Yes, new buddies allowed...

Bizarre prologue, a nod to a story not told: I had originally hoped to write a creative piece this week about the storm-grate outside my classroom in the courtyard between my room and that of a crazy and delightful retiring english teacher. I had hoped to write a silly, witty, and imaginative piece that would pay tribute to my friend and colleague of creative writing. It was to be clever; it was to answer the question "where do all our students go?" It was to be light and fun (and maybe a little playfully dark), and avoid the reality that our students just get up and move away because it is time for them to go... ...And I cannot find the space in my head today to spin a fictional yarn. Perhaps some other day... You see, I am distracted this morning by emotions that stretch back almost twenty years, and yet cycle annually for me. Each year stronger. Each year more complex. Each year dragging forward the feelings and stories from year's past in an ever-growing feedback-loop of reminiscence...

I know where the students actually go. It is not a mystery like in Blue Beard's tale, squirreled away in a creative writing macabre ending; they just walk away because it is time for them to do so...

Sweet Melancholy: You see, it's that time of year again. Graduation. Pride, loss, hope & laughter, tears, hugs, awkward silences... happy melancholy; they all flood me each year starting around 5pm graduation night and pushing me to linger as the last families drive away from the high school around 7pm...

I teach for a living. I am blessed with roughly 100 kids a year to try to teach and learn from. I receive the sacred trust that is forced by a compulsory public educational system with great humility and seriousness. I work hard and invest myself in my student's lives well beyond the social studies curriculum I try to effectively teach. I get to feel a sense of satisfaction when my students succeed, and suffer great remorse, sadness, and perhaps a modicum of guilt & regret when their lives become unmanageable...

1st person singular and plural: Perhaps you noticed that the paragraph above contains half-a-dozen "I" statements, hardly the model of selflessness that is expected from an educator, mentor, advisor that seems to be affected deeply be seeing yet another group of beautiful souls stepping out into a wider world. You see, it is not selfless work we do. It is deeply selfish. We believe in what we do and who we work with. We strive to do what we think is best for them, trying to anchor our decisions in best practice, data analysis, collegial conversations and comparison. We try to be purposeful in our actions, hoping to have meaningful and positive impact on our charges of future promise. And yet we sometimes fly by the seat of our pants; we make it up on the spot; we experiment with tactics and strategies, hoping to do no harm and helping our children, our young adults, our growing-ups to find their way to something positive, meaningful, and forward progressing...

Possessiveness that I find wonderful: The last paragraph had 10 instances of "we," that collective 1st person use that speaks to our efforts beyond individual ego. That idea of community, of collective responsibility, of shared values and expectations.  It also used 7 occurrences of "our." It is a possessiveness that points to the relationship that happens in classrooms and schools where the lives of students matter... not in the abstract, but in the personal, real, and persistent relationships that we try to form there.

And yet, today's post is not about "we," or "our;" It is about "me" and "my" today. It is about a sense of wonderful loss that is delightful and powerfully sad all in one go. It is the realization that I was taught this lesson long ago, I just didn't know it then. But I understand now. I've been understanding more and more each year...

A short anecdote that has helped me learn some perspective: Years ago I went to grad school, and I worked in an academic library, and I formed friendships there. I was employed for four years in a reasonably small back room where books are received, processed, catalogued, and placed into circulation for the rest of the world to use or ignore as they please. When it was time for me to move on from the city to start a new teaching-life in the beautiful rural foothills of the Appalachians (only 3-ish hours from my library friends) my closest friend—an older brother figure with more experience and wisdom in the world, often positive, amazingly insightful, and just plain fun to be around—withdrew a bit and offered a "no offense" statement to me that surprised me at the time. It's a paraphrase that is only accurate in the general intent (It was almost 20 years ago now): "No offense, but every time I invest friendship in our student employees, they just end up leaving, and I am tired of it. I shouldn't make any more 'new-buddies' if they just end up leaving over and over again." It's a paraphrase, like I said. It is most likely not what was said, it is what I heard though. I was mildly hurt that day, feeling a little rebuked, but more-so just confused. I planned to "come home" often. I was only moving a few hours away. It wasn't good bye; it was just minor distance. But my friend was right... For a year or so I "went home" often for live music and short visits, often doing the return drive through the night to arrive back at my new home as the sun came up. And then I had children. Sleep trumped the six hour driving investment to see a few hours of friends and music. My trips to the city night life and my friend's world of live music and no-matter-what softball early Saturday mornings did not mesh well with a new family settling down 3 hours away. I have returned only twice since then. How lame... and clearly proof that my friend was right... I had left him...

