You never see frogs fighting

Jan. 24: Last Sunday night, the moon was nearly full. I checked on the koi pond before bed, as always, and saw a large frog placidly treading water, just its smiling face showing on the moon-lit surface. How utterly peaceful!


On Tuesday morning, the moon was still shining big and full as I drove to work. By the end of the day, I could tell it was doing its lunacy job just fine. During 7th block, the rep from the yearbook publisher arrived and was working at the computers to review the pages. Her visit coincided with the school's clubs and organizations photo re-take day. At 12:30, I took the class to the gym to be photographed as the Yearbook Club, while the rep stayed in the class. The bell was clanging as we returned, so the hallways were packed, as classes changed. As we came down the long hall, I could sense something was off. Too crowded, too noisy, something different. When I got into the classroom, the rep told me, "There was a fight right outside your door. I had to break it up." In due time, the campus police and the AP's arrived, dispersed the gawkers, and, no doubt, arranged for the OSS for the fighters.
Busting up that fight must have put the rep in a crabby mood. Soon after, she turned around and yelled to the class, "I want you to be QUIET! I want NO TALKING. Since you're not doing the yearbook job like you should be, you can at least BE QUIET!" In this class, it's impractical for me to request total silence. It's more of a workshop type of atmosphere. The students normally chat while working on hands-on tasks, such as making posters or passes related to yearbook activities. Or they chat while they write (or don't write) but I don't care because I'm too busy doing the more pressing tasks such as calling the photographer or talking to someone who's buying a senior ad. But the rep doesn't like any noise, and made that clear.
Then a girl began to mumble a little too loudly about how the rep was wrong and unfair to say they weren't doing yearbook work when there wasn't enough yearbook work for them to do (which is the truth).
The rep stood up and said, as confrontationally as any of the students themselves, "Hey, if you have something to say, you say it to my face!"
The girl retorted, "You're disrepecting me by saying what you just said!" The rep said, "You get your things and step out in the hall with me!" Did I mention that this job is never boring?
The rep stormed out in the hall with the reluctant girl following her.
"DON'T YOU SHOVE ME!" growled the rep, as the girl pushed past her into the hall.
"I DIDN'T SHOVE YOU!" she yelled.
"YOU'RE GOING TO THE OFFICE!"
The door slammed behind them. The rep may not realize that we are not allowed to send students to the office, or even out into the hall. There is a strict disciplinary chart that must be followed, in stages, but you never send students to the office (they'd probably try to escape from school on the way).
So what does a teacher do when the rep and a student get into it? The Faculty Handbook doesn't cover this. Challenge the adult rep's behavior in front of the students? Gently remind her that she may have been overreacting? Or join her in provoking the student? One thing I learned in my education classes, which applies more than ever in a gansta school like mine, is that the very worst approach is to do an in-your-face, public confrontation with a student. It's like throwing a lit match onto a puddle of gasoline. Students respond 100% better to a softer, non-public approach, such as a hallway discussion, but never do it front of everyone else! This is what I was taught, at least. The student then has to save face in front of friends, and will do whatever it takes.
The student could be heard cursing loudly down the hallway, with the rep close at her heels. Luckily, an AP happened along and apparently resolved the situation. About ten minutes later, the two of them returned to the class The girl was red-faced from crying. The rep was still angry. The rest of the students were working hard to suppress outbursts of laughter, silently biting their cheeks.

The next day, another teacher asked me, "What happened yesterday? I heard a lot of noise, so I opened my door. Your rep and your student going down the hall yelling and cursing..."

You see why I need my sessions at the gym? And maybe some therapy soon?

