Saturday

What fun it was to read the great news on Sharon's blog this afternoon! A surprise check arrived for her today from Marty Shapiro's Agency, extending producer Brittany Lovett's current option for Sharon's and my book, My Mama's Waltz, which means I will get my check on Monday. The West Coast mail always reaches Sharon first since she's geographically closer. The possibility of a made-for-t.v. movie is still kicking. Let's see: Cheryl Ladd as Ellie, Diane Lane as Sharon, Banderos as Liberto, Brad Pitt as Sharon's Esteemed Spouse. . .

This evening, L. and I went to the mall to buy a dress for Mamita. He's leaving for Venezuela next Saturday for two weeks, in lieu of a Christmas visit and will arrive laden with presents for the familia. Remembering the last excursion to find a dress for Mama, I suggested we shop on-line this time. I find it very inefficient, tiring, and boring to wander from store to store going through endless racks looking for a certain size. Mama's size is hard to find because she's petite in stature, but not petite in width, bless her heart. I told him we should go on-line, find Sears or Penney's or Macy's, filter for size and item, and have a screen full of possibilities right in front of us. We could even choose express shipping! But no, on to the Mall. We walked through Sears, Macy's, and Penney's, and could not find one dress in her size. Two hours later, we came home. I clicked onto the Sears website, scanned through available dresses in her size, selected one that seemed to be her style, got his approval, and ordered it.


Last Tuesday, the U.S. Supreme Court granted Troy Davis a stay of execution two hours before he was scheduled to die. I've followed this case with great interest. We moved to Savannah in August of 1989, the same month that Davis allegedly shot Office MacPhail in the parking lot of the Savannah bus station. It was all over the news for many weeks. I read about it in the newspaper every day. I remember watching the memorial on the local news, the widow of the police officer sitting with her two-year-old and a newborn baby. Davis was charged, convicted, and sentenced to death. That was 19 years ago. A few days ago, the dead police officer's newborn baby, now a college student, gave an interview on the local news---before the Supreme Court intervened---saying how relieved he and his family are that justice will be served. Two years ago, Davis was also set to die, when the Georgia Pardons Board granted a stay. Apparently, civil rights groups had been working for years trying to get him a new trial, on the grounds that seven of the nine witnesses who testified against him have since recanted their original statements, saying they were coerced by police. There was no forensic evidence and the gun used as a murder weapon was never found.

Since I'm currently teaching Count of Monte Cristo, I've had occasion to bring up the topic of wrongful conviction in class. It's been known to happen! The Innocence Project has managed to overturn the wrongful convictions of hundreds of people, usually black men. That's why I don't think it's a stretch to think that Davis might be innocent. Maybe he's not a saint and maybe he shouldn't have been out with the homiees looking for trouble that night, but it's possible that he was not the one to pull the trigger. He has always insisted that it was another guy in the group, the one who intimidated the rest of them. When there's any doubt about someone's guilt, that person should spend life in prison but not be executed.

Troy Davis's presence in the news again has knocked me through a time warp, back to the first month in Savannah, when we lived in that little rental house on Delores Drive, when Paul was only three, when Derek and Shawn were teenagers, when my dad was still alive, when Sandy was still alive, when I was just starting at Georgia Southern, and Liberto was still working for the Savannah Housing Authority. A lifetime ago!

Back in touch

Friday: How could two weeks have passed without a blog entry? Last Friday night, I had to attend the Richmond Hill versus Johnson football game to do my mandatory once-per-year sports duty. Originally, I was scheduled to do this on Sept. 5, but the game was cancelled due to hurricane weather. Last Friday afternoon, I received an email reminder that I should be at tonight's game at 6:30. Whaat? An evening at a football game was the last thing I had in mind. I had planned to doze off in front of the television! What's more, I already had a hair appointment scheduled for 4 p.m. and that would take one or two hours, depending on how busy she was. So I left work, rushed to the hairdressers, had my color and cut, hurried home a little after six, changed into jeans and my new RHHS sweatshirt with the "Wildcats!" slogan, and drove back to the high school with Liberto, who agreed to go with me. I stayed in the ticket booth with three other teachers for the next few hours, while Liberto hung around the stands watching the game. The evening wasn't so bad after all, and I enjoyed it. I got to know the other three teachers, sold many tickets, and saw a lot of familiar faces on the other side of the window. A couple students I knew from Groves bought tickets and informed me that "Ms.----- (the principal) need to get fired!"

The next day, Saturday, we were scheduled to go to a school-related barbecue at 5 p.m., so we spent most of the morning and afternoon running around town doing errands, getting L's car oil changed, picking up a pot luck contribution, and suddenly it was 4:30, and we were getting ready to go. Two of the husbands at the party were men that Liberto has done projects with. One is a County engineer and the other is a private firm engineer. They leaned together in a huddle and talked business for the rest of the evening, while I got to know some of the other teachers. The husband of one of the couples turned out to be a man I had known at Georgia Southern who used to work at the library. His wife works at my high school. The hostess of the party, the wife of the county engineer, is a woman I'd met during the first week of school meetings and liked a lot. She's about my age, has two sons in their thirties who live in Burlington, Vermont, has a young grandson, and loves to read. She and her husband have traveled all over the world.

Sunday was even busier than usual because we'd socialized on Friday and Saturday. I planned classes, graded papers, re-read Count of Monte Cristo, and got ready for the week. On Sunday nights, whether I'm finished or not, Paul and I always watch Cold Case at 9 p.m.

On Tuesday, L. had an MRI for an intestinal pain that's been bothering him for a while. He was diagnosed with diverticulitus about a year ago, but has kept it under control with meds and food choices. We don't know the result of the MRI yet, but assume that if it were something serious, the good doc might have called by now. L. has an appointment to see him next week.


A huge lemon harvest is imminent. Hundreds of almost-yellow lemons are drooping in clusters from the branches of the tree. Last season, it was such fun to look out in the yard every morning and see how many new ones lay on the ground.

I'll write more tomorrow. I'm ready for the lovely Friday night descent into Total Relaxation.

Sunday

This morning, I took Pete for what we call a "constipation" walk, or as Paul calls it, a "consti-Petie" walk. Now that he's in his golden years, aged 12, he sometimes has difficulty with "regularity," so we, (or should I say, I) try to walk him a lot for his relief, as well as his excitement. Staying in the house all day with nothing but a sleeping cat must be horribly boring. As we turned into the woods, I spotted a colorful orange patterned turtle sitting on the path. In all the years I've walked in those woods, I've never seen a turtle there. I approached cautiously, remembering the time we confronted a genuine snapping turtle. Years ago, Liberto, Paul and I were driving to the movies. We turned onto a side street in the Windsor Forest neighborhood and saw a huge turtle plodding along the middle of the road. We got out of the car to have a closer look at it, to decide whether to move it to the curb, so it wouldn't be squashed by the next car. Paul still remembers to this day how that dull, sleepy turtle head, hanging lethargically from its armor shell, came to life in a split second and snapped viciously at Liberto, who leaped back in horror. I don't know what became of that turtle because we peeled away.

Today's turtle just sat there. I wondered whether it was alive. I tossed a twig gently at its shell and the head moved. Was it someone's pet turtle that had been abandoned there to die? I questioned whether I should drive it to the wetlands at the dock. But I remembered that big ole snapping turtle from Windsor Forest, the sound of its jaws clacking closed like a steel trap. So I turned around and walked home since Pete had gotten his relief already, and looked it up on the internet. I discovered it was a box turtle whose natural habitat is woods located near water. So this one was just out for a stroll, I concluded, and didn't go back to offer assistance.

Continuing my on-going de-cluttering project, I was tickled to find an unexpected $10 bill in my closet this morning. Not enough to retire on, but enough to make me feel lucky. Then Liberto and I went to Wal-Mart for the food haul. We also buy our household items and cleaning products there. Since he's going to Venezuela in a few weeks, Liberto has been buying and stockpiling those lovely stick-on heating pads for his father, who loves the heat on his muscle aches. We never go to Wal-Mart without running into someone we know. This time, it was a student from Groves named Andre, who was a very talented and bright guy. But last spring, he stopped coming to my senior English class. I called his home a few times, to no avail. This morning, he was wearing a Wal-Mart uniform. I said hello and told him I'd missed him when he disappeared. He didn't elaborate but told me "some things happened" between him and his mother, and he'd had to move out. Then he couldn't afford the gas to drive to school. Thus, he'd stopped coming. But now he is at Windsor Forest High School finishing up his senior work.

Many students have issues going on in their home lives that teachers can't see in the classroom. This is true at Richmond Hill as much as Groves. At Richmond Hill, I have a student who seems druggedly sleepy all the time.
He plods in and plops forward onto the desk in slumber. I shake him a few times during class, and he looks up, stunned and faraway, and then falls forward again. I've contacted the guidance counselor about him, hoping she could set up a parent meeting. His parents are "unavailable," she's told me, and added that has a freon-sniffing addiction, which makes him tired. Most of the time, this boy is in ISS or OSS. I can't fathom how he has the energy to do anything bad enough in other classes to warrant a disciplinary referral. Another loose cannon in that same class is a boy who has a desperate, desperate need for attention and disrupts constantly. He has openly stated that his parents are cocaine addicts. I don't know what he's on, but I've had to write him up because his daily disruption is extreme. The AP told me that he's trying to "clean out" the class of the vagabonds, and he's been true to his word. I haven't seen this boy for several weeks because he's been out on OSS. I overheard another AP state that he's a hair's breadth away from expulsion. I feel sorry for his situation, and the other boy's too, but I think their problems should not carry over into the classroom enough to prevent others from learning. Another boy was a little mischievous one day, so I called his mother, a teacher in the same school system. She apologized for his behavior and promised he would apologize to me the next day. She added, "He may be a little hyper these days because I'm going through a divorce, and my ex and I are in a custody battle over him." Yes, I can imagine how this would be a weight on his mind during school hours.

I'm so academically focused that I have to remind myself frequently about the unbelievable burdens which many students carry in silence. Imagine it from the opposite perspective. How well would I do at my job if I had a secret drug habit, an abusive spouse, a pending eviction, or no lunch money?

The social elements of high school are also intense. I reach back over the decades and become my 15-year-old self, a student in high school and even now, I recall with bittersweet feelings how hugely crucial the social aspects of high school were, far more important than academics. For a few seconds, I can re-experience the harrowing emotions associated with teenage social life. Would my crush of the week look at me, notice me, pass me a note? Would I be invited to Susie's party that I'd heard about (hadn't gotten an invitation yet!!) Did my clothes look stylish enough? How about that unruly hairstyle? What could I do to be more popular? Would I say or do something stupid that everyone would see?

The students I have now experience all of the above issues, and often many more. Reminding myself of this increases my compassion. I feel strongly that I should never humiliate a student in front of others no matter how evil he or she appears to be. A belitting remark from a teacher in a public forum will be remembered for years to come. Yet, teaching is a hard job, and by the end of the day, I can see how a teacher, myself included, might blurt out something less than diplomatic to the student who is tossing the LCD remote across the room to another student.

September weekend

Saturday: Cleaning and sorting through clutter is a drag, yet sometimes you find interesting things. A few summers ago, when I was de-cluttering our bedroom closet, a $20 bill dropped right at my feet from some shelf above. I saw that as a good omen. Last Christmas, Liberto came back from Venezuela with a $100 bill(American) that his mother wanted me to have. I could have sworn I took it with me to Toronto last spring and spent it there because it was no longer in the place I remembered leaving it. This morning, while looking for something else, I found that bill, yes, in the place I remember leaving it, but camoflauged. The unexpected discovery of a crisp $100 bill is always a day-brightener.


Today, Liberto has been repairing the sink in Paul's bathroom. Paul and I drove to the landfill this afternoon to throw away odds and ends, such as a defunct coffee-maker, old boxes, mops, and the usual crap that piles up but can't go into the regular garbage. Between doing laundry, dishes, de-cluttering, and general cