The Christmas Shoes

Most drama in our lives is really rather squalid.
Tom Baker

I realize that I am probably going to hell for this, but I HATE the song "The Christmas Shoes." Every time I hear those first few piano cords, I change the channel on the radio. Sometimes I come in on those last few saccharine little kid words, and I shudder uncontrollably. I almost wrecked this morning trying to get to the channel selection buttons when they snuck it in on my while I was half asleep.

It's hard to put my finger on why a song most people regard as a staple of the Christmas holidays, a deeply moving and semi-religious experience, makes my teeth ache. Maybe it's the same thing I hate about really sad country songs. It's not that I doubt the original sentiment of the song. It's that I think it's crass to take that emotion and try to make a buck off it.

Yes, it's sad. It's impossibly sad. It disturbs me, though, that this type of thing always becomes so terribly popular. Are we all so hungry for a publicly-sanctioned form of catharsis that we have to take it in huge, artificially sweetened, heavy air-play rotation doses? To me, it cheapens the original sentiment that inspired the song. Seeing every woman in an entire beauty shop tearing up while turning the volume on the shop radio to maximum so it can be heard over the dryers is just somehow repulsive to me.

I know this isn't a world-shattering issue. Most people probably either disagree or don't care. I just hope that I can get through the rest of the holiday season without having to hear that melodramatic song again.

New Dog

Friday afternoon, just after dark, a large Ford vehicle pulled up near my mailbox. It was odd because they just kept sitting there. I got up and walked toward the door, and I suppose they saw my silhouette through the window because they pulled away. About ten minutes later, chaos erupted on my back porch.

I looked out to find a beautiful, honey-colored, mostly boxer dog. She was so hungry you could see her ribs, and she was looking through the glass door with the most adorable wrinkled brow. I think it was the wrinkled brow that caught me.

I opened the door carefully (strays are always an unknown entity, especially big ones), and poured a scoop full of food into Yelldo's dog dish. She ate it as though she hadn't seen food for a long time and might not ever see it again. She ate so fast she almost choked herself, and I felt an overwhelming sense of hate for anybody who would let an animal be that hungry.

Deciding to take a chance, I stuck a finger through the door. She sniffed and licked very politely. Feeling a little more confident, I put out my whole hand. When I raised it, she flinched and cowered. Again, I felt that anger. Not only had whomever had gutlessly thrown her out starved her, they'd hit her enough to make her shy away from a casual pat.

Four days later, she's got a collar and a name (Britta because she was pitched out on the Waters), she's stopped eating every morsel in the bowl, and she is a wonderful frisky critter with a huge bark and really, really big puppy energy. I still have to take her to the vet, but she's mine, regardless.

I can't believe the callous crappiness of people. Even if someone is having a problem dealing with an animal for some reason, what kind of person takes a defenseless animal and just throws it away? It may not be a kind thought, but I firmly believe there's a special section of Hell for people who abuse animals.

Britta has a home now, and I'll do the best I can by her. My other dog, Yelldo, is in shock. Britta is about three times as large as he is, and the poor baby is more than a little overwhelmed. I'm hoping we all normalize soon. Until then, I will continue to enjoy looking out whatever door I happen to be at and seeing her cute, curious expression peering back at me.

COLD!!

The heat in my house has been off for about a week. Right before Thanksgiving, some valve-thingy died and now I am very, very cold. Thank goodness I have gas space heaters on the walls. Unfortunately, you have to be very close to them to be warm.

Right now, I'm wearing three layers of clothes and have blue nails. My cats are sprawled on the floor in front of the space heater. They love it. They also love the extra blankets on the bed. We will all be glad when the heat comes back.

I hung Christmas lights Sunday. I also set up my Santa collection and my Nativity collection. Every year, it's like discovering every piece again. This year, I got to put my Waterford nativity out for the first time. I can't get over how it catches the light. I can sit here in my chair wrapped in a blanket or five and watch the light play on it. :)

In addition to heater problems, I also had to have the windshield in my car replaced. About two months ago, a rock from one of those enormous highway mowers dinged me, and one day when the weather got cold, the ding became a run. Yesterday, in the time it took me to drive from home to work, it grew by two inches. This morning, I was grateful I'd called Novus to get it replaced, because I actually SAW the run get longer. I almost drove into a ditch trying to get the defroster off.

