The Main Resolution

Resolution Number 1: Find a way to stop letting my job take over my life. Most of the problem is me: I've always had this tendency with any job I've ever had. I'm either on the job, or the job is with me, wherever I am. Go away! Shoo!

Step a. Find a way, somehow, to leave thoughts of work at work.

Step b. Bring more fun into my life after work hours. Forget the piles of papers and the endless planning. What does it matter, really? The students don't care if they get papers back, nor whether the class is well-planned. The administrators who observe the class will find something wrong no matter how much time I put into planning, so what the hey. Instead, see friends more on weekends, go to Tybee and walk the beach, plan trips, read more pleasure books, write in my blog, finish the children's book I'm writing for grandson.

Step c: Stop neglecting vanity, such as nail fill-ins or the occasional shirt or new shoes.

Step d. Relax about job performance. It can't be any worse than any other teachers' and may even be better. I know one teacher at my school who sleeps during class, and she's still there!

Step e: Stop spending personal money for supplies. Sonny's $100 gift to all teachers last fall, sweet touch that it was, is long, long gone, but that doesn't mean I should be funding my classroom supplies. I can use the extra money for a trip next summer.

Step f: Consider trying to transfer to one of the Title I schools, such as Savannah High. At least with Title I money, the hallways and supply budgets are lined with gold, so to speak, even if the students are rough.

Step g: A new gym opened just down the street from our community! L. already has been going to his downtown gym three times a week for the past five years. The city pays for it. Three months ago, P. started going to weight training at a gym in Garden City. I couldn't go to either gym because of their inconvenient locations. But this new gym is within walking distance from my house!! I plan to join tomorrow, and will use it to work off the on-the-job tension. I love walking and pilates, but a treadmill and bicycle will be a boost to the endomorphins.

Hasta luego; or How Operating on Spanish Time Creates Stress

Dec. 28: The intensity begins a few days before he leaves. It's a thick energy field that spreads through the house as L. opens drawers and slams them closed while he looks for items to pack. He swears and mutters as he rummages through the closet, sliding hangers along the rod. A tightness settles upon his face as he moves through the house collecting medications, credit cards, papers, presents, to pack. The sight of the suitcase on the bedroom floor sends the dog into a depression. He sinks to the floor, sad face on front paw.

Two nights before his departure for Venezuela, the suitcase lies open on the floor, with its future contents piled up across the bed or stacked on the floor. Between packing sessions, he talks on the computer via the Skype program with family or friends in Venezuela, probably verifying the details of when he'll arrive or what they'll do. I crawl into bed, trying not to disturb his stacks of clothes. The last thing I hear as I fall asleep is rapid Spanish conversation.

The next day, he leaves for work in a rush, mug of coffee in one hand, three eggos balanced on the other, as he hurries out the door. He has a lot to finish up today to cover everything for the two weeks he'll be gone. He has a headache, he says. His allergies are bothering him. His stomach doesn't feel right. His joints ache. I assure him it's nothing but travel anxiety. During the day, I iron the shirts and pants that he wants to take. He returns home that evening with a bouquet of roses and card, for our anniversary---I have given him a card that morning---but he doesn't want supper, says his stomach is a little upset and only wants arepas. I assure him it's nervous excitement. He spends the evening talking into the computer, packing clothes, pacing the floor, turning in mid-pace to rush back to another room for a forgotten item.


Departure day, he has already left for work when I wake up---exhausted as I am, I sleep like a baby during school vacations. Mid-morning, he calls from work to remind me that he'll be home at 12:30, and on the way to the airport, we'll pick up something to eat and also stop at the bank. He needs a certain amount of cash because he'll get a poor exchange rate if he draws it from our account while in Venezuela. The flight doesn't leave Savannah until 5:30, but he's nervous about arriving by 3:30 since Continental requires a 2-hour pre-flight arrival. Last year, when he was returning from a trip to Seattle on Continental, he was supposed to arrive one hour before the flight, was a few minutes late due to heavy traffic, and they wouldn't let him on the flight, even though there was plenty of time and no line.

Departure day, he arrives home from work at the appointed time, but absolutely has to double check the new webcast camera that he's taking to Venezuela to go on G's computer. We have a similar camera on his laptop, which he uses to talk AND see cousin Carlos and others. He's been testing both cameras using his laptop and another one of ours. He's psyched about having a camera at both ends to connect him with the familia when he's here, and also to be able to see us in real time while he's there. But right now,at 1 o'clock, departure day, he can't get the two cameras to work when he sets them up on different computers in different rooms. He runs between rooms fiddling with this setting and that, moving the eyeball-like camera to yet another laptop in the house, and is visibly distressed that he can't get a picture on one of them. I keep saying, "We'd really better leave" and he keeps saying, "Just a minute, just a minute; I'm going to get this thing to work!" The intensity flows like choppy waves through the air; I just want to get out of the way, sit quietly in a chair and continue counting the high school yearbook's Senior Superlative votes, a task that I've been working on. But I can't begin that or anything else, because every few minutes he calls for me to go to Computer Number 1 or Computer Number 2 and click this or that. The hour ticks by, and in the end, he can't get the connection to work. It's now almost 2:30. Each time I say, "We'd better go," he insists that we WILL get the camera to work. But we don't. He'll have plenty of time in Venezuela to try to hook it up from that end, so it's not the end of the world.

Finally, we're backing the car out the driveway. The traffic is very heavy going into Savannah, with post-Christmas shoppers. I remind him that we need to grab a bite on the way. P and I have both been starving but waiting to eat on the way. I assume he'll swing through some window and let us grab a burger, but he wants to eat inside because he's particular about keeping the inside of his car pristine. So we go inside, and of course it takes twice as long as it would have if we'd been allowed to eat in the car just this once. By the time we get to the bank, it's well after 3:00.

The line to the drive-through window is long, so he asks me to go inside the bank and wait in the lobby line because it might be shorter. Key word, might be. It isn't. When I return to the car, having withdrawn his required amount, it's 3:25, and now he's in a frenzy of anxiety. The traffic is still thick as he hurries down Abercorn, planning to take DeRenne to 516 to 16 to 95 to the airport. As the traffic crawls along, he taps the wheel impatiently, mutters under his breath, groans, breathes heavily. Suddenly, he twirls the wheel to the left to cut over through a side street to White Bluff, which connects with DeRenne. As he
races down the side street, he sees that White Bluff is also jammed with traffic. He swears, sighing loudly, his face drenched with anxiety. I work hard to refrain from saying one of the many things I'm thinking at this point, ranging from "Maybe we could have left the house earlier" to "Maybe we should have driven through the McDonald's window." He's gas-and-braking along White Bluff, inching in and out of lanes, brazenly cutting between slow-moving cars. We get onto DeRenne. Every red light elicits a fresh expulsion of tension. Finally, onto 1-16. The traffic is heavier than I've ever seen. It's now 3:50. He's sure he'll be too late to be allowed on the plane. He drives rapidly up 1-95. Soon we see the sign for the airport, exit on the right. A long line of cars is moving off the highway into the same exit lane ahead. They have stopped at the light, but are turning left for Wal-Mart, so L. scooches along the right side of the exit lane, bypassing the line, turns right at the light, and hurries along the airport road. Half a mile later, the road forks into "Arrivals" "Parking" and "Departures." It's now 4:00. He hops out of the car, grabs the luggage from the trunk, and tells P. to walk in with him to make sure he can get on the flight, while I wait in the humming car. Five or ten minutes later, he and P. come out the door with smiles and thumbs up signals. He has checked in his luggage. He's good to go. Luckily, he'd printed out his boarding pass at home, which made all the difference.

