This Happened

11 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by in Uncategorized

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Today at Ocean State Job Lot, at opening hour, 9am, the inside of the store, with it’s painted cement floors (painted gray.  why bother?) and dusty smell, was surprisingly busy.  People were not milling about.  They were determinedly shopping – and I will not pretend to know why.  No smiley ‘good mornings” to be shared, no kindly moving of the cart to make space for another; just business, baby.  Business.

I was there to get school supplies.  This year, OCJL is giving a 30% discount to educators.  The announcement could be heard on the overhead every five minutes: we all know that educators spend a lot of their own money on supplies for their classroom.  If you are a teacher and would like to hear details of our summer offer, ask a friendly clerk for assistance.  Over.  And over.  Again.

Ah, but I was ready.  I already knew about the sale, waited until the day it started (then promptly missed that date and went today instead), having printed a pay stub and brought along my MEA membership card that both show who I am.  I could pass for a hobo sometimes the way I dress in the summer, I’m not gonna lie.  I thought I’d better cover my bases, lest anyone think I was a homeless woman in need of a serious amount of white lined paper.

I found many things that I needed and by the time I had perused the entire store, had a cart full of useful teachery things.  I also had a few things for home, to be dealt with in a separate transaction.  Little tip for ya:  OCJL is a great place to get toothbrushes.  Good ones.  Cheap.

Anyway.  I am quite an intuitive person and I am always conscious of holding up other shoppers when I have a big ol’ bunch o’ stuff to buy.  I went to a line where I myself had to wait first.  It seemed only fair.

When it was my turn, I explained to the clerk that I am a teacher, showed her my proof, yadda yadda.  She had not yet rung in such a discount, so asked for help.  Two, now, clerks helped me to gather my things, organize them to fit inside themselves for easy carrying and chatted away as we packed.  Inevitably, another shopper came to that line, behind me.  She seemed to be waiting patiently.  I didn’t notice, in my highly intuitive state, that she was peeved in any way…but the first clerk felt the need to explain.

“She’s a teacher!” she yelled.  And I am not being dramatic.   I jumped a little, and looked around for whom she might be speaking.  “A TEACHER!”

I looked up at her.  I realized it was me.  She was absolutely, 100% delighted with me.  Grinned like I was a celebrity.

I was very confused.

Several people in other lines turned to look at me, still dressed, you should know, for the run I went on this morning, unshowered, ratty t-shirt, sweat head…the works.

And then.

A woman two lines over hollered “Thank you!” and started clapping, “thank you so much!”

“Yes, thank you so much!” said the first clerk, then the other clerk, as more and more people clapped and cheered, whistled and woo-hoo’ed.  In the middle of Ocean State Job Lot.   For being a teacher.

I did what any highly respectable public school educator would have done, in my “Ta-Ta Trot” t-shirt and semi-reflective running shorts.  I bowed to those people, like a queen to her subjects.  And didn’t let a tear fall until I was in my car.

Summer Began

08 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in Stuff I Want to Tell You About

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I challenge anyone out there to dare find fault with the simple perfection of a Friday evening (or whatever day is your work-week equivalent.)  Work is done, and you have, without question, of course, changed lives and made the world better (because you are an absolute rock star at your job) — and there are two days ahead of you for which no explanation is owed or expected, to or from anyone!

Two entire days!

Sometimes I spend these weekends grading essays, hosting a boisterous sleepover, or at a basketball tournament or swim meet.  Sometimes I turn the kitchen into a place Rachael Ray would envy, filling our freezer full of home cooked pasta dishes that could get my family through a winter, should I get stuck somewhere in the thick of a Maine snowstorm.

I have also been known to lose entire weekends to What Not To Wear marathons.  Do not judge.

So, you can imagine how I felt about the day that school got out for the summer.  It looked a little bit like this:

images My teacher friends will understand when I say it takes a few June days, post-students, to… how shall I say it?  Disentangle.  A few mornings in which you don’t want to, but you wake up early anyway, already mind-marking the parts of the lessons that need highlighting for which students…until that second when you realize:  my work there is done.

I recommend not screaming in delight at this moment, which happens to still be a school day for the other four members of your family. They seem to not like this.  You might receive hate stares from your 8th grader or a noogie from your 5th.  Your 2nd grader will probably look at you sleepily and mumble what?  school?  again? and drift back off to sleep.

Alas.  There are summery things to do.  Things like this:

DSC_1077

My camera stayed home on strawberry picking day because it was threatening rain, which bums me out, because had I had it, you could have met the man I picked next to.  His name was Burton.  On that day, June 26th, he had been married 42 years.  In the morning his wife had said to him “Burton, get your ass out this house and pick some damn berries for your wife!”

Out. This. House.  I immediately loved a woman I’d never laid eyes on.

And because I had recently ended my school year, and my mind wasn’t yet untangled, I thought this infinitely romantic.  Because all things are wonderful when you have nowhere to be, and not a lot to do, and all the time in the world in which to do it.

That’s how I felt at the end of June – with the entire summer out in front of me like a nirvana of unending weekend.  And it’s how I feel now with about 3 weeks to go.  But first, it began.

Stay tuned.

Suck It Vanity Fair!

07 Wednesday Aug 2013

Posted by in Speaking of Corn

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Dear Readers,

My gosh but it’s been so looooooong!   Where have you been all these weeks?  Scaling the Alps?  Running with the bulls?  Devouring raw oysters down on the Bayou?  Discovering the cure for duck itch? (Please, someone, do this.)  Or, like me, have you been waking with the sun and consistently if not constantly plotting a way to make writing a way to support your life?  I’m kidding.  The sun is up way before I.

I’ve got gobs of things to tell you.  I haven’t forgotten you for a second – I’ve been making lists of ideas for you, taking seemingly detailed notes of our summer adventures- that, unfortunately, I can’t actually read (what does slide soft and also trains mean?  It seems important.  And yet…it could be the ramblings of a woman gone a little cuckoo…) and compiling photographs for the moment I felt like blogging away again.

Looks like that time has arrived!

I’m sorry I lied to you awhile back about writing two blog entries per week.  I mean, crikey, what was I thinking?

You should know though, I didn’t know I was lying, or, if I did, I meant to only lie to myself, thinking it would motivate me to do that amount of writing.  Turns out, my brain is the least of disciplined creatures, particularly when the lake is calling.

I’m telling you this because it’s getting to be time for me to go back to work.  (Workwork, like, teaching work) and as certain as melting icecaps, that means I suddenly feel the need to not do that, but to write instead.

Sigh.  Is this the creative process I’m going to have to explain when Vanity Fair comes calling?  Yes, lady from Vanity Fair, that’s correct.  I like to completely not write until I’m supposed to be doing something fairly necessary and imminent, at which time, I wholeheartedly ignore that which I must do and, instead, do what I most love to do. That’s just how I roll. And then I’ll take a big ol’ swig of my water with lime, to show I’m suave.  To which, the Vanity Fair writer will laugh because she’s in on the joke, and then stop suddenly, because it’s just not funny.

I’ll say this.  There’s no forcing it.  I can’t write when I’ve got nothing to say.  Upswing?  I’ll never be accused of verbosity.  Wait.  That’s not actually an insult.  It might not even be a word.

Ah.  Whatever.  Keep checking in.  I’ve got a lot to say and not a lot of time in which to say it.  23 days to be exact.  Huh.  My own little private Alp.  Sounds like a great challenge to me.  In the words of some dingdong on reality tv:  Bring It.