Jan. 19: Cold rain has streamed down the windows all day. Rivers have splashed off the edge of the roof onto the ground. It's chilly enough to turn on the heat. Right now, at five o'clock, the sky is darkening. L. and I have had a busy week. He returned from his trip last Sunday and went to work Monday. He'd been having stomach problems for the previous few weeks, before and during his vacation. He also has a sinus infection now, and has meds for both conditions, after a visit to the doctor yesterday. He was diagnosed a few months ago with diverticulitis, and now that's flared up again. But he's been in good spirits, happy to be home again, God bless America, for although he loves the familia in Venezuela, the country is in bad, bad shape economically and politically. When he goes through U.S. Customs after a trip, the words "Welcome home" from the agents, in English, always warms his heart. After 26 years in the U.S., he has lived more of his life here than in Venezuela. He really loves this country. The U.S. is by no means perfect, we all know that, but try Venezuela or many other struggling countries for awhile. . . it gives a new perspective. The one area in which V. is superior is in medical treatment. Like Canada, they have universal health care, or if you simply pay in cash, in dolares, the cost is nada. Such as that time he broke his arm while visiting V. a few years ago; the emergency room, ex-rays, doctor visit, cast, etc. came to about $100. His sister, G., who lives in Florida, goes down there to get dental work done for a song; since she is still officially a V. citizen, and not a U.S. one yet, just a resident, she can get crowns and bridges done el cheapo. Mamita and sister Z. have even had the stomach stapling surgery at little cost. The U.S. should be ashamed for not providing universal health care in some form or another. But anyway, he's back!

It was a long, dreary, painful week for me. Last weekend, I felt jaw pain on one side, not TMJ, but a hugely painful reaction to certain foods and drinks, so got a dentist appointment for Tuesday, and they saw nothing wrong on x-rays, though that doesn't rule out something. A few years ago, I had this same experence before, on the other side, and nothing showed up on x-rays until after the nerve of the tooth had fully died. Had pain for weeks, and later, when it stopped, the shadow appeared on the x-ray. Had a root canal anyway, after the fact. But this time they think it might simply be recession sensitivity (please don't scold me about that; I've had recession since I was in my twenties; it's not from neglect.) I even contemplated the possibility that I'm having a heart attack from stress; they say pain in the jaw is an early symptom. What? Me, stressed out? Heaven knows, things at work are stressing out every teacher I know.

This past week, for example, I requested a new toner cartridge for my printer and was scolded for allegedly printing too much. That really soured my mood. It's not as though I'd requested money to go on a cruise---or even to a conference. I only want basic supplies. I spend enough money of my own to keep my own printer at home spitting out school-related material. In the classroom, I sometimes let students print their final drafts of papers from my printer, but only because the school doesn't provide students with computers or printers, yet we expect them to do a major senior research project which involves research. If they don't have computers at home, "they can go to the public libary" I'm told. Excuse me, but many of our students work long hours outside of school, or can't get to the library, or would have to wait in line behind other people using the public computers.

I'm also soured about the fact that the most recent evaluator who observed my class last week, which I wrote about earlier in this blog, DID indeed and predictably take issue with that last two minutes before the bell rang. Remember, they had finished all their work and we still had two minutes till the begll, so I didn't object to letting the students stand up, stretch and line up near the door. She even put in the evaluation "TWO MINUTES [my caps] before bell, time not effectively used" with an "NI" on the sheet. I knew it was coming, and part of me doesn't care anymore, but the other part is simply angry at the stupidity that pervades the system. Their big thing is "differention" of instruction for different learners, so I'm tempted to write in my response to the evaluation that differentiation between seniors and elementary children should also be acknowledged too. The seniors are fairly mature and well-behaved, and they don't have any important end-of-course tests whose numbers impact the school rating and contribute to the determination of Annual Yearly Progress. Why is it a waste of their time to get up and stretch? What new lesson would I be starting to cover two final minutes? The whole thing stuck in my craw because I had spent such a long time planning that lesson for that day, finding modern ballads on You.Tube to project onto the wall to demonstrate how modern ballads have the same qualities as the 15th century ballads in the textbook. I didn't know anyone was coming to observe; I always try to do a good job, out of pride. But the whole 88 minutes of reasonably good instruction was negated by 2 minutes of down time? Please.