Okay, I admit it. As P. and I drove away, I was not unhappy to see him off. I'll begin to miss him in a few hours, but the intensity was beginning to get to me, sucking me into the vortex. I need a short break from it, okay? I know you understand!

Low-key Christmas, just the way we like it

Dec. 25: Ever since he was a child, P. has rarely wanted anything for Christmas. He has always had to think really hard to come up with anything he wanted, unlike many children, myself included back in the day, who submit long lists of hearts' desires to parents or Santa Claus. I remember making a particularly long list when I was about 12, during some of the roughest family years. I even illustrated the items on the list, a plaid skirt of certain style and colors, a cardigan sweater that had to be a certain shade of bright red, and on down the list. Probably it was a wish list impossible for any reasonable parent to fulfill, let alone a depressed mother who spent much of her time in bed. That was probably my point. The list was my denial of the situation, some dream world idea of an imaginary parent who would drive around town until she found exactly what I wanted, right down to the texture, colors and style of 20 different outfits. I imagine, in retrospect, that the Christmas season for her was horribly stressful, with three greedy (or hurting) children to buy for, the Christmas cards to send, the relentles cultural pressure to spend and spend and give and give as nauseating sleigh bells and crooned songs blared over intercoms in department stores.
Since L. and I married, 22 years ago tomorrow, we have established a tradition of modest Christmases with no pressure. In the beginning, we were so broke that we had little choice. For P's first Christmas, all we could afford was one plastic truck from Walgreen's, nothing for each other, though we didn't care about that. As the years went by and the circumstances improved, we still liked our low-key Christmas, maybe one thing for each other. Even in recent times, since becoming an adult, P. can never think of anything he wants; he claims he already has everything he wants. I feel the same way. Other than winning a $100 million lottery so I can retire and travel the world, I couldn't think of anything I desperatly wanted this year. P. finally said a few days before Christmas that he'd thought of something he wanted, a new electric razor to replace his broken one. I picked one up at Wal-Mart. S., being the neo-hippie that he is, dislikes extravagance, and seemed grateful to receive only one item.
Fortunately, people today feel much freer to ignore the cultural pressure than my mother's generation. I know I do.
Christmas Day started on a bright note, with my grandson phoning at 8:30 to thank us for the marvelous 1,000 piece Lego set. (Now for him, Grandma and Grandpa WILL drive all over town looking for just what he wants!) I was still sleeping when
he called; L., already awake, bright and cheery, answered. When L. handed the phone to me, I probably sounded drunk, as I forced myself awake. Also talked to D. When I told him I'd just woken up, he replied enviously, "Oh, I forgot there's nobody under 20 in your house, so you can SLEEP!"
We watched a majorly hilarious, two-hour Robin Williams stand-up on DVD that S. had gotten for L. and laughed till it hurt. L. cooked a nice brunch. Then we went to the movies to see a late afternoon showing of National Treasure. Back at home, L. cooked dinner. That evening, a Cold Case marathon was on, so we watched show after show until midnight. A lovely Christmas Day. I'm so grateful to have the affection, attention, and peace that I so craved as a 12-year-old.

Lazy, disembodied day

Dec. 24: S.'s plane finally arrived at 1:30 a.m. this morning. The whole trip was confusing and irritating to him. All airline personnel, from clerks to flight attendants, had no information about anything, all day long. I got the same feeling from my end. From 11:30 p.m. on, I kept calling the departure and arrival hot line every 10 minutes, and kept hearing the recorded estimated time of departure from Atlanta to be 10 or 15 minutes in the future. After midnight, I wasn't sure whether to punch in "today" or "yesterday" when prompted about the flight. It was supposed to have left "yesterday" but hadn't, so was it now a "today" flight? "Yesterday" triggered the information that the plane had departed at 1:10 a.m.; however, it was now only 12:35 a.m., so I switched to "today" and kept hearing of the postponements.

At 12:45, I called S's cell phone and was told it was "out of range", so I had the feeling the plane had departed from Atlanta. This, plus the recorded "estimate" that it would leave at 12:40. I roused L. from his sleep and we drove to the airport. He waited in the car while I went in, hoping for some genuine information from a living human or an information screen. Not one airpline person was working throughout the whole terminal, not one! The information screens had no reference to any incoming flights! Now I was really getting nervous. Using my cellphone, I called the hotline once more, and that trustworthy recording now said that the plane HAD DEPARTED ATLANTA!!! Was estimated to ARRRIVE IN SAVANNAH at 1:49 a.m.

When the plane was finally announced and the passengers flocked into the waiting area, I scanned the crowd, fearing, of course, that S. somehow missed the plane. What a relief to see that reddish hair and thin, firm frame in the distance, with his distinctive walk. We got home at 2:15 a.m., and I cooked him an instant pizza and gave him a cold beer. We talked briefly, but I'm not a night person. I fell into bed at 3 a.m. I haven't been up that late since about 1968. This morning, I heard L. roll out, late, and rush around getting ready for his work, but I was able to fall back asleep. The cat bothered me a few more times, but I was able to shoo him away and doze off. 10 o'clock! I haven't slept that late since I can't remember when, probably the '60's.

I've felt jet-lagged today. After coffee, I drove to Wal-Mart to stock up while S. slept like a rock. Later, P., S. and I went to the mall just to walk around. P. isn't a huge talker, but S. is. He can start a conversation about anything and talk non-stop until the end the day, flowing from one subject to the next,never running out of thoughts. When S. is around, P. sits back and listens, as I do too. We're listeners more than talkers, so it works out well.

