her to the room to verify the scene of the melee, tsk-tsking all the way that they hadn't managed to catch even one.
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