Well, there's no organization to this. Maybe thought will return when Christmas break comes. Maybe not.... I'm off to shiver on the couch.

Sappy Movies, etc.

I don't take the movies seriously, and anyone who does is in for a headache.
-- Bette Davis

I am about to watch You've Got Mail...again. I have probably seen this movie about 15 times thanks to its heavy rotation on TBS. I don't know why this particular bit of fluff always catches my attention.

It's not the type of movie I'd chose for myself. Generally, I like old movies. In fact, glancing over my video collection, the vast majority of movies I've liked enough to purchase are either black and white or foreign. I love the glamour of those classic movie stars. I want to be Bette, Ingrid, or Katherine when I "grow up." I want to be confident and polished, full of intelligent banter and fire, the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove.

One attraction for this film might be the vague connections to Pride and Prejudice. I can see how the plot was more or less ripped off from Jane. As we all know, I am a sucker for anything Darcy-ish. (I am, however, highly skeptical about the new P&P film...more on that later, post viewing.)

Every once in a while, maybe everybody just needs a sappy movie. There's lot to be said for a world where true love reigns, where friends are loyal and true, where the happy ending comes despite all obstacles, even if it's a world that only exists within the confines of a Hollywood soundstage. Does life ever work out like the movies?

Sometimes I feel like my life is a low-budget indie film, or God forbid, an episode of a reality-TV show. The Truman Show appealed to me for that reason. Quite often, I feel like everybody else knows the script except for me.

Well, I suppose that's enough of that. I am going to retire to my lovely new couch and drink a glass of sweet tea while soaking up the sappy unreality of this movie.

Changes

No quote.

I have been making big progress on my house. Today, two new couches arrived, and I just can't get over how... adult...my livingroom looks. It all matches! None of it is broken or tatty. Pearl, one of my two cats, has commandeered the loveseat, and I've spent quite a bit of time curled up on the sofa. It's amazing.

I'm even prouder of my office than I am of my sofas, though. Dad and I finished it Tuesday. I installed a ten-foot countertop as a work surface, and it's just the greatest thing since sliced bread. I have already done three projects that have been hanging around since last summer, and I can actually walk in and lay hands on any of my sewing and craft materials without having to get on my hands and knees with a flashlight.

I now have space for my copier and its paraphenalia on a table across the room, and ten feet of empty, clean workspace. There's a huge amount of storage under the table and the countertop, and I have shelves to grow into. I can't believe I finally have a room like this. I've been dreaming of it for a long time. I love it. Once I can get the power strip put in and the TV connected to my satellite, I may never leave it again.

I only hurt myself badly once during the whole process. I was sort of amazed. I was hammering the grommets on the curtain that hides the undercounter area, and I missed the grommet die. I don't know if I"m going to lose the thumbnail yet, but I do know that I CRIED. I haven't hurt myself that intensely in a long time.

I also bought and (with help from Dad) installed a rainfall showerhead. The showerhead by itself is very nice, much nicer than one might expect a showerhead to be, actually, but the best part is the ten inch swan's neck extender bar. Being a tall woman, I have always sort of had to do acrobatic contortions to get the shampoo out of my hair. No more. I can stand under the thing and still have a good 6 inches between me and the showerhead.

Another change was a subtraction instead of an addition. The old TV antenna that had bent in half when Katrina came through finally came down today. Dad took it down while I made a water haul to town trying to do errands and meeting with frustration at every turn. It's strange for it not to be there. That antenna was probably almost as old as I am.

The roof repair is still in the planning phase. I called the recommended roofer, and he's supposed to be getting back to me soon. If he can't do it, the wonderful man who's going to come do the kitchen floor is going to recommend someone else. It may take several more months to get everything finished up, but I'm so excited that something has finally started to get done.