Christmas travel jitters

My cell phone rang last night while L., M., T. and I were eating our Indian cuisine in a cozy booth. The smell of garlic and tumeric wafted through the air.
"Mom?"
"Oh, it's D.," I told the others. But no, in a few seconds, I realized it was really S., whose voice sounds almost identical to D.
"Wanted to let you know that my cell phone isn't working," he said. "In case you try to call me tomorrow at the airport, I didn't want you to freak out if I didn't call back."
"Okay," I said.
"I figured since I'd be staying with you for the next few days, I'd wait on paying my cell phone bill," he continued. "But I'm going to give you Shane's cell number so if anything comes up before I leave for the airport, you can call him."
I wrote down his friend's number.
"I go through Chicago, and I heard it's storming there, so if you hear of any changes in the flight, call Shane."
When we got home, I hurried to the computer to check weather.com and flightdelays.com as well, and yes, O'Hare had been closed and flights delayed because of a ginormous blizzard. But that was last night. Airlines seldom know what their plans are until about five minutes before take-off, often even later. I recall a godawful flight from Savannah to Philly in Oct. 2006. Apparently, they decided to leave on schedule despite a Nor-easter in the New England area. The plane, ensconced in thick cloud cover, bounced and rolled and twisted, as the pilot flew around and around Philly in a holding pattern, until they could decide whether the storm would pass, or whether we'd be flying to another airport. They could not have thought of this before departing Savannah? Most of us are equally familiar with the abrupt cancellation of a return flight, no reason given, taking the shuttle back to the hotel, minus suitcase already checked in, and spending another night away from home.
Knowing that airlines do not plan 24 hours ahead, I decided I'd wait until this morning to check the weather. But first, Sunday morning, we took some students out for breakfast at IHOP, and then L's desire to buy the perfect black dress for Mamita, size petite 18, turned from a quick errand at Penney's to a long walk back and forth through the mall, to Penney's, Belk's, Sear's, SteinMart, and finally Macy's, where we found the perfect dress. Then, on to Fresh Market, to get a certain type of international coffee that we'd tasted last time at M's and T's. From there, on to Best Buy to get an Ipod for nephew Francisco. The entire excursion took hours, so when I got home, it was almost one o'clock. I checked American Airlines's on-line schedule and saw that S's flight out of Phoenix had been delayed by an hour, according to the website. This meant he would miss his connection in Chicago, and probably end up there overnight.
I called American and spoke to some representative who said another flight leaving Phoenix at 12:15 went through Dallas-Fort Worth and would connect in Atlanta early enough to catch the last plane of the evening to Savannah. I could change it at no cost, she said. Trouble was, I had no way of contacting S. to tell him to take that flight, and I didn't want to risk changing the flight without his knowledge, in case he ended up on neither flight, which would be just his/my luck. The rep said she could leave a message at the gate of the flight he was supposed to take, and that he could re-book it himself IF he got the message. I decided to call his friend Shane to see if they'd left for the airport yet. Shane answered and said, "Yeah, I dropped him off about half an hour ago." I told him I needed to speak to S., and he then informed that I COULD call S. on his cell---he could receive calls; he just couldn't call out on it. If I'd only known...
I called S., and reached him just he was going through the security gate. "Can you hold on a moment; I have to put the phone through the X-ray machine." I waited and waited, listening to the beeping, bumping sound of the inside of the x-ray machine. Finally, S. returned to the phone. I told him about the different flight. He hurried to the gate, phone in hand, and after a few muffled exchanges, he told me, "They told me that flight just left, and it was full anyway."
"How could it have left; it's only 11:15 your time and it was scheduled for 12:15." He said he didn't know. Turns out, I found out later, that Phoenix doesn't go back from daylight savings to regular time like the East Coast does, so they're only TWO hours behind us, not THREE as I'd thought. The point was, the flight wasn't available, despite what the American rep on the phone had said. He asked me to call American again to find out about other flights to Dallas-Fort Worth, and to call him back. I ended up on hold for 10 minutes with another American representive who checked on alternate flights. She broke through the elevator music to say that it would cost $1,000-plus to change the flight. I told her it was out of the question at that price, thanked her, and called S. to tell him to take his original flight to Chicago.
"Oh, I was able to change it to Dallas Fort-Worth, for free," he said.
At least, it had better be for free. They couldn't charge up an extra grand onto my card from afar, without my verbal consent, could they? Now I'm feeling very paranoid about that.
Meanwhile, it is now 8:25 in the evening. An hour ago, I called S's cell phone and he'd indeed made it to DFW. He was vague about the flight from DFW to Atlanta, wasn't sure what time it departed or what the flight number was, and even more, wasn't sure of the flight number he would take from Atlanta to Savannah. Claims he's not so good at reading ticket itineraries or boarding passes, and what's more, sounded very crabby and out of sorts. Air travel at this time of year could do that to anyone, I guess. He thinks the flight from Atlanta leaves at 10:40 p.m. But I couldn't get a straight answer. He swears it's on American, from Atlanta to Savannah, but I checked American's web, also Delta's, and there's no flight that I can see that leaves at that time. I'm nearly as frazzled as he must be from trying to make this visit happen.

Ah, the pleasure of a day off

Dec. 21: Yesterday was the last day of school before the very brief break---it gets shorter every year. What a sweet treat to sleep past the usual 5:20 alarm all the way till 6:15 on a weekday. Pete had to be at the vet's at 7:30 for his first dental surgery. For a dog his age, his teeth have been in excellent health, but the plaque is building up. When I got to the kitchen and looked out the glass door, I could see that it was pouring buckets, and the fish pond level was almost overflowing the banks. I got drenched outside as I scooped a few large buckets of water out of the pond, but it was like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon. It was still dark, so I went back inside hoping the koi would have sense enough to stay deep below until it got light enough for me to go back and drain water by turning the pump/fountain on its side to shoot the water stream onto the grass. Coffee and the newspaper. So nice not to rush. I drove Pete to the vet's. He's always excited about going there and greets the employees with panting excitement. When I returned, it was light enough to drain some pond water.

That taken care of it, it was time for my big treat of the day. About a year and a half ago, my son D. and his wife gave me a gift card to a spa in Savannah, and I'd never used it. Always too busy, with the long hours, and the piles of papers. A week ago, as the holiday break pended, I decided it was high time I cashed in the gift card, so called and booked an appointment for a haircut. I have a regular hairdresser I go to for cuts and color, but going to a spa stylist would be something special. It was still raining as I drove downtown. Sections of road were under water, too deep to drive through, so I took some detours, but finally got to E. Oglethorpe, where the spa is located. The place is ultra sweet-smelling and tranquil. Soft, slow music. A goblet of spring water as refreshment. One closed off room for haircuts, unlike my regular hairdresser's, where all the clients are lined up together, heads covered with foils and dyes. At the spa, the hairdresser, named Fadima, I think, was quiet and classy, and best of all, she gave me a lovely cut, with a slightly different interpretation as the other stylist.

My next stop was Barnes and Noble at Oglethorpe, where I bought the book The Namesake. Now, at home, the day has meandered on, as I attempt to pick up clutter, do laundry, watch corny Lifetime movies, and enjoy the time off. Tomorrow night, we're meeting Mark and Terry for dinner at the Indian restaurant, Sunday morning, we're taking the five or six yearbook students who have designed the pages so far, for a thank-you breakfast at IHOP, and Sunday night, S. is arriving from Phoenix to stay a few days. By then, I should be on a vacation sleep cycle such that I can manage to stay up till 11:30 p.m. when his plane arrives. L. is leaving for Venezuela next Thursday, to stay a few weeks.

I'm not ready for Christmas. Until yesterday afternoon when I drove away from the school, I hadn't had time to think about anything except keeping up with the curriculum, juggling papers, and containing the emotional aftermaths from the never-ending dramas. It's like treading water in the ocean during a storm. You can't just relax and forget about it, or you'd be swept under. As of this moment, I haven't even purchased gift cards to send to my son and daughter-in-law. Obviously, even if I do that today, they won't arrive on time. I managed to whip off three Christmas cards this morning, but may never get past that. I'm too tired. I just want to sit in this chair in the television room, drink coffee, and watch Lifetime movies. Glancing out the glass kitchen doors in the distance, I can see the sun lighting up the back yard trees.