But I have paid attention to him, and he to me; the relationship changed, but sustained because it was right to be so. The lesson I have learned: It hurts to watch my students leave. Although I feel great pride, and hope, and happiness, I am also aware that I am being left behind, no longer meaningful and critical for most of them; as they are to me, all 1600+ of them...

And yet some of them return and visit, and reach out digitally at the most unexpected times; some of my old charges become "buddies" of sorts and I feel renewed each time they touch base with their aging teacher of old. I fear that I should not make "new buddies" as each new class arrives, and yet always seem to let another batch of 100 in, just as I am sure (in fact, I know) that my mentor/buddy/friend from my library days continues to allow "new buddies" into his life as well, and also keeps up with a few of the old ones who move on...

Signed, A humbled Marine. Semper Fi…

Memorial Day: I am a teacher. I teach social studies in a beautiful corner of the foothills of the Green Mountains and in the shade of the Taconics in Appalachia. I am mindful today of both the wonderful benefit of a three-day weekend for my students' and my own sanity as we move into the final hours of the school year (exams are coming!), as well as the reason we have a three-day weekend in the first place: Memorial day...

“Every flower is a soul blossoming in nature.” ― Gérard de Nerval: Main street is lined with American flags, spring flowers are in their full glory here at 1000 feet (we have a late bloom), the cemeteries have been appropriately planted with geraniums, and marker flags have been swapped out with new and clean annual replacements. Monday is a day for remembrance and gratitude. It is not a day for sirens nor candy thrown from the firetrucks as we drive and march down the parade route. It is a quiet day. A cook-out later may be appropriate, no doubt, but only after some quiet reflection... 

I have some friends who have served in a way that I did not: So I though I would offer an old friend's words for my blog this week. He is a man of character, although I only knew him well when we were all young boys aspiring to be men, and had no clue of our adult-self's paths. Since then I have gleaned parts of his path through social media; most impressively to me was his choice to serve as a Marine. This past week my friend Alex posted some thoughts to his "feed" that echoed thoughts I have had in the past. With his permission I offer them here...

A Veteran’s Request for Memorial Day

My friends, I have a favor to ask of you… It’s something that’s been on my mind for a few years but I’ve never quite figured out how to say it, until now.

The favor I ask is this: Please, don’t thank me this weekend. Don’t thank me for my service. Don’t thank me for my sacrifice. Don’t thank my veteran friends for their service or their sacrifice. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment. I do. We do. But we’re still here, and Memorial Day isn’t about us.

Memorial Day also isn’t really about the start of summer or barbecues or beaches. But I enjoy a cold beer and a good burger too, and it’s part of what we all fought to preserve after all, so no harm there. As long as you can take a moment to remember why we have the day.

If you want to do something to acknowledge the men and women who have worn the uniform, then take a moment to bow your heads and be grateful of those who laid down their lives for our nation. The way we will be doing. Think of them before you thank us.

And when you hear a Veteran say things like “Don’t thank me”, I hope you won’t be offended. Please don’t be hurt if someone reminds you that Memorial Day is not Veteran’s Day. Don’t think us obnoxious or ungrateful. We’re not.