I've found out that many of the teachers are being given NI's. The resentment is beginning to spread, and teachers are beginning to talk to each other. One colleague was cited because a student was sleeping. "How can she learn if she's asleep?" the evaluator asked the teacher later. "Well," he answered, "if she's asleep she doesn't learn, but if she's awake, no one else learns." (She is the class disruptor.) Another teacher was written up because four students were "off task" during an observation. She told the evaluator, "Well, it's lucky you got me on a good day! If it had been a bad day, 20 of them would have been off task." Supposedly, if the school doesn't make AYP this year, they're going to shut it down and make all the teachers reapply for their jobs. They did that at one of the other schools in town, largely for the public drama. Well, I've been so down that I've started contemplating whether I'd be overjoyed if that happened and whether I could piece together a living with a combination of a low-paying private school job, a few part-time college courses, and social security (officially, I could start collecting in March!). I'm sorry. I vowed I wouldn't spill all this onto the blog, but I HAVE to have a way of getting it all out. It builds up inside me until I want to burst. In the re-telling, the whole situation sounds as flat and stupid as a bad dream re-told, but like bad dreams, the actual experience (as opposed to the re-telling) can be very emotionally painful. It's hard to convey in words how the climate of the place has declined via the administration's coldness and continuing demands, in addition to the doubled workload of 6 classes. The husband of another of my colleagues was unemployed and just recently started working again. He begins his job at 3:00 p.m. every day. School gets out at 2:30, so she could be home by 3:00 to take care of their two small children. It's not as though she'd be working fewer hours. Everyone knows that teachers work long hours at home too. Her alternative will be to put both children in day care to cover that brief time gap, but she'd have to pay for full-time day care, even if the children only attended for 15 minutes a day. She can't afford it. So she proposed to the administration that she could start coming in at 7 a.m. for breakfast duty every day in exchange for leaving school at 2:45 three days per week. (Her husband has one day off, and her mother can fill in for another day. She was turned down, and now doesn't know what she's going to do. Does this give you an idea of the atmosphere?

My journalism classes are a disaster. If I had known before what I know now, I would never have accepted the position of yearbook advisor. Here's how the school sets up the process: I was given two separate journalism classes, which are electives, mostly made up of students who wanted an elective in which to chill, although I didn't know that until later. The 7th block class has 30 students, and the 8th block class has 15. Only 4 seniors who were on last year's yearbook staff know what's involved in yearbook building and how to design the pages on the two computers donated from the yearbook publisher. So I have the 4 experienced students and 41 extras.

The 7th block class is allegedly a training ground for next year's yearbook staff, and I'm supposed to teach them journalism and perhaps use the material they write for a school newspaper,which we don't have)and/or for the yearbook. The 8th block class is supposed to be working on the yearbook. But guess what, yearbook material is mostly photographs that are sent to us on a staggered schedule by the official photography company. Thus, as the days and weeks go by, what in the h--- are these 45 students supposed to be doing to fill class time? Oh yes, it's called a "Journalism" class, so I attempted to launch a school newspaper. I started out by searching high and low for different interesting writing assignments they could do in class, and some out of class, which I thought could be pulled together into a school newspaper OR placed in the yearbook. I have assigned editorials, opinion papers, how-to's, columns, narratives, interviews, personality profiles, caption-writing, brochures, posters, and more, so please never get the impression that I haven't tried with all my heart to get them inspired. But the students couldn't be less interested in learning, much less doing, journalism. Apparently, all the elective classes at the school are dumping grounds for students who are hoping to chill for 90 minutes and don't care about the grade. Second problem, when the students do the assignments once in a while, they're hand written. Unless I choose to sit down and type them myself, I can't digitalize them for a potential school newspaper or for use in the yearbook. So the 7th block class is just awful. Last Friday, when I gave another writing assignment, one of the students actually whined, "Why do we have to write so much in this class?" and I replied testily, "Because this is a journalism class?" and then she got furious because she said I was being sarcastic. Imagine having to write in a journalism class! I constantly have to nag and push and tell them that class is not the place to be doing hair-grooming, etc. That's the 7th block class. I've brought these concerns to my chair, who happens to be on the scheduling committee, and I told her I would gladly swap out this class for another senior English or any regular class when the 1st semester officially ends next week, so there is faint hope that maybe they'll dissolve the class and throw them all into some other dumping ground, say, ceramics. You've got to understand: Most of these kids do not care about grades!

The 8th block students are a little better behaved, and there are fewer of them, but other than trying to keep them busy with writing assignments, which they mostly don't do, I can't get them involved in the yearbook because I only have the two yearbook computers which are always in use by the core staff designing pages. I would love more than anything to have them do something meaningful for the yearbook, but there is surprising little text involved in a yearbook, other than captions or paragraph long commentaries, so all the writing I ask them to do would not fit into the yearbook anyway---if they did do it. The order of the yearbook deadlines is 1)senior ad pages, whose text is provided by the person buying the ad 2) mug shots of all the classes, (just names) 3) clubs and organizations, (same) 4) faculty (no one wants to do those pages, they're BO-RING!)and 5)sports (B's territory). Student Life pages, the few pages that are the most creative, are the last to be sent in. A few of the 8th block students have been upset that they aren't working on the yearbook, but it's finally dawned on me that a yearbook could probably be done by 5 people who happened to have good design skills and a way with words.