Tightwad Nonsense

Dec. 4: Last Sunday, a popular local female columnist wrote about thriftiness. Her mother is sensible and frugal, the columnist wrote, because she catches the drippings of water from under the sink and uses them to water the garden. She re-uses paper bags. She runs around turning off any lights in the house and keeps the thermostat at 65 in the winter. How admirable. I’ve heard it all. But as a former counterculturalist who was all gung-ho about living the Thrifty Life to save the planet and the cash flow, I’ve concluded that the popular Tightwad movement of the last decade is a crock.
It’s an illusion that attracts middle class people mostly—the rich don’t need to worry, and the poor are already squeezing nickels till they scream---and gives the believers something even better than the money they imagine they’ll save, and that is a sense of control and self-restraint that feels as good and righteous turning down a piece of chocolate cake. With our country’s Puritanical heritage, strands of that old belief that excess is sinful and denial is godly remains in the culture even today. In a country of abundance, people indulge hugely with every “vice,” from eating and drinking to spending lots of money, and then are expected to feel remorseful, like an alcoholic the morning after a binge, and choose abstinence, whether it be from drinking or blowing money on luxuries. The Tightwad movement was popularized by that housewife Amy Dascyznski or whatever her name is, who used to go around the talk show circuit explaining how much money she saved by washing and re-using her aluminum foil, saving string, and shopping at Good Will. The idea sells well on Amazon. But come now, is it the high price of aluminum foil that hits people hard in the budget?
No, the real budget bruisers come from the areas in which people generally have little or no control: taxes, illnesses, car problems, job losses, moves, broken appliances, dental work, leaking roofs, and the like. All the money saved from recycled water drippings and the lower electrical bill would not even put a dent in the cost of the new valves for the car. People can and do work hard all their lives, live frugally, save money, pile up pennies like Silas Marner, even re-use aluminum foil, but then if the unexpected strikes, their savings could be wiped out. My sister, for instance, worries all the time. She has health insurance, but the deductible is $3,000 and it pays 80% of any medical problem. The cost of the remaining 20% of, say, a major surgery, would be off the chain.
If it makes people happy to do the little things to cut the electric or water bill, super; the saved money might be enough for a dinner for two at a nice restaurant. But these petty savings probably won’t protect a person from the big-ticket bills. I wish, therefore, that authors and gurus would stop smugly presenting the little thrift tips as the solution for a perfect and prosperous life. I also wish gullible people would stop buying into it, literally and figuratively.

An evening at Mark and Terry's

Dec. 9: Last night, we went to an end-of-semester party at Terry and Mark’s house in Statesboro. The friends of old were there: Phyllis and Mark, Kathy A, Eric and Stephanie, and assorted others. Of course we Old Guard from the Department clustered together to talk about news, memories and old times. We talked about David a lot, of course. His death last May 13 in that horrific car crash on 1-16 was heartbreaking for everyone who knew him, and still is. We talked about the pending case against the woman who was driving the wrong way on 1-16. In the six months since it happened, the newspaper has carried several prominent articles and editorials bemoaning the long delay in this particular case. Because the state is very short-staffed, it takes a long time to compile solid evidence. As one editorial explained, quoting one of the investigators, “The case may seem cut and dried to all of us, but a good defense attorney could twist things around, unless the case is foolproof before we charge the woman.”
I asked my friends if they knew that Betsy F., the thin blonde woman, had died. I’d seen her obituary in the newspaper and assumed they knew too, but they hadn’t heard, and were shocked. They asked me when, and I couldn’t remember the exact date, although I was sure it was before David, sometime in the spring. As Faulkner said, the mind becomes an open field after a certain age, with no linear timeline. We speculated on the possibility of anorexia as a contributing cause.

On to other subjects, my colleagues shared their misery under their new department chair, a woman, who had been leading them for approximately one year. She’d taken the position last December, and in the year that followed, everyone grew to dislike her and her leadership style (oh, where have I heard that before?!) and then surprise! Days before the party, she had announced her resignation. Kathy A. is a good possibility to become the new acting chair. She’s now had years of experience running the Writing Project, followed by being the Director of Composition, and she’s stable, hard-working, and enemy-free. She and P. are going to propose to the dean that they share the job between them, so that neither gets too burned out. When Eric was Acting Chair, he hated the fact that he had no time or energy to write.

After the party ended, L. and I stayed overnight at the house, as we always do when we go to M. and T’s gatherings, and enjoyed some one-on-one time with them in the morning. I’ve known T. since 1981, when she was an instructor at LSU and I was a graduate student. She’s extremely clever and creative and has just finished a children’s book based on one of her many adopted stray dogs. Can’t wait to see it.

Lately, on my blog, I've been talking too much about work, giving the impression that I think about nothing else, but that's not true!

Thoughts on the New Schedule

Dear School Board,

Thank you for giving all the teachers the opportunity to give our input on how we feel about the new A/B schedule. I received the survey you sent out, and I'm eager to respond.

What is positive about the new schedule, you ask? Hmmm. Let me go to the next question and I'll come back to this one, if I think of anything.


What is negative about the new schedule? Oh, School Board, what were you THINKING? I know, I know, it was theorized that struggling students would have more opportunities to pass their courses if all eight, taken simultaneously, were stretched out over a year. If Bubba is struggling with senior English in November, for instance, I now have many more months to rehabilitate him before the course ends in June. But you forgot one thing: if students were already struggling with four courses at once, (especially at my school, which is an NI school that doesn't make AYP) what made you think in your wildest dreams that they would do better with eight? The principal requires that all teachers give homework every night. Students have 8 classes of homework, not to mention ongoing projects, quizzes and tests.


But don't worry about the students. They'll survive. You should be worrying about the teachers! With the previous schedule, we taught three courses the first semester, followed by three the second. Now we're teaching six courses at once. You say it shouldn't matter: by the end of the school year we taught six courses and managed 180 students anyway. But doing it all at once is a killer! Do the math. At 30students per course, we're responsible for about 180 students. Say that every week, five students per class misbehave. That's 30 phone calls I have to make to parents, which is part of the required procedure, and 30 detention forms I have to fill out. Some won't show up for detention, which means that I'll have to fill out new forms for Saturday school, in addition to the detention forms for the new misbehavers of the next week.

Consider not just the grading---the writing of comments and grades on approximately 500 big and little writings a week (journals, essays, summaries, quick-writes, graphic organizers)---but the entry of all those grades into the electronic system Integrade. Now I have to keep six class rosters full of grades, rather than three. Progress reports are required every four weeks between the nine-week report cards, so Integrade must be kept up to date with lots of entries, especially because the principal is always checking to make sure we're giving assignments, and parents check their childrens' grades digitally through ParentConnect. It takes a lot more time to keep 6 class rosters full of grades.

What about the quality of attention I can give my students? When twice as many students are coming in after school for tutorial or extra help, I can't spend as much time with each one. And I want so much to help them! That's why I became a teacher. What about the quality of my grading? I'm an English teacher, so I assign a lot of writing. I look like a pack mule every day as I walk out the door carrying bags of papers which I'll never finish evaluating the way I want to. (For some assignments, I'll just have to settle for a smiley stamp.)It takes me an hour at the end of the day just to sort the piles of papers that come flying at me.

You must also realize that preparing for six classes rather than three involves a mountain of paper and ink cartridges. If I'm going to give handouts to all six classes, I have to print 180 handouts rather than 90. Oh, you say, just print one set for all six classes and pick them up after every class to redistribute to the next class. But much of what I run off is material that I want them to keep or that they have to write on, such as MLA documentation guides, questions for the Brit Lit readings, graphic organizers and the like. All those people from RESA, as well as the folks downtown keep pressing us to use graphic organizers and non-linguistic representations and this and that, and above all, to keep the class engaged at all times. All those handouts cost me money. Did you know there are only 3 copiers at Groves, to serve 100 teachers? And that's if they, the copiers that is, are not broken. Thus, I do most of my copying at home so that I can at least be with my family while I'm printing away on weekends. I buy my own printer cartridges---I'll show you the receipts---and buy my own colored pencils, posters, pens, post-it's, tape, paper clips, folders, and reams of paper to supplement the copy paper distributed by the department. Preparing for six classes at once is definitely more costly.