What we Veterans are, is humbled. Humbled by those who went before us. Humbled by those who made the ultimate sacrifice. That’s why it’s sometimes hard to hear “thank you” over Memorial Day. Because the truth is, we don’t feel worthy of your thanks. Not on this weekend.

To many people Veterans are heroes, but to us, our heroes are the men and women buried in Arlington, laid to rest in hometowns across our country, and the ones who never came home. These are the real heroes. They are our friends and brothers and sisters in arms who gave their last full measure of devotion for our nation. Whether we knew them or not, we feel the weight of their loss. They are missed.

So if you want to thank me, do me a favor and get back to me in November. I’ll be really appreciative you thought of me then. But for now, I just want the focus to be on my heroes, the real heroes. The ones no longer with us.

Signed,
A humbled Marine. Semper Fi…

Forecast: 78 degrees with rain ending early:

So take a moment, remember those who served, and died...

and enjoy the peace of gathering together in crowds to remember those who sacrificed for the rest of us...

notice the flags and flowers and your friends around you...

and then go enjoy the glorious and blessed life that is all around all of us...

"I'll stop the world and melt with you..."

"Moving forward using all my breath": So I was thinking about the 1980s this week. Middle school. You know, that time when somewhere around 7th and 8th grade when the boys shoot up a foot over the summer, big goofy heads, lanky limbs, and out-of-sorts in so many ways. We had dances back then called "mixers." Oh, what fun they were... and terrifying! The girls were bright and delightful, the boys, dense and confused...

"Making love to you was never second best": Back-in-that-day (the days of big shoes and skinny legs, poofy hair and braced-teeth smiles) we were full of passionate intensity. Each dance, each date (often in groups to the movies or meeting up at the skating rink) was epic! Going out meant talking on the phone late at night, cord stretched as far down the hall as possible to get out of ear shot of a brother or parent passing by the stairwell a floor below. Long relationships might last even for a few months. Each time we held hands or actually worked up the nerve to steal a kiss, it was the best moment we'd ever had. Each time...

"I saw the world thrashing all around your face": My perceptions of those dances back then are warped no doubt, but my approach across the parquet floor, stumbling through the refracted mirror ball light toward a pretty smiling-eyes girl on the other side of the room was fraught with the anxiety that my ineptness was showing. I've learned since those middle school days that most of the time the girls were so nervous about being asked to dance, that they didn't notice our desperate awkwardnesses. Those girls who did notice were perhaps too worldly or fast for us more dorky boys. But we didn't know that then, and so had to summon our courage learned from watching various protagonists in John Hughes films...

"Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace:" We danced to the most horrid stuff back then; a horror only further compounded by this generation's glorification of 80s synth pop. But when we were in the midst of growing out of our grade-school naiveté and groping through the new world of adolescent socialization, the music's poppy sound and subtly dark lyrics were spot on.  One of the classics worth holding on to though was Modern English; remembered for it's one new-wave dance song Melt with You. Most people don't know the rest of their material which was most definitely not middle school dance music: post-punk, gothic, new wave lable-mates with This Mortal Coil and Bauhaus; this stuff was deep and compelling. Robbie Grey described their experimentally artistic album Mesh and Lace as a “barren landscape, [with] heavy drumming, distorted guitar, and wailing vocals….” (What a great description of the reality of middle school romance)...

I'll stop the world and melt with you": But each time we found our way across the dance floor, our hearts in our throats, our mouths dry with fear, trying to keep our eyes on the goal, but not daring to stare too much, we approached with a lurking fear; until that smile melted us. That smile! It reassured us. It made the moment real and immediate and manageable. And then we dared to look into those eyes and heaven was brought down to earth. As long as the DJ played music and the lights stayed low, time stood still...

"You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time
There's nothing you and I won't do
I'll stop the world and melt with you..."

and it was good...