The core yearbook staff has been another headache. As I said earlier, four students who did the yearbook last year are on board this year, but they are split across the two journalism classes so they can never meet at one time. The editor-in-chief of the yearbook is in the 7th block class, let's call her "K", so she never sees "S" and "H" who are in 8th block, so there are constant misunderstandings and miscommunications and inevitable drama of clashing egos. "B", another carryover, is not even in either of the two classes, but is so fired up that he skips his regular classes to come to the journalism class(es) and attends all the games, takes pictures, and does the sports pages. How can I say no to that? However, he, with his strong personality and knows-everything demeanor, often butts heads with "K" who is similar. "K," the editor, has clearly lost interest in being the editor and has become very juvenile during this 7th block class, spending most of her time doing nothing, fooling around physically with the other even more juvenile students, just like a sixth grader, ignoring the yearbook pages or any issues that we have to work on. She has a big ego, and I feel certain that she's blown off the yearbook because of some stand I've taken that she doesn't agree with, such as whether seniors who missed the official photography days should have a separate senior page of "Last minutes," claiming it's "too much work" for the staff to put together such a page. The photographer's CD with all the senior pictures has disappeared from the yearbook work station; I think one of the yearbook staff took it home just to admire all the pictures.

Oh yes, the yearbook publisher. The rep is a nice person, but throughout the fall has not been there for us, in my opinion. She has cancelled or not shown up for many meetings. Without that hands-on support from an experienced person, I feel like I'm flying a plane through a storm without any radar. It's particularly annoying when a person just doesn't show up and when you call them, you are told that "something has come up." I would think it might be more professional for a rep to call us before not showing up. I was particularly irritated the last time she came, in December, about a week before our first deadline, because she swept in with a clearly pissed off attitude (a fight with the hubby that morning?), examined the pages the students had done so far, and began scolding them for not doing it right. Well, if she had come to previously scheduled meetings, she could have helped them with the design and told them whether they were doing it right or not. This was the first year they had used this design program! As far as I'm concerned, the rep's job is to offer support and encouragement. She was snippy at me, too, saying that all these students should be on the telephone right now trying to do sales calls for commercial ads. I learned at the yearbook advisor's workshop last summer that lots of the upscale schools which the publisher services sell thousands of dollars of commercial ads to support the yearbook. The kids go out, pound the pavement, and sell space. Believe me, I tried. And tried and tried. I gave the kids assignments to visit places of business, to call places of business, to ask their friends, aunts, uncles, ministers. But they come up with all kinds of excuses. And no sales. BECAUSE THEY DON'T CARE!! But the rep doesn't understand this, and was crabby at me for it. In the end, it's going to be my fault when we end the year with a budget deficit.

It's now Sunday. I went to the gym this morning. Borrowed P's Ipod because mine has a dead battery and listened to Rolling Stones and Queen while treading and bicycling. Then L. and I went for our weekly excursion to W-M. I'm so thankful I have tomorrow off. I've griped a lot in this writing, but have to get it out, just have to. Writing is so therapeutic.

I finally had a chance to read T's remarkable children's book about one of her adopted animals. It's a winner, a real pleasure to read! She's going to send it out to publisher's soon. I have no doubt that it will be published. I'm going to store my story-in-progress for my grandson on this blog soon, just so it's in a safe place, and maybe I work on it from time to time. Writing takes me away from the irritations of (work)life and into the Zone.

Walking my way through the quagmire of B.S.

I managed to get to the gym twice this week. I'm so thrilled a new one was opened just down the street. L. has his gym downtown, about a block from his workplace, so he breezes in a couple mornings a week, and then goes to work. I tried going to the Aqua Center on Sally Mood Drive last year, and did go for awhile, but when the workload grew, my resolution faltered because of the distance and traffic. Who wants to spend an extra hour getting home because of high traffic times? The Southside has exploded so much that Abercorn Extension South is packed with slow-moving traffic from 3:45 on. But this new gym is on King George Blvd. so once I'm home, I can zip over to it in two minutes without traffic problems.

The purpose is for stress release and health. I'm wondering if it's having a postive effect already because today yet another observer came into my room during class, started writing notes and checking off items on a form. The in-house Administration has a special checklist of "Lookfors". One of the Lookfors is a Word Wall of vocabulary words pasted on the wall. If you don't have a Word Wall, you are not a good teacher. I have a Word Wall currently lying on its side on the ancient air conditioner in the classroom. I had the journalism students make a bunch of posters on Tuesday, including a Word Wall, and even went to the Media Center to get them laminated. But I can't get the Word Wall up on the only wall space available in my classroom, above the white board, because that area is too high to reach, and I'll be darned if I should have to climb up on a chair and risk bodily injury at my age. I was hoping to ask the custodian if he had a step ladder next time I ran into him. But alas, (Gotcha!) the observer came sooner than I thought, and I was Word-Wall-less.

I also know that one of their pet peeves is any lapse in instructional time. They would rather see students frantically working as the ending bell interrupts them, than have any idle moments. I disagree with this philosophy. If a few minutes remain before the ending bell rings and they've done all their work, I see no reason why the students, who have sat patiently in their seats for 90 minutes doing the activities I gave them, should not have a few minutes to stand up, stretch, and congregate near the door. I think they should! These are well-behaved seniors, who are capable of standing around without acting like 10th graders, without pushing, shoving, throwing, or showing off. Why shuldn't they stand up and walk towards the door for a few minutes socialization, since they've finished their work for the day? But I know for sure that this did not go over well with the observer, for she was writing furiously on her tablet, that last two minutes of class time was not used effectively. I don't think I even give a flip anymore. How lovely that I've come to my senses. I'll just keep treadmilling my way towards clarity.

Thank God tomorrow is Friday. I have a couple of Netflix movies waiting, and P. and I'll order Chinese or Japanese.

Relaxed weekend, restless night

Last Friday, I ended the three-day work week feeling drained. How could that be? I just finished Christmas break. I think it's because the paper load generated from six classes of students has become depressing, like a gray cloud perpetually blocking the sun. I'm ashamed to be venting about a little nuisance like that, especially when I overhear the school custodian, who cheerfully sweeps the floors and empties the trash, say to other custodians how grateful he is to have his job when "lots of people getting laid off." Trying to stick to my vow about blowing off worries about work, I didn't do much on Saturday. I slept late, of course, wrote for my blog, did the weekly shopping at Wal-Mart, threw in a few laundries, cared for the needy animals who crave attention, watched some Law and Orders with P.

Slept late again Sunday, read the paper, and went over to the gym for my second work-out since joining the gym. I walked for 20 minutes on a treadmill, which was far more invigorating than walking the dog, who has to stop and thoroughly evaluate every poop throughout the neighborhood, thus slowing down my stride. I did another 10 on the bicycle, and tried a few arm weights. As the day passed by, I kept putting off doing any planning for the school week. My brain was just too tired. But by five o'clock, I couldn't ignore the fact that I had three 90-minute classes the next day to plan for. Let me tell you something, 90 minutes is a long time. The big push for all teachers these days is "bell to bell teaching." In other words, a teacher must fully engage the students somehow or other, for the full hour and a half. One activity to the next. No down time. No intermissions between activities. Bell-to-bell. And there's always some observer walking in to sit for 20 minutes and make sure that this is happening and that we're not lounging at our desks with our feet up. (Substitutes do this, but the regular teachers aren't allowed.) In fact, on Friday, the 9th person to observe me since September appeared during my first class, took notes, and then walked out, handing me the carbon of her form. (It was a good evaluation---the people outside the school give good ones, the in-house observers are the critical ones.) A student asked me, as the observer left the room, "Did you just get graded?" "Apparently," I replied.

But back to last night. I got down to business, determined to spend a minimal amount of time preparing for classes. But between the planning and the printing of all the handouts, the evening stretched out, and I missed my bedtime and stayed up too late. Then, an extremely rare occurence followed. I got into bed and couldn't sleep! That just doesn't happen to me. My usual thunderstorm tape brought the soothing sound of rain to my ears, but I just couldn't sleep. I had that strange sensation of never having slept at all, all night, even though I must have dozed here and there. At four o'clock, I was still awake. At five o'clock, I rolled out of bed, beating the 5:20 alarm. I felt wasted today, needless to say. And for the first time, I began to ponder whether there could be any other employment options out there, outside the field of teaching altogether, that I could pursue until retirement. What happened to the woman who was so excited about this job? Is it just a bad day? Or are these feeling symptomatic of major burn-out from the schedule, the administration, and the workload?

It would actually be much, much smarter for me to change my mindset than to change my career, at this point in life, unless I want to share catfood with Gus. Notice, though, that I took the time away from grading papers, etc. to write in my blog. See, I'm trying. I'm really, really trying to learn how to set limits.

Thoughts on Jane Eyre

I rented a new BBC version of Jane Eyre and watched both disks last night. Even though I've read the novel many times and seen all the movie versions, I had to see this latest interpretation. I'm afraid the new Mr. Rochester couldn't hold a candle to Timothy Dalton's version, but the new Jane Eyre was more powerful than the last one.

The older I get, though, the more I see the problems that the two would face in marriage after the story closes, if this were real life. For that matter, in real life, a rich British aristrocrat would never marry the governess; he would have his way with her on the side, probably against her wishes, but if she wanted to keep her job she'd have no choice. Rochester's wife, another rich British aristocrat, would probably know of her husband's dallying, but would turn the other way. When the whole affair ran its course, the wife would arrange to have Jane fired, and the latter would quickly be forgotten.

But imagine, for a moment, that a rich British guy like Rochester did marry the governess (Robin Williams married his kids' nanny, didn't he?). In the romance formula, obstacles to the love fan the flames even more, during courtsthip, that is. He is moody and given to outbursts. How attractive! She is quiet and nonjudgmental. Still waters run deep! She has no bloodlines, money or connections. How refreshing, compared to the rich, superficial beauties he is used to! He is already married and keeps his wife in the attic. How noble of him to care for the insane woman at home rather than drop her in an institution! Later in the story, Rochester becomes disabled during the fire which killed his wife. Now she can be with him AND take care of him!
However, the problems that only fueled their attraction during courtship will surely come back to haunt and test their relationship after the curtain falls. I can picture them five years later in "Can This Marriage Be Saved?" a popular column in Home Journal.

Jane's Turn: When I first gained employment at Thornfield, Ed's dark, brooding manner and capricious moods must have reminded me, subconsciously, of all the rejection and dislike I'd received all my life from my adoptive aunt, and later from the authorities at the orphanage. I was programmed to expect surliness, so I was attracted to denunciation and rebuffs. It was all I had known. When Ed started interspersing dollops of admiration and fascination into his long spells of contempt, my appetite for him surged. Having been broke all my life, his wealth and status was an added bonus. Who could resist the comforts of the good life, after a freezing orphanage with no food? Later, I wanted him more than I ever when he confessed that he was already married. The fact that I couldn't legally marry him made me hunger for him even more! But I read The Rules , played hard to get, and ran away for a year. It worked. By the time I returned, his wife was out of the picture. He could marry me now. And oh, did he want to, more than ever. He'd been disabled and needed free nursing care. Hmmph. How things change. Now his plunging moods and dark silences really get to me. I wake up feeling happy, breathing in the fresh country air, and he greets me with some sarcastic remark, turns away, and stares at the fields, with no more conversation. For the rest of the day. But I still have to take care of him, giving him his physical therapy, pills, helping him to the outhouse...I don't mean to sound spoiled. A wife pledges to care for her husband in sickness and health. But he's so nasty about it all, constantly casting it up to me that I'm from a lower social station. He can't ride anymore, one of his earlier passions, nor can he go around collecting rents from his leasees or hang around at the country club with other landholders. He stumbles around on his cane, calling for me constantly, out of sheer boredom. "Jane, get me my shawl!" "Jane, bring me a whiskey!" All his previous servants abandoned Thornfield after the fire. And you know how hard it is to find good help. Lucky Ed. He married it.

Ed's turn: Yes, I'm a little moody these days. Who bloody wouldn't be if they'd gone blind and lost part of a hand? Give me a break. I was despondent anyway when Jane left me. What did she want? I'd told her the truth, that I was already married.
Sure, I could have confessed a little sooner, before our own wedding ceremony, when that bloody lawyer burst in and spoiled everything. But I'd had to keep my first marriage hidden. What would the neighbors have said if it had gotten out that my mentally deranged wife was living in my attic, breaking out whenever her caretaker got drunk, sneaking downstairs and stabbing guests or setting the house on fire? I wanted Jane so much that I couldn't stop myself from courting her even though I was still legally married to the lunatic. My wife was receiving good care in the attic. Would Jane have preferred that I'd divorced her and dropped her off in London to fend for herself on the streets? You'd think Jane would understand better than anyone how noble it was of me to support my idiotic wife and protect her from a long, slow death of starvation and disease in Houndsditch-Whitechapel-Ratcliffe, when she couldn't attract tricks anymore. Jane grew up in an orphanage. Many of the girls there died of TB because they had no heat and little food. And now the woman is putting on airs about how she deserves so much better, as my wife! Hah. A little orphan peasant with no family connections and no social station. Many women with far higher credentials would be bloody well happy to be Mrs. Edward Rochester! But no, she complains all the time. I should have known it would come to this. Jane did come into a little money recently from an unexpected inheritance, so she thinks she's my equal now. Honestly, I think I should have married that socialite b----Blanche Ingram after all. At least she knows the rules. She wouldn't have expected me to be her everything, her personal fulfillment, her lover and best friend. She would have been more than satisfied to have access to my bank accounts to throw parties and buy clothes. Hmmph. I feel a headache coming on. Would you ask Jane to bring me my opium?

Counselor's Turn: The age difference, the class difference, the temperament difference, the lies, the abandonment...all seemed too much to overcome and were threatening the relationship. But beneath these problems lay the main one: Ed and Jane were not communicating well. The first thing we needed to work on was their communication patterns. So we practiced some standard communication therapy during early sessions. Ed was told to vent for 10 minutes while Jane remained silent, and then Jane was to repeat back to him what he had just said. Then Jane had a turn. We did this for six months. One day, Jane was particularly silent and thoughtful. I asked her what was on her mind. "We've been doing this for six months," she said angrily. "I've been listening, really listening to Ed's complaints, and I've repeated them back to him perfectly, every time. I get it. I really know and understand his points. But don't you see? I still don't love him anymore! You think communication is the only focus. I communicate well with the new gardener, and the stockbrocker, and the local librarian, but I don't love them. Could you please just make Ed change and eliminate the deal breakers in the relationship?"
I replied that neither Ed, nor any husband on earth, is going to change, so she, like every other wife, would have to focus on the good and accept the bad.

During the next session, Jane was smiling in a sparkling new dress, a few pieces of jewelry and a new hairstyle. "I feel wonderful," she said. "I decided to go shopping in London last week, and I was thrilled to see how much that boosted my spirits." Ed seemed in a happier mood too. Jane was beginning to give him the space he needed, so he has become more interested in talking to her when she is around. During our final session, Jane was excited when she told me she has planned a nice trip to Naples next month. She invited Ed to come too, but he declined because his disabilities make traveling difficult. But he'll be well taken care of by the new home health care nurse that Jane hired.

Headline Southern News: It's in the THIRTIES!

Why do weathercasters always act surprised and wax dramatic when the weather does what it's always done at a particular time of year? Like all news today, even the weather must be "sold" to the viewing public, lest people switch to another, more electrifying account of today's temperature and forecast.

A cold front moved in yesterday. Today it dipped into the thirties. I wore a fleece jacket to work! Headline news! We'll have a few weeks of chilly weather, cold by Southern standards, and the temperature will rise again (just like the South!), and by March, the crepe myrtles will be thinking about blooming. Could be worse. Cousin Carlos lives in upstate New York now, and we hear his tales of heavy-duty snow shoveling, blinding blizzards, cutting winds, and ice on the car windshield.


Sometimes in autumn, I grow sentimental about the northern foliage. I haven't seen a striking one since leaving Maine. Here in South Georgia, the leaves change late, and mildly, into gentle yellows and timid oranges. In December, you notice the new colors as you drive along, but they're not dramatic. When I see calendar photos of Vermont or New Hampshire, all ablaze with red and orange leaves, I can almost feel the invigorating chill and smell the woodsmoke in the air. As a high school student in upstate New York, I climbed different Adirondack Mountains in September and October, as part of the school's Hiking Club. The fresh air, the promise of pending winter, somehow seemed pleasant and comforting at the time, maybe because I'd never known anything else. Whenever I tell L. about any sentiment about my Homeland, especially during foliage season, he, without hesitation, reminds me that it's now 25 degrees in Cincinatti or 35 in Boston, and snow flakes were spitting into the stadium during a football game he was just watching. "And the people were all wearing heavy coats and hats and shivering---and it's only October!" he'll say.


A few winters ago, I was temporarily cured of any recurring fantasy of wanting to "go home again." We were in Washington for Christmas, and it was unseasonably horrible. They said that the wind chill factor was especially brutal. Knife-cutting, eye-watering cold sliced right through my jeans, my coat, my gloves, my scarf, my hat. I was truly suffering in the short runs between the car and the stores. "Are you sure you want to go back North?" laughed L., as I whimpered in the back seat of the car, waiting for the heat to come on. "Never!" I replied. I could hardly enunciate the words, with my frozen jaw.

I've never really considered leaving the South, but the sentiment for the North resurfaces now and then. My family, since stepping off whatever boat it was, has always lived in the North, for many generations, so a certain attachment to that region and its culture remains with me. Periodically, I think fondly of the cool summer evenings, the fireflies, the lilacs and peonies, Lake Champlain, the Green Mountains, the Adirondacks, the flaming colors in fall. But right now, with the outside temperature way down in the thirties, the house is too chilly for me, and I've had to turn the heat on. Now I remember why I like the South.

Alone in the house, a rare occurrence

Jan. 1, 2008, 9 p.m. Rarely am I alone in the house for an entire day and night. P. is not any party animal, so he's usually at home when L. isn't, or if P. goes out to the gym for his new love, weight training, L. is at home, or will be soon. Though he's not overly sociable and likes it that way, P. does have a bud that he's been friends with since sixth grade, and they usually get together for an overnight once or twice a year. This morning at 11:30, P. drove off to A's house to spend the day and night, and I've been alone in the house. No biggie, most would say. But for me, it's just so utterly different that it's something I consider an interesting, almost fascinating, phenomenon, like a solar eclipse. I sit quietly and examine how it feels. For moments here and there, it feels lonely, and I miss L. and P., and of course, the other sons, the daughter-in-law, and the grandboy. Other times, it's nice to know that no one is going to tell me I packed the artificial tree with the branches going the wrong way, or ask to switch the big-screen t.v. to a different show. The day flowed quietly by, sun shining, maroon-colored leaves twirling to the ground on the breeze.

I'm sure full-time solitude would eventually become difficult, maybe occasionally painful. My sister has been spouse-less (spouse-free?, depending on how one looks at the particular spouse in question) for about 17 years. For many of those years, the children filled up any potential emptiness, but one by one, they were launched. She's been alone in the house for four years now. Part of her would really like to have a spouse--someone to talk to at the end of the day, as she puts it---the other part has gotten used to having things her way. She says it would be hard at this point to introduce another adult into her life without getting annoyed. After all, neither of us are starry-eyed girls who believe, as we might have at 21, that we WANT to merge every part of our lives and routines with HIM, that one perfect guy.

On an old Twilight Zone episode I watched on the New Year's Eve Marathan, a convict's punishment was being banished to an asteroid to live out his days entirely alone. The voiceover emphasized that separation from people and conversations is the worst form of torture a human can endure. Think about all the isolation movies and novels, from Robinson Cruesoe and The Count of Monte Cristo to Cast Away and I am Legend. The themes all suggest that humans do not flourish psychologically and spiritually when cut off from others. Remember Chuck Nolan talking to the volleyball "Wilson" for four years?

Last night, the webcam from Venezuela was working, and L. was able to see P. and me toasting the champagne glasses at midnight, while I could see him, his mama, sisters, relatives, family dogs and cats, and his 90-year-old father celebrating the moment. His father, 90, uses a walker now, but looks wonderful and seems very happy. He was grinning as he waved at P. over the webcam, as P. shouted "Feliz Nuevo Ano!"
I'm sure one of the reasons he's doing so well is that he is surrounded by family and friends all the time. It can't hurt, anyway.

My solitude will be short-lived, of course, since school begins already tomorrow!