Well, this is the end of my week of Thanksgiving holidays. Tomorrow, I'll have to get back in harness with school work. At least I have a nice place to do it in now.

Frankenstein

I am watching the 2004 Hallmark production of Frankenstein in preparation for my AP classes' viewing this week. I am amazed by how much of this story I had forgotten before I reread it to teach it. I had forgotten how good it really is.

I almost always sympathize with the monster in any movie where there is one. I have always been that way, and I don't even want to think about what that probably says about my mental health or lack thereof. It's the same in Frankenstein. I have such sympathy for the monster.

He never asked to be created. In fact, his creation must have been filled with pain. Then, once he's been dragged into this world, Frankenstein abandons him. He's basically an infant in an adult body, and he has to figure out everything on his own. Everyone who sees him hates him without knowing if he is really evil. He is judged on appearance alone.

So many of the issues in the novel still haunt us today. We still seek knowledge and we still ignorantly rule people as "monsters" based on our own criteria. I am very glad I rediscovered Frankenstein. I'll probably come back to this entry later when I have a little more focus and revise.

Equilibrium

I went to my parents' house last night, and I took the crap curriculum. I wanted my mother, retired from teaching after 35 years, to look over it and give me her opinion. Her opinions were almost exactly mine. That simple fact calmed something that had been raging in my heart since late August.

Today I pulled together several copy packets from the crap curriculum. I waded through it and took the things I thought would be good for my students and sent them out to be printed.

I think that I have peace about it now. If nobody will come and shake my proverbial monkey tree, I think I will be able to find a balance with it.

I also signed my loan papers today. There was no thunderclap and no pain. I am ready to go look at shingles and carpet. I think, now that my own personal Swords of Damocles have fallen, I can finally get some perspective and move forward. It's a good feeling.

Now if I can just get my grades in the computer....

Cowardly

"You must do the things you think you cannot do." -- Eleanor Roosevelt

This quote has been something I've tried very hard to live my life by. Tonight, though, I totally chickened out of something I should have done.

Like most things, it wasn't a huge, earth-shattering moment of decision. It was just a difficult hymn in the evening service. Since our sanctuary is being remodeled, it's just me on the piano at night, and it's been a LONG time since I was the sole means of accompaniment for the congregation. In fact, I'm usually playing the organ, not the piano, and while it may all seem like keyboards to the casual observer, there are differences.

Anyway, I had practiced this one hymn, but not enough. It was still rough around the edges. The music director told me that he'd give me the choice. When it came time to do the hymn, he'd look toward the piano and I could nod or shake my head. When it came time, I shook my head and we did a "backup" hymn instead.

I regretted it the whole time. Such a silly little thing. Why didn't I go ahead and play it?

It ties in with what I was telling my kids as we studied the poem "George Gray" by Masters. It's the things you don't do that you regret.

This is especially true in the romantic area of my life. I always seem to take the "better safe than sorry" route. There have been times when I really should have taken a chance, even if it meant the notes were a little sour.

I have a friend who was totally fearless about love. At church camp, she's the one who always had at least ten guys begging to throw away her lunch tray or carry her bag. When she saw a guy she was interested in, she could articulate it. She could "work it." I am still in awe of her.

I am so awkward. My first feeling whenever I start to be interested in a guy as more than a friend is always one of prevailing dread. I lose my ability to make sense. Even though I want to be around him and talk to him, I become the Queen of Cowards and I usually run away. I have all the social grace of a bumbling twelve year old. It's all about fear, and it's embarrassing. I passed twelve a long time ago.

In the meantime, I guess I'll set myself a few goals. I will continue to try to live up to my goals of truth and honesty. I will try not to beat myself up when I fail. I will continue to hope that someday, I will have the courage not be twelve anymore. Most importantly, next time, I will play that song.

Twice in One Night

I guess maybe I'm making up for lost time, but after I finished the previous post, I went to view the usage stats for my blog. I figured they'd bottomed out. After all, I have been silent for nearly a month.

To my surprise, some of you are still out there checking in regularly. Thank you. For some reason, those random cyberspace brushes are encouraging to me. Thank you for not abandoning this even though you've had ample cause.

Ages and Ages

Obviously, I haven't been faithful to my resolution to keep writing daily. I've come to accept the fact that, at least for this school year, my blogging is going to be sporadic at best. The AP curriculum consumes almost every moment I spend online, and I've been sick a lot lately, so there hasn't actually been that much online time at home. It's been more of a come home and fall down time.

A couple of interesting things are going on right now, though. A friend of mine from work gave me a copy of a book full of places to get my poetry published. Apparently, the book is published every year, is reliable, and is well known. I had a duh moment. Why the heck didn't it occur to me that there would be a resource like that? I haven't had a chance to do much more than browse through it, but I'm excited. During the upcoming holiday breaks, I'm going to try to start sending poems out. If nothing else, maybe I can get some quality feedback to help me refine.

The second thing is really BIG. I am about to start major repairs on my house. Katrina did a number on my roof, and it has to be replaced. It was old to start with, and having 100 mph winds didn't help. The financial implications of this are staggering. I'll be okay, and it's a workable situation, but never before has the mantle of "adulthood" weighed so heavily on my shoulders.

In fact, lately, I've felt that leaden cape dragging me down further and further. I can't help but feel, however irrationally, that signing the requisite paperwork in the next few days is going to be like Faustus signing the Devil's contract in his own blood. (Since I just got through teaching Marlowe's play, I see Mephistopheles around every corner these days...)

Once I sign and once I begin this work, I will be clipping my own wings. It will be a commitment to stay in this job, to stay in this town. Never again will I be able to pick up and go abroad for a year or two. Never again will I be free. I am trying to look at it in terms of obligations, in terms of blessings, in any terms but the terms of a cage door swinging shut, and most of the time I can focus on these other worthy things, but sometimes, especially right before I go to bed, I can hear the squeaking hinges, and I ache between my shoulderblades where those feathers used to be. It's not the money; it's the limiting of choice.

It's foolish to wish for everything. As my father is so fond of saying, "Wish in one hand and spit in the other. See which one fills up fastest." I just wish I didn't sometimes have this terrible, panicky sense of entrapment.

There's a song by David Wilcox called "A Young Man Dies." It deals with him looking through old photographs and finding one of himself at a much younger age. The chorus says, "In the years it takes to make one man wise, a young man dies." I feel like this is the death of the "young" me. That seems highly melodramatic, even to me, but in some ways, I think it's also very true.

So what comes next? Heck if I know. I'll make some changes, fix some things, go on teaching...all those little things that won't matter at all to anyone else but me. I'm committing to this path. Hopefully I can look back later and be satisfied.

Henry the VIII

A mnemonic to remember the wives of Henry the VIII: Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived

Even though he was a lecherous old goat, I get a kick out of Henry the VIII. I have to respect somebody who said, "You won't let me divorce? Fine. I'll go start my own flippin' church then." Of all the events of the Renaissance, none other was so influential, yet so driven by personal greed. There was no religious fervor, only the desire of a man in hot pursuit of the next young thing and a son to secure his kingdom.

I love the Tudor dynasty in general. They fascinate me. Elizabeth's delicate juggling of foreign invaders-cum-suitors; poor, twisted, demented Mary trying to avenge her mother and her overwhelming desire for a baby that would never come; Edward, the fading child-king...has there ever been such a collection of personalities in one family?

I enjoy most of the British monarchy, at least the ones long gone. History of England was one of my favorite classes in undergraduate. That was probably due to the teacher. I think most history classes probably sink or swim based on the teacher.

Back to Henry...
I like the fact that he was interested in a lot of things. I wonder what he was like before he got old and sick. I wonder if he really wrote Greensleeves. I bet he was one of the most arrogant creatures ever to walk the earth. Who wouldn't be when taught from birth that your will is an extension of the will of God?

One thing always makes me feel badly for him: Catherine Howard. I know she was probably forced into marriage with him, but all the records say he was truly in love with her. I wonder if he'd ever been in love before in all his life. Then to have her abandon him for a younger lover must have been beyond heartbreaking. I'm sure he knew he wasn't physically attractive anymore. I'm sure he never really expected marriage to anything other than a means of procreation. Somehow, though, he truly came to love her and was betrayed. Maybe it's this one moment of genuine emotion that makes him real to me.

I stood in the hallway at Hampstead Court that Catherine Howard supposedly raced down to plead with him at prayers. I could almost see him kneeling at the rail, head in hands, heart torn, pride wounded, making the decision to cloak himself in royal anger and wreak destruction on the sources of his pain. I wonder if he ever turned to the door where she was screaming for her life.

One of my favorite doodads from my recent trip to the UK is a tiny sterling silver charm of Henry. I got it at St. Paul's Cathedral in London. It's a fairly detailed and heavy piece. I smile every time I put on. I don't know how he would have felt about being reduced from divine-right sovereign to kitschy silver souvenir, but I like to think maybe, just maybe, he'd have been amused.

A Miracle

To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace. ~Milan Kundera

Sheppa is going to live. The vet said she has a fractured pelvis, but that it should heal. She is also going to lose her beautiful plumy tail, but she will live.

I got the news at school. I had called at lunch, but there was no news. After the end of day bell, Dad called to tell me the news. I cried. All day long, I had been waiting for something and fearing the worst. I felt the huge weight fall away and I burst into tears.

She's got a long way to go for recovery, but at least we still have her. I can't wait until she's up and around again.

Losing an Old Friend

I got a call just before I started to write this. My dad called to say that one of the two dogs we've had for the last 10 years or more had an accident today. I raced up to their house to see her.

She's not in any pain, but she can't stand up. She's just laying in what used to be my bathroom on some blankets. I went in and sat with her for a little while.

Memories flooded my mind. I remembered the day she came to live with us. Someone had thrown her out on us. She came into the yard, lean as a rail and hungry, but looking for attention. Mom tried to run her off twice, but then she started barking and lunging at the tall grass nearby and killed a large snake. She had a home with us from that day forward.

I remembered other times. I remembered taking a nap on the back deck with her. It was a cool fall day, and when I woke up, she was curled into me. I remembered the way she'd always fling herself off the front deck and through the air, landing and racing around the front yard in big circles of joy. I remembered how she'd charge the cows and then run when they weren't intimidated. I remembered the way she'd grab the leg of blue jeans or overalls and shake them like a chew toy.

I've known for some time now that her health was failing. She's had heartworms for a couple of years. The medicines she takes keeps that under control. Her arthritis has been getting more pronounced. She can only see light and shadow and she can only hear high tones.

For all that, she's still been happy. She has roamed around the hills and woods where my parents live and chased squirrels with our other dog. She's followed my mother around the yard in endless circles while Mom does yardwork.

Now, tomorrow, the vet will probably have to put her to sleep. I am keeping a crazy, foolish hope alive that she'll get up again tonight and be okay tomorrow, but I know in my heart that tonight was probably the last time I'll get to sit beside her and pat her head. Tonight was the last time I'll get to tell her what a good dog she is. I would do anything if there was some way to help her. The hardest thing is when there's nothing else to do, no path to pursue, no hope of reclamation.

I'm going to try to focus on my bouncing young friend right now. I'm going to try to see the fearless flyer instead of the broken and grounded dog I left behind. I don't know of anything else to do except remember, hope, and cry.

Recent Stuff

No quote. I'm doing well to be posting.

Life has just piled up on my lately, and I haven't felt much like posting. Mostly, I've just been grading papers and planning classes. This is the bad time of the year for me. The beginning of the school year and the end are okay. It's the mid-semester time when grades have to be in and everything is in process instead of wrapping up that things get tense.

I am going to be shedding some extra things that I've taken on. I hate to do it, but I had a crying panic attack the other night, and I think it's about time to accept the fact that I can't do everything. I did not come into this world swathed in a red cape with an "S" on it, and it takes far less exotic things than Kryptonite to bring me down.

I am also going to force time back into my life for some things that I love, but have abandoned. I am going to the gym Monday afternoon. I am going to go out and shoot pictures again. I am going to find a way to take a pottery class.

Basically, it's about balance. Mine is way off and I have to fix it.

I did have one complement, of sorts, yesterday. One of my AP students told me that my class was his favorite and that I was one of the only teachers he had whom he didn't hate. :) Left handed, but still pretty high praise from him. At least somebody appreciates what I do.

Well, this is short, but the point is that I did it. I really do enjoy my blog. I love to write and this has been such a good medium for me. This is another one of those elements that I am trying to find space for. I suppose only time will tell how successful I am.

Faulkner

I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it.
William Faulkner

I am starting the process of teaching Faulkner's novel As I Lay Dying to my AP kids. It's been years since I read it myself, so the re-reading has been a pleasure.

Faulkner's world is such a thoroughly messed-up, yet somehow familiar place. Those characters he crafted are slices of Southern culture. They still exist. I see fragments and shades of them in neighbors and family members. I don't know what that says about me. Is it a bad thing when you recognize Faulkner characters?

For years I wouldn't read Faulkner. My first experience with him was The Sound and the Fury. I hated, hated, HATED that book, a reaction that is rare for me. I wouldn't read anything else by him and considered him to be highly overrated. Sometime in graduate school, I came back to him. I suppose it was more out of curiosity than anything else. I don't even remember what book it was that I read. It might have been AILD. I enjoyed it. That lead me to read more of his work. With each one, I found a rich world waiting that was fictional, yet familiar.

Faulkner distills the South into tiny, shimmering, jewel-like drops. Even though lots of things have changed since his South dissolved into mine, so many of his observations hold true. I don't know if that's because things change so slowly here, or if it's because the characters he wrote share traits that will be a part of human makeup one hundred years from now. Maybe it's a little bit of both.

I am by no means a Faulkner scholar, but I have learned to enjoy him. There are many more of his books that I need to read. I even have plans to revisit TSTF to see if it's really as bad as I remember. (Probably.)

Teaching Poetry

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Emily Dickinson

I love teaching poetry. It makes this job worth doing. Every time I open a textbook or anthology, I feel a sense of wonder. I feel like a mage opening a tome of wisdom. And when I spin out the words, say them and hear them, I feel the magic of them unfold like a sparkling woven mantle wrapping me snugly.

Meanwhile, the kids are rolling eyes, printing misspelled slogans on their notebooks, and praying for the bell to set them free. I can't understand them. They are Other. Yet, not all of them have built those walls. Even some who are firmly entrenched may find that the power of the words slips through a chink, a bolt hole they forgot to secure, and touches them.

I will spend money on books, especially good poetry anthologies, faster than any other item. I bought one yesterday, and I bought another today. (If you're looking for a good anthology, I recommend the Garrison Keeler collection Good Poems for Bad Times. ) I love the feel of the covers in my hands. Paperback, hardback, clothbound, or rare, rare leather, it doesn't matter. There is luxury in the weight of it, the heaviness of ideas contained within. Every new poem and every old, familiar one demand and deserve my attention.

I sit in my new chair in my 70's paneled living room, and I open the pages. The words tumble out like a treasure chest of jewels spilling across the crocheted afghan in my lap. This is true luxury. I may never own the best or most modern of things, but as long as I have these words, these shards of their writers' souls, then what more could I ask?

Tomorrow, I will go back into the classroom full of enthusiasm. I will fight the gnawing void I find there and stand guardian over my poor, broken-winged student-doves once again. Maybe a few of them will see the vast wealth that beckons. If I can share even the tiniest glimmer of the magic, then I suppose it will have been a good day.

Monkey with a Tape Recorder

Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats. ~Voltaire

For those of you wondering where I've been the past 5 days, have I got a story for you.

The week just started out badly. I was tired and cross, and the following days did nothing to improve things. Monday was forgettable. Tuesday saw my beloved cat Yoda at the vet's because she'd somehow hurt herself. She's taking antibiotics and pain medicines, and will hopefully be better soon. Wednesday, though, came and took the prize for worst day EVER at school, eclipsing all that had gone before.

As those of you who read me often know, I'm a high school English teacher and our professional lives here in MS are subject to the gravitational pull of State Testing. Our school is seeking to improve scores and had invited an educational consulting firm in.

I was expecting a lecture of dubious value on teaching methods, blah, blah, blah. I was expecting to have a headache and possibly, depending on where they decided to seat us, a literal pain in the posterior by day's end. What I was not expecting was that they would bring an entire curriculum in and tell us to teach it and only it....or else.

Every word was scripted. Every activity was prepackaged right down to little captions saying, "Say this now...." Every novel, every short story, every poem had been chosen for us with no input allowed. We were to become glorified monkeys with tape recorders, and we were to be grateful for the chance to become such wonderful teachers with so little effort on our own parts. If we chose not to use the material, we needed to be aware that they (the consulting firm) would be doing surprise drop-in visits just to make sure everything was "on track". Should they find us not using their materials in the approved way (naughty, naughty), they will write a nasty little evaluation that bypasses our principal and goes directly to the system superintendant.

The three other 10th grade English teachers and I were stunned. I could not have been more shocked if the tidy little blond in the navy blue suit had gotten up on the conference table and started breakdancing. My eyes actually teared up, and I thought I was going to have to flee the meeting to recompose myself. Was this what they thought of my teaching? If so, if I was so incompetent, shouldn't they replace me?

The information got even more grim when we were told that the company was behind in development and publication of this magic tool. Only the first nine weeks of curriculum was ready. The second nine weeks was to be shipped in early October, and the following semester hasn't even been written yet. No full course progression exists, nor could anyone tell us exactly when our major works would fall, or even what those major works might be. We broke for lunch and staggered out of the meeting into the sun of the parking lot.

The English department as a whole is known for being...er...opinionated. We are the hallway most commonly avoided by the administration because of our propensity for grabbing the hapless principal and dragging them into our rooms with a muttered, "Come here...I have to tell you something..." I'd say those of us who teach 10th grade are probably at the loud, frayed, leading edge of this.

That being said, you can imagine the conversation when the four of us went to Sonic for lunch. We were all varying shades of mad, hurt, and/or hopeless. Rebellion was fomenting. Ultimatums were flung along with wild french-fry enhanced gestures. Solidarity was forged. Chocolate was sought and consumed on our way back for the second half of the day-long meeting.

I went up to my room during sixth period to collect a couple of text books for discussion at the tail end of the meeting, and found an additional problem awaiting me there. The kids, as kids will do with a sub, were talking and laughing instead of taking care of their assignment. The sub was sitting at my desk playing with her cellphone and the radio was blasting boom-boom music. I almost blew a blood vessel. They were supposed to be writing an essay, and she hadn't even given them the paper for the assignment. They were supposed to be WRITING an ESSAY and she had boom-boom music going.

I displayed heroic restraint, passed out the papers to the kids, ignored the sub, went back downstairs, found the principal in charge of substitutes and gave him an earful. He went to deal with it. I wanted to smite her. It was just too much to deal with when I was already so distressed because of the meeting.

By the end of the day, I felt as though I had been beaten head to toe. I was heart and soul sick. I wanted to pack my Shakespeare bobblehead and walk away for good. I picked up the tattered remnants of the assignments I'd left for my classes and went home. I ate something and crawled into my bed.

The next day, I was still sick. I woke up with my stomach churning. I dragged myself to school and went through the motions. I could not shake the thought of the monkey with the tape recorder. It would save the system so much money, after all.

One of the other teachers went and had a talk with our head principal. He said that he wasn't aware that the consulting firm expected us to use their materials to the exclusion of all else, and that he would not support that. He told us not to worry, and yesterday morning, he came by my room to talk with me personally about it. I felt so much better.