A Buddhist Still Life... balance

"I'm not sure of what it all means yet... I'm not sure of much of anything these days. Maybe that's why I talk so much." -- Narrator in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (early in his Chautauqua)

Meditation: Greening Bodhi with dried cactus blossoms

Classical vs(?) Romantic: I am about 20 percent into Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It is one of several reads I am currently indulging in, choosing to crack the cover of my Kindle only while eating my cereal in the morning. [I am also savoring the newest volumes of two graphic novels that came in the mail recently and have just started a biography of John Peel.] In Zen, I have arrived at a philosophical section where the Narrator has begun expressing his ideas contrasting "classical" and "romantic" types of personalities. The "romantic" is exemplified by  the narrator's friend John, whom he describes as a conflicted (and perhaps lost) motorcycle rider who relies heavily on technology—while seemingly wanting to reject any need to understand the machines he hopes to operate properly. The narrator presents himself as more "classical," relying on his rational/logical problem-solving skills to keep his old bike in good repair. I am, in part, drawn to the narrator who loves to tinker and rely on his wits. He seems quiet and introspective, while at the same time claims he talks too much. I identify with that. I often describe myself as a "Pooh" trapped in a "Tigger." I have bought into the narrator's critique of John, yet worry that the narrator is missing how important it is to find a balance between both of the two personalities, a little classical to temper the romantic, a little romance to temper the classic. Balance is the key to a clean mind; logical and emotional; planning/preparing and remaining in the moment; analysis and experience...

Finding my balance: So this weekend I have been seeking my own sort of balance to address not knowing "what it all means yet." I do know that remaining in the moment is just so much nicer than trying to remain in a past moment or anticipate next moments. Balance came this weekend by getting my hands dirty...

First lilac buds over freshly tilled garden.

Getting my hands dirty, Part 1: Placing ones hands deep into rich soil after removing the top layer of rotting fall leaves feels almost as good as the warm shower one takes to get the sweat and dirt of a hard day's work off. What is it about prepping the ground for plants that is so satisfying? Prep work usually makes me cringe. (I love to just jump in and get things done.) For instance, painting prep is what keeps me from painting whenever I can avoid it. I'd rather just hit a canvas and go, adjusting as I will, hoping for something that looks like I feel inside. But prepping a room for paining, doing trim, after masking the electrical covers, etc. pushes my ability to remain patient. I can sit on a bench and watch the sun glisten on the lake for an afternoon, but I have no patience for preping a room to paint. And yet... getting the ground ready to receive plants feels much different. The crazy-garden-ladies [mentors of my first attempts to grow my own food] from Cambridge back in 1997 told me, "take care of the soil and the plants will take care of themselves." It has been one of the most important pieces of wisdom I have ever received. Prepping the soil doesn't even feel like prep work per say. It feels like the only real work of planting. Once I do my part, the plants will do theirs. I'll stick around and offer help when needed; the soil is my responsibility; the growing is theirs...

So phase one of soil prep is done. The lilacs are just starting to bloom by the way. The scent will be drifting across the lawn soon. The soil in their partial shade has been tilled and the rotting leaves await replacement as a top cover once my daughter and I pick our spring planting at the end of the month. I dug in the new dirt a little after the tilling was finished; my hands got dirty; my mind cleared...

'74 Honda CB 360: Opening the engine on frame. 

Getting my hands dirty, Part 2: The Honda has been sitting for months. When I last posted about Joe (my '74 Honda CB360 for those who have not been following my posts regularly) I described restoring the tank and surrounding parts. I have not finished writing my adventures-of-the-dual-carbs yet, but I have to spoil the next few posts on the bike blog by saying that I have gotten the bike to run, and have done a lap around the block. Oh my goodness! Never has 20 miles an hour felt so glorious as making Joe go. But the compression dropped off as things loosened up in that engine that hasn't run for over a decade. So my mentor and I have decided to take a look at the pistons and rings. I am not willing to describe the start of this adventure yet either, but I bring it up because "balance" this weekend came in part through successfully removing my tank without spilling a drop of gas, opening up the breather cover, and understandingly pulling apart the spark advancer and contact breaker assembly. This is not a big deal at all for anyone who knows how to turn wrench on a motorcycle. It's almost as rudimentary as changing a light switch for an electrician, or unclogging a sink drain for a plumber. But for me it was a first, and I knew what I was doing as I did it; And my hands got dirty; And my mind cleared...