I almost forgot to mention that planning and teaching six different classes spanning two days is exponentially more exhausting than planning for and teaching three classes two days in a row. Students have different needs and when there are more of them, the curriculum must be adjusted appropriately in more ways. I know the A/B schedule requires the same amount of time commitment daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly for teachers, but it's not the time, it's the expenditure of physical and psychic energy that has now doubled for all your teachers. You already have a shortage of teachers. For the past two school years, you've had to import 300 people from the Phillipines and India to fill all the empty slots. How many additional slots will you have for next year, as teachers take early retirement or go to B. or E. County where they have a 4/4 schedule?

I try not to gripe most of the time because I know I am being generously compensated for my services as a teacher. But I really believe you should consider an alternative schedule. In college, five courses is considered an overload for both teachers and students. Why would a high school consider six and eight a normal load? I'm willing to bet that when you examine the data at the end of the school year, you'll find that students have failed more courses rather than fewer, that the Almighty test scores have declined, and that more students have dropped out or become "fifth-year seniors." Please give me hope that next year we can go back to a more humane teaching schedule.

"Who knows what the tide might bring in..."

I love the movie Cast Away, with Tom Hanks. Every time I see it, I find fresh food for thought.
The sole survivor of the FedEX plane crash, Chuck Nolan is tossed around the raging ocean during the pitch-black night, on a life raft, and is finally washed onto an uninhabited island somewhere in the South Pacific. As he awakens at dawn on the beach, he is mostly stunned, and spends his first day on the island stumbling around, trying to make sense of the situation. As twilight of the first day settles, he stares thoughtfully out to sea at the pink and yellow breakers, tinted by the setting sun. By evening of the second day, he has found a source of liquid from the coconuts and the little puddles of rain water trapped in leaves. On the second night, as he's standing on the shore relieving himself, he sees a boat light way, way out on the horizon. It's just before dawn, but still dark. Agitated, he yells, jumps and runs along the shore screaming at the faraway light. The sun has crested by the time he grabs the life raft and charges out into the ocean with only a paddle. Rowing furiously, against the water current, he heads out to sea, but doesn't get far. The violent breakers hurl him into the air and smash him onto the ocean floor. Gasping and bleeding, he barely makes it back to shore, just in time to take cover in a hillside cave when a tropical rainstorm breaks.
Four years pass. He turns sun-ripened brown, loses thirty pounds, grows a long beard, talks to a volleyball that floated in with the other FedEx packages, and learns to survive on crabmeat and coconuts. Later, we learn, he almost commits suicide by hanging. Why remain living? He has no hope of ever getting off the island. However, he suddenly has a change of heart as he tests the strength of the hanging rope with a log. What if he fails in his suicide attempt and only injures himself? To be alone on an island and critically injured would be far worse than death---or life. Later he tells us, "At that moment, a warm feeling washed over me, and I knew that I HAD to stay alive, even in the face of no hope. I HAD to keep breathing in and breathing out."
A year later, the broken-off door of a port-a-potty washes in with the tide. What a treasure the old piece of junk turns out to be. In a moment of clarity, Chuck envisions the port-a-potty door as a combination sail and rudder that just might get a boat past the breakers. He builds a raft out of logs, binding them together with handmade rope from green tree bark, with the tape of VHS's from FedEx flotsam, and (with lovely symbolic possibilities) the rope that he almost used to commit suicide. As the weeks pass, Chuck carefully plans his exit, calculating the wind directions, the currents, the distance. When the seasonal wind direction changes and comes in from the West, he launches the boat. With his port-a-potty sail and rudder, he flies over the breakers and out to sea. Days later, an ocean-liner picks him up.
Returned once again to civilization, he says to his friend, "Against all possible logic, I'm sitting here in Memphis, talking to you, with ICE in my glass when I never had any hope of getting off that island." He learned from the experience that "every day the sun will rise---and who knows what the tide might bring in?"
The movie suggests that the Universe has its own sense of timing that is out of sync with human's. During Chuck's first attempt to escape the island, he was brutally shot down and thrown back, injured, onto the rocky shores. Yet four years later, when the time was "right," the very tool he needed came flowing gently in with the tide.
The literary possibilities abound in this movie. What about Chuck's rotten, infected tooth that he has to extract himself while on the island? He mutters, just before doing the deed and passing out from the pain, "I used to avoid dentists and now I'd give ANYTHING to have one here on this island!" Only to get home four years later and discover that Kelly has married a dentist---the same one who performed a root canal on Chuck five years earlier. But that discussion is for another time!

Fruitful sabbatical

Beginning in January, 2001, I was awarded a semester-long sabbatical from Georgia Southern. This was one of the happiest periods of my life---I was being paid to stay home and write. I was alone all day, but I was never lonely; I felt cozy and safe. I went for long stretches without seeing anyone, other than L. and P. when they arrived home from work and school, and that was okay with me. On stormy January days, I watched the gray drizzle from the inside of the warm house, thankful not to be on 1-16 alongside the roaring 18-wheelers. As spring came, for the first time in years, I had the extra time to watch it unfold. One afternoon,some half-cut lemons were lying on the counter---we'd had fish for dinner the night before---so I decided to plant some seeds in dixie cups.
During the last trip to Venezuela in '99, we had visited Uncle Hernandez' house, and his back yard was teeming with fragrant lemon trees. Aunt Esperanza plucked an armful of ripe lemons and sent them home with us to L's parents' house. I was quite taken with the idea of lemon trees, even though I wasn't sure they'd grow in the Georgia climate. They smelled tantalizing, and, as the song goes, "Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet..." So, nothing ventured, nothing gained, I planted a few lemon seeds during sabbatical, and soon they sprouted. I chose one and transplanted it into a larger pot, and it grew. When it was about two feet tall, I planted it in the back yard in front of what was then the small fish pond, which has since been retired in favor of the large fish pond.
The plant transformed into a small tree. I watered it with fish pond water, which is the best fertilizer. The trunk thickened, the branches spread. But as the years passed, no lemons appeared. I was disappointed. The tree was healthy and beautiful, but bore no fruit. Someone told me that fruit trees need to be near other fruit trees so they could benefit from both male and female pollination, whatever that meant. Maybe our lemon tree was a boy tree and it needed a girl tree. Resigned, I appreciated it for its loveliness, minus lemons. The leaves smelled like perfume. You'd step out onto the patio at night, and the fragrance would sweep in on the breeze. One year, S. called me outside and pointed to a spot in the thick branches, where a bird nest had been built with twigs and Spanish moss. Inside, three baby bird heads jutted up and down, mouths wide open, squeaking for food. The parents, cardinal mates, flew back and forth with food, hiding in the lush branches. Eventually, the birdies grew up and flew away, but the nest is still there. Spiders, too, took up residence and wove beautiful, sun-reflecting, three-dimensional webs between the trees branches and the roof of the house. Chameleons, whose color was a dead-on match to the leaves, made their homes there too.
About a year ago, L. was outside with me. He nudged me and pointed at the tree. "Look," he said. I looked up, and to my surprise, one, just one, of the branches of the lemon tree had sprouted round green nodules that looked like miniature limes.
"See, it's really a lime tree," said L.
"No it's not," I replied. "I'm positive it's lemon because I planted the seed from a lemon."
In a month or so, the green fruit had rounded out and turned vivid yellow. They grew twice as big as any lemon I've seen in the store. That year, the tree produced about 10 large lemons. I was thrilled.
But the biggest surprise came this summer, when the entire tree exploded with the little green nodules. Super-size lemons now cover the tree. I tell L. not to pick them because they're prettier out there than in the kitchen. But he sneaks one now and then as flavoring for dinners.