This week has been a total crap-fest, but I am hopeful that next week will be better. Even though I will lose two days to testing, I think I can stand anything as long as my principal doesn't throw us to the testing wolves.

This is where I've been over the past week. Hopefully, this particular "long, dark night of the soul" has passed.

All Things to All People

To weep is to make less the depth of grief. ~William Shakespeare, King Henry the Sixth

I haven't been keeping up with this very well this week. Just another stone of guilt and obligation around my neck, and I'm already so weighed down that I can barely stand it. I am almost at my break-and-run stage. I am so burned out from trying to be all things to all people.

I'm tired of trying to get all the stupid limbs out of my yard. I'm tired of constantly dragging them only to find that I haven't really made any progress at all. I'm tired of seeing the tops of the pines lying in the middle of my circle drive and knowing that I have neither the tools nor the strength needed to get them moved.

I'm tired of trying to keep my house immaculate. My floors need the vacuum, my tub needs to be scrubbed, and I need to sweep my porches. I need to dust, polish, and mop. I can't keep up with all of it.

I'm tired of trying to be a perfect teacher. I'm tired of the weight of fourteen sets of papers dragging at my shoulder every day when I leave school. I'm tired of putting together my best efforts and it not mattering at all.

I'm tired of coming home to a dark and empty house. I'm tired of having to do everything all by myself, including picking myself up when I feel like this, and I'm mortally tired of pasting the socially-acceptable smile on my face and pretending that everything is okay so nobody has to worry about me. I'm tired of being the shoulder that's cried on and never having anyone to turn to myself. I'm tired of all the circle closing and me being on the outside everytime.

I guess this is going to be my form of venting, and tomorrow, I'll probably have all this back under control, but right now, I just can't juggle these balls any more. If there's no entry for a few days, it's because this is one thing I can drop from my daily routine without huge effects. I'm just sick and tired and in need of an extended holiday.

Power Returns

Fallen-tree video is absolutely essential to hurricane broadcasts. The most sought-after footage is, in order of ratings: 1. Big tree on strip mall. 2. Big tree on house. 3. Big tree on car. 4. Small tree on car. 5. Assorted shrubbery on car.
Carl Hiaasen

Today, eight days after the hurricane, I have electricity again. I hardly know how to live. I have been walking around in the humid darkness for so long, that turning on a lamp seems almost foreign. All the windows in my house are now closed, my air conditioner is functional, although set very high because I've become so used to HEAT, and there is a pitcher of Red Diamond Sweet Tea chilling in my refridgerator. In a few moments, I will partake of the almost unheard-of luxury of a hot shower.

The past week has been strange and beyond strange. I started to title this entry "A Country Girl Can Survive", but I opted for the more prosaic title above. I am trying to make the transition from manual labor and tree clearing to secondary education again. I learned to live by the light of kerosene lanterns. I became adept at the mind games of "it's not really cold water...it's just cool and pleasant." I tied a bandana around my mouth and cleaned out nasty things with odors that almost gagged me from my freezer and refridgerator. I ate vegetables cold from the cans.

Right now, everyone is very tense about fuel, and another storm is brewing. Everywhere you look, there are still massive trees lying in forlorn chunks and people sort of wandering around their yards staring at things. Crazy people are shooting at rescue personnel in New Orleans, and every moment seems to be writing historically momentous events. I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring, but for tonight at least, I have power again, and all the often-taken-for-granted pleasures that it bestows.

Alive

No quote. I'm on my parents' aged computer and I don't want to take up a lot of their computer dial-up time.

I am alive. The city where I live is slowly recovering. I still don't have power, but my parents do, so that's where I am at the present time.

Sometime later, sometime when I have power at my own house (whenever that is), I'm sure I'll write something terribly clever about the whole thing, but right now, all I wanted to say is that I'm alive, my house stands tree-free, I have no power, I'm sick to death of soup from cans, and that I am very thankful to be here, even in these conditions.

For all of you who have been praying, thank you. Only God could have gotten us through this. Please keep praying for all the people not so far from here who have lost it all.

More later....