Score... Egg-Pus!

Yellow-car-games: I am not sure who first brought the yellow car game to my household, but we have played for a long time now. It's simple. You see a yellow car and say "score". You get a point. Simple, right?

No. NO. NO!...

Laughter: There are so may disputes in playing this game that there is yelling and laughter almost every time we play.  Sometimes there are even disputes of who has the right to end the game; disputes within disputes within raucous laughter (and sometimes hurt feelings), and further laughter's disputes...

Disputes: The variations of the color yellow are a point of constant dispute. When do you cross the line from yellow to orange? Are service vehicles (orange-yellow) acceptable? What about "yellow" school busses (NO!)? Do yellow panels on a truck count if the cab is clearly not yellow?

The location of a car matters too. Can you score a car on a return trip on the same day, or is it already scored? Who makes the rules; does the driver have claim over the rules or should insurrections of "I'm scoring it anyway!" be allowed? Well the inter-webs has a site for all these conflicts which I plan on using to my advantage in the near future with my family.

http://www.yellowcargame.co.uk/index.htm 

The inter-webs is a wondrous quagmire of dys-information that must make "it" true: The site has everything I needed for my blog entry today! History, official (?) and alternate rules, even extras that test your tolerance for colour [sic.] variations...

Professor J Bulmanovich of the University of South-West Sussex has researched the game and has given the following as a probable history.

The history of the yellow car game can be traced back to the early 1600's and to the carters who used to transport the harvested rape seed from the Cotwolds across country to the barges that would carry the rape across to Dublin. 

Professor Bulmanovich (is he even a real person?) suggests that a "good luck" hit was offered from one dock worker to another after each successful barge arrived. Over time this translated to yellow carts, vehicles, trains, etc. and on and on and on... I have not validated any of the story, now do I wish to at this point. Urban myth or not, it makes a great story...

Yellow-car pain: It turns out the British version of our family game involves hitting (much like the punch-buggy [color] game of my youth). This could create problems given the extreme reach my son has developed as he has climbed to 6" over my sadly shrinking 5'7" self. It also turns out the punch-buggy variation is one of the "official" alternate rules resulting in two hits, not just one. Who knew?...

Double-dipping is bad manners except in close company: I particularly like rule section 4 as it backs up my own feelings of multiple scoring a car on the same trip:

4. Once a car has been used it can not be used again in the same game

4.a. When playing on a journey the game is reset when that journey ends. Otherwise the game resets when the players part company.

4.b. Sleep also resets the game.

Eggs?: This all leads up to a moment yesterday when my daughter and I were driving to Saratoga through small picturesque upstate NY towns on a gorgeous spring day. There is a VW Bug color that is so pale with elements of green in the yellow that it is debatable if it qualifies:

Only cars which are yellow are allowed. The definition of yellow can be down to interpretation, but here are some guidelines. Gold, bronze and shades or green are not yellow. Metallic yellow is acceptable but pearlescent is not unless the colours in it are only shades of yellow. Some manufacturers call a colour yellow, just because you name something yellow that doesn't make it so.

I was looking to find a gracious place to include said car while at the same time not opening to door for every putrid off-yellow out there. While I was thinking of my ruling my daughter exclaimed "Egg Pus car!" I am not sure why this shocking proclamation amused me so much but I guffawed for at least a block before agreeing that it was a new special category in the game.

Of course there was the obligatory discussion of what egg pus would look like if eggs had pus, and although I was smiling and acting amused, inside I was totally grossed out. I couldn't get my brain off the question of the yoke vs. this fictional egg-pus; ick!

I made sure the eggs were scrambled this morning...