The spooky phone call

In late August, 2007, I was watching my daily re-run of Little House on the Prairie. Always loved that show. The fresh blue sky, the waving fields, the walkable roads, all appealed to my imagination, even though I knew better than anyone how brutal and unromantic an agricultural life can be. The new school year was starting after Labor Day, and I knew my days in Walnut Grove were numbered. I jumped as the phone rang. As usual, I looked at the caller ID first. I never answer to privacy directors or unknown numbers. I figure if it's important, they'll leave a voice mail. When I saw the name on the caller ID, my heart started stampeding out of my chest---in a bad way. It was my second husband M., there was no mistaking that name on caller ID! Holy X*(SMBF@#! was my reaction, as though a large spider had dropped onto my arm from a strand above. I had not seen or talked to M. for nearly 23years.
The last time I saw him, from a distance, was in 1985 outside the Courtroom. I'd come to the Courthouse separately to sign some divorce papers. I had completed the grisly task and was now leaving. He didn't see me. He sat alone on a bench, looking forlorn (but then, he tended to be a depressive and serious person anyway). He was dressed up better than I had ever seen him dressed during our marriage, in what must have been a brand new suit and tie. He stared straight ahead, grimly. My guilt twisted like a knife, but simultaneously, I couldn't deny the lighthearted feeling of joy. I did not want to feel good at someone else's expense, but there it was. That was the last time I saw him.
I had no desire to have any contact or communication since the relationship had ended badly. Frozen, I stared at the ringing phone. It rang. And rang. After three rings, it clicked into voice mail. My heart was drumming. What was I afraid of? Twenty-three years had passed. My imagination was going wild with the possibilities of why he might be calling. Had I forgotten to sign something?
I called my sister, a lawyer.
"I know this sounds crazy," I said, "but I just had a call from M., which I didn't pick up, but it's freaking me out!"
"Why would it freak you out?"
"Because I haven't had any contact with him for 23 years! And it ended badly with lots of hard feelings! There's never been any reason to have contact. Is there any possibility that he might have some legal retribution for me...like wanting money?"
"Tsk! Of course not. Too much time has passed."
"Remember, in the divorce settlement, he had to give me some money---because he had money; I didn't! It wasn't much, though, a few thousand dollars."
"Even if he'd given you a million dollars, there's no legal reason he could try to get it back. Wasn't it just six thousand?"
"Yeah."
"Oh hell, that's nothing! I've seen cases where spouses have gotten hundreds of thousands, an extra house, stock options, the whole ball of wax. And you're stressing over six grand?"
"I guess it's the guilt."
"He probably just wanted to call and say hi," she insisted. "Maybe he saw your book and wanted to call and just be friendly."
"How would he even get my number? It's unlisted." The paranoia was expanding.
"I don't know. But if he calls again, you ought to just pick up, talk to him, and be friendly."
"I'm too scared that he's calling to berate me for leaving him."
"I thought you told me he'd remarried about a year after you left."
"Yeah," I said. "She was a lot younger, maybe 17 years younger."
"So he didn't suffer that long," she said wryly.
"I think his wife died a few years ago. I saw her obituary somewhere."
"Died? Isn't that weird. Well, you're blowing it out of proportion. He's probably just lonely and is calling to talk. He can't want anything legal from you because it just can't be done."
For the next few days, the caller ID rang up with his name.
But I didn't answer. Then the calls stopped.

Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven

Recently, L. added a new batch of songs to my Ipod. Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" was among them. It stirred memories of a chapter in my life that I think of only with pain and regret.

Back in the late winter of '81, long before the technological revolution, M. and I would play "Stairway to Heaven" on a record player. Every morning, as we sat in bed drinking tea, he'd reach over to the nearby player and drop Zeppelin onto the turntable. Leaning against our pillows, we'd sing along. "Stairway to Heaven" begins with gentle guitar-strumming and a soft voice, and intensifies into a ecstatic, drum-pounding wail. Singing along, we'd reach shout-level when the song reached the lines "It's a FEELing I GET, when I LOOK to the West, and my SPIRit is crying for LEAVing!" This line was significant to us because we were psyched up for moving, not to the West, but to the South---where we'd both been accepted in doctoral programs at a well-known university---and our spirits were crying for leaving! The long northern winter, with its gray, leafless panorama; the dead-endness of Maine, were weighing heavily upon us. Adventurous person that I was, I longed for the unknown of the Deep South. The magnolia trees. The warm winters. The challenge of more schooling. And truth be told, I also longed to get as far away as possible from M.'s insane ex-wife. How blind I was in those days to think that all our problems emanated from her, not from issues between the two of us! How immature and stupid of me. But at the time, I was still about a year and a half away from seeing the light.

I met M. at a party. I was newly divorced. He was very drunk, and, as a result, extremely funny and friendly. Back then, I was oblivious to my inclination as the daughter of an alcoholic to seek a substance abuser as a mate! He told me he was separated from his wife. A week later, he took me and my two sons ice-skating. As we emerged from the car on that cold January afternoon, a very tall, very angry, very red-headed woman materialized violently in my face and started screaming, "Who are you? What are you doing with my husband?" Then she shouted to him: "What are you doing with her? And I'm contesting the divorce!" Her diatribe continued, full-volume, as my sons, who had not yet emerged from the car, watched silently from the back seat, mouths agape. Her screams faded into the background as M. and I hopped back into the car and squealed away. He told me his wife had had some mental health problems in the past, and I had no trouble believing him. She'd been hospitalized for depression, he said, had even been in a catatonic state several times. They were separated, but she was living at his house right now, because she had no other place to go since her last breakdown. Six months earlier, she'd left him and taken the children with her out of state, but had had a nervous meltdown there. Thus, he'd flown the two children back to Maine to stay with him. When she was released from the out-of-state hospital, he agreed that she could return to the Northeast and stay at his house, for the sake of the children, until she got established. Okaaayyy.

In a few months, M. ended up moving in with me, partly because he wanted to be with me, but also so he wouldn't have to live with her. After our brief glowy beginning, we began to argue. It always seemed to be about his ex-wife or his kids. Everything seemed to be traceable back to them. She would call our house a lot, which would precipitate a fight between us. Why didn't he discourage these calls? Couldn't he see that she was flirting with him and trying to win him back? His children would visit and fight with my children. He would always side with his, which provoked a fight. His children misbehaved and acted bratty. He refused to discipline them, even if they were rude to me. Another fight. His children would visit and eat all the food in the house. He thought, "Isn't that sweet?" I thought, "I wish he'd contribute more money for food." More fodder for a fight. The baggage weighed heavily on our relationship.

Stupidly, I thought that our strained relationship would be revitalized in a new location. So we sang our way through the winter of '81, and despite frequent arguments, I kept focused on the long-term goal: move South, start fresh, and live happily ever after. In that sweet Southern climate, far way from the obstacles, our relationship would blossom like honeysuckle.

A year later, a year without the ex-wife, a year without the children, yet still with many arguments, the truth was beginning to penetrate: now that the previous distractions had been stripped away, I could see with fresh clarity that things about him that were deal-breakers. I won't air my grievances. Time has dulled the intensity of them, though I spent a lot of time crying and consumed with fury when we were together. I'm not saying that he was an evil person or that I was saint. Only that we were not a good match. I regretted terribly that I was unhappy enough to have to leave him, but I felt that I had to sacrifice him in order to save myself. Oh, he was hurt. He wasn't unhappy, he told the counselor. That's the way marriages were. You didn't break them up just because one of the parties was miserable. A few years later, he remarried and had a child, so I assume he regained his equilibrium, even some happiness. I hope he was able to see in retrospect how much happier he was with his new wife, not me.

As I listen to "Stairway to Heaven" now, I feel glimmers of that short-lived winter-of-'81 optimism that M. and I shared as we sang about "looking to the West." Moving South was supposed to be the stairway to Heaven of our relationship. It wasn't. But, life being the ironic experience it often is, the journey did turn out to be a positive, life-altering turning point in my life, just not at all in the way I expected. Not with him.

Mock Epic: "The Locked Sanctuary of Relief"

Note to the reader: The state people who sweep in to give guidance on teaching are always reminding teachers to show students models of what we want them to write. This is easy for the teacher who uses the same dusty lessons year after year. She can pull out the same old student model from 1992. But if a teacher constantly varies writing assignments, as I do, there is no backlog of models. Thus, I make my own! After reading Chaucer's "The Nun's Priest's Tale," a mock epic/beast fable, I assigned my students to write a mock epic. But first, I wrote one of my own, to show the students how to use rhyming couplets, exaggerated language, allusions, a hero with a mission, and an antagonist or obstacle.

On a related note, in my opinion, many of the teachers and administrators at my school are too rigid about refusing to let students use the restroom, even locking it during certain times. After I read this poem to my class, a girl raised her hand and said, "Did you know that a girl here really did wet her pants last week?" No,I hadn't! But read on:

The Locked Sanctuary of Relief

“O Muse! I sing of the devastating pain
that consumed me, searing me atwain,
My body threatened to burst open wide,
exploding across the room, drenching all sides.
Stationed at my desk in Agnew’s English classroom,
I knew I would require relief from the pain very soon.
How I longed to hasten down the 700 hall,
run like Mephastopheles on his way to the Roman Ball,
and like Mephastopheles who staved off the Italian’s gloom,
reach that Place of Everlasting Relief, the restroom.

My body was a water balloon growing large as a globe,
And was stretched tight, ready to implode.
“I need a pass,” I told the teacher,
that Vessel of Wisdom, a fair-minded creature
who searched through the blizzard of papers for the Passbook,
that ticket to relief; that is all it took,
I sprinted down the hallways, when behind me footsteps arose
Mr. D. was running calling, “Young lady, where doest thou goes?”
But I could not stop, could not wait, did not freeze
I could not delay my pilgrimage to that Sanctuary of Relief.
His footsteps gained behind me, his voice yelled,
“Young lady! Stop now!” but I ran as my bladder swelled;
The sweat poured off my forehead, as the distance grew shorter
I knew I had to reach the Sanctuary before Mr. D. could go there.

Suddenly, in front of me, a blue uniform blocked my way,
Uttering “Where might you be traveling on this fine day?”
“Please, please!” I responded. “My pain grows as we speak;
please allow me to get to the Sanctuary of Relief;
the signed pass in my hand is my proof!
Let me go, dear guard, I’m telling the truth!”
We struggled, I was blocked, he tried to hold me back,
Stating, “You bad students are always running amock!”
I feinted around him, shoving my pass into his eyes,
blinding him with the paper because I wouldn’t tell lies,
He stumbled, I tripped over him, falling onto the floor.
O Muse! Must I suffer so just to reach the bathroom door?
In the distance, I could see the magic words, now half gone:
the words which once had read “LADIES,” but O Dawn!
Time and wear had left but the four letters “-- DIES”,
which reflected my devastating pain and my yellow eyes.
I crawled on hands and knees toward that door,
like a hungry buzzard flying towards the spoils of war,
I crawled toward the Sanctuary of Relief,
my knees scraped the floor, my heart full of grief.
Prostrate on the floor, eyes blurry, I reached my arm
Heavenward to grab the handle, sticky as tar,
of the Sanctuary of Relief which would remove my pain
and prevent my dress from receiving a yellow stain.
It resisted my pull! I tugged and tugged!
I pounded on the wood, into which my nails dug and dug!
“O Mercy!” I cried, as the door was locked!
And where was the key? I knocked and knocked
Hoping that some skipping girl would hear my din,
And would open the Sanctuary of Relief from within.

“Young lady!” shouted angry Mr. D.
Having finally rushed the hall and caught up with me;
“Come with me, young lady.” I slowly got up,
Wet with sweat, and tears, and…O Muse! Must I ‘fess up?
The water balloon had burst, overflowst if you will;
My battle was lost and I got detention still.
Hear my word, all you young scholars at Groves
Who would answer Nature’s Call before it grows
Out of control, O Please! hear my fervent plea
and always remember not to have to pee
during school hours; tell Nature not to call
between 7:45 and 2:30, at all. That’s all!
Amen.

Beowulf, the movie

Nov. 22: I was disappointed that the principal forbade a school field trip to see the new movie Beowulf. Anglo-Saxon literature is part of the required curriculum in 12th grade in Georgia. We finished reading Beowulf in October, and by November, many students began saying, "Did you know there's a new movie about Beowulf?" This made me think that perhaps story may have left some impression after all. The principal stated that the movie was off limits because it would include violence. Hah! The textbook version, which describes Grendel storming Herot Hall and ripping up the men, chewing their bones, spitting them out, and drinking their blood, is not exactly PG-13. And what about the section where Beowulf rips out Grendel's arm from its socket with his bare hands? The principal stated that the movie should not replace instructional time, period. Yesterday, I saw the movie with my family, and I believe it would have had value as a complement to the Beowulf text. It was a 3-D movie, which added to its vitality. It had its weaknesses, but let me tell you about its strengths, as a teaching tool. First, the details of Anglo-Saxon life at Herot Hall came alive in a way that a text could not match. So much about Anglo-Saxon culture, the mead-drinking, bearded men, the architecture, the weapons, the dirt floors, the torches barely illuminating the dark room, the rickety tables, the conversation, the food and drink, was brought to life in 3-D. The values of the culture were conveyed too: the importance of courage, bravery, reputation, boasting, and fighting, as the men in the hall talked about heroes and battles. I also loved the depiction of the brutal, freezing Scandinavian weather, which is so much a part of Anglo-Saxon poems such as The Wanderer and The Seafarer, as well as Beowulf. One reason Grendel attacks Herot Hall is that he is in the cold woods, looking enviously from a distance at the warm mead hall where the men were together, like family, boasting and drinking, while he is freezing, lonely, and alienated. The scene of Beowulf sailing over the North Sea towards Denmark sent shivers through me. I have always emphasized to students how perilous sea travel was in those days, even for the Vikings, and here we see Beowulf on his little Viking ship, soaring up and down those 30 foot waves, as the sleet pelts down. An important scene in the original story is the battle between Beowulf and Grendel, the first of Beowulf's three battles. The movie was faithful to Beowulf's boastful, pre-battle statement that he, as an honorable warrior, would use no weapons to fight Grendel, since Grendel used no weapons. Yes, he pulled off Grendel's arm and hung it from the rafters, just as in the book. The movie emphasized the importance of story-telling as the main and crucial form of communication in those days. Several times, it quoted lines from the book, stating that the story of Herot's troubles was told far and wide by scops and spread overseas. Later in the movie's timeline, as meadhall entertainment, a re-enactment of Beowulf's fight with Grendel is acted out in Herot Hall, as a scop tells the story in the original Old English. A great touch.

On the downside, the movie's plot took its own turn at the point where Beowulf goes to the Monster Lair to fight Grendel's mogther. Nothing in the text indicates that Grendel's mother looked one iota like Angelina Jolie, let alone that Beowulf had sex with her in Monster Lair; he beheaded her instead. Anglo-Saxon poetry is very sex-less. With the exception of "The Wife's Lament," it's about men and their battles, their loneliness, their alienation. Why doesn't a great catch like Beowulf even have a girlfriend, let alone a wife, I often broach to my students. ("No, it's not because he's gay; it's because men are focused on their own heroism and because women have such a low status in that culture, they're not worth mentioning.") Another flaw is the time line. Fifty years passes between Beowulf's battle with Grendel's mother, and his final battle with the dragon. By then, in the book, Beowulf is clearly a very, very old man, especially at a time when the average lifespan was 35 or 40. But with typical Anglo-Saxon bluster, he is determined to fight to win glory and to enhance that all-important reputation, even in his old age. In the movie, he looks as though he has only aged about five years. Still lean and muscular and pumped up for battle, he takes on the dragon, who turns out to be his own son from his encounter with Angelina Jolie, just as Grendel is the result of King Hrothgar's indiscretion with Angelina Jolie. Symbolically, this "sins of the father coming back to haunt him" theme reminds me more of Oedipus. In the book, Beowulf battles the dragon at the dragon's cave. The dragon's flame melts his shield, and scorches him. He is losing the battle, so young Wiglaf races in to his defense. The issue of loyalty emerges---where were all the other young thanes who are supposed to be defending their elderly king? They hover in the background like cowards. In the movie, Wiglaf is present in the early years, already about the same age as Beowulf; in the later years, Wiglaf is not a youthful supporter, but a contemporary. The plot diverts wildly from the original, as the flying dragon soars over Denmark, Beowulf swinging through the sky as he hangs from a rope or a dagger attached to the dragon. It's visually exciting but far from the plot of the original story. In the end, the movie plot returns to the book's. Beowulf dies and has his burning funeral pyre that can be seen by sailors far and wide. Despite the flaws, I liked this movie! The Georgia curriculum framework mandates the teaching of Anglo-Saxon culture, values, themes, literary devices. I think the movie delivered on those.

Perfect Day

Nov. 21. A day off! Perfect temperature in the seventies. The Georgia trees tinted with reds, oranges and yellows. So P. and I drive to Oatland Island to hike through the woods. We've loved that place since P. was child. I used to take him there in the summers, partly to work off some of his unrelenting hyper-energy, but also because we both loved the way the animals were housed in natural settings, deep in the woods, in isolated sanctuaries set off by subtle fencing and boardwalks. Though hyperactive, P. could focus like a laser on random things that grabbed his attention, and he liked watching the bears pace. I remember standing for an hour by the wooden fence overlooking the bears' habitat as P. stared silently at two black bears slowly waddling back and forth, back and forth. He was also entranced with the wolves, the cougars and the bobcats. Once, when D. was visiting, the three of us hiked through Oatland. I took a photo of D.and P. walking ahead of me on boardwalk that goes over the wetlands. D. was about 20; P. about six. D.'s tall, manly shape and broad shoulders contrasted with P.'s little boy form following behind him. Today, 15 years later, P. walks ahead of me on the boardwalk, now a tall, manly shape himself, his four-day beard and a cap adding to his years. In the woods, as we hike along under the canopy of trees, it's blissfully quiet; the only sound is the soft wind and the crack of falling acorns hitting the branches and the ground. I love the whisper of the wind. At school all day, there are voices and noises plundering my ears non-stop. Here at Oatland, the silence is priceless, a balm to my fractured ears. We walk through the woods and climb the ramps to see the cougars, bobcats, foxes, wolves, and bears. We stop at the large pond with multi-colored trees reflected on its glass-like surface. This scene is so breathtaking that I use my cell phone to take a photo and send it to Liberto. At the aviary, we see the hawks, owls and eagles. The local newspaper recently featured a front-page story about a hawk at Oatland Island who had had surgery for his eye cataracts. Now his vision is fully restored. I wonder as I look in the aviary if the hawk sitting on the stand in front of me is this famous one. We walk through the barnyard. P. notices that the cow lying peacefully on the hay is not the same one from years ago. The mischievous goat, gnawing on straw, triggers memories of the goat we had on the homestead years ago. P. wants to hike back to the opposite end of the sanctuary to watch the cougars one more time. We stand for 20 minutes watching them stretch, groom, pace, and even pounce on each other like baby kittens. P. wonders what their names are. No names are posted, so as we leave, I stop at the front office and ask the names of the two cougars. The friendly woman doesn't know but radios someone on her walkie talkie. "Their names are Kalika and Commanche" she reports. P. is delighted to hear their names, and asks that I write them down as soon as we get to the car. As we drive away, P. says, "Let's come here again soon."

Where do I start?

I opened this blog as a repository for my bits and pieces of writing. I named it "Sharonsfriend" since my dear friend Sharon told me how to start a blog. She uses it for her writing, and I will too. I love to write but always feel the pressure after the first two sentences that it's time to stop and get lesson plans ready for next week. Teaching high school is MUCH harder than teaching college. Not only are the students less interested, but various administrators are always slipping into the classroom, tablet and pen in hand, to document whether you are attempting to engage the students, using meaningful lessons, and following the state standards. When I think back to my college teaching career, I recall complete freedom to do whatever I wanted, whether it was good or not. Seriously, with little attention or feedback, how do I know whether I was an effective professor? There were certain posted "outcomes" for the end of each course, but no one checked to see whether the students had met them. No one ever came for observations. All annual evaluations were based on self-reporting and student evaluations. We were evaluated in the areas of teaching, publication and service, on a range from unsatisfactory to outstanding. But only one person, the Chair, determined the score, based, as I said, on self-evaluation. What it came down to is that most professors teaching freshman composition did what they wanted to in their classes. Annual raises were very mysterious too. We were told that 3% would be given university-wide, for example, but within Departments, it was distributed among all faculty based on the discretion of the Chair, and the amount was never known until the following school year! At least in the high school system they have a published pay scale based on degree and years experience, and they stick to it. The raise for all teachers is announced each spring and every teacher gets that amount, period! New high school teachers enter the system knowing what their salary will be and it's the same for everyone of that degree and experience. In college, new hires could come in at any salary the Chair sees fit to offer, and negotiations take place behind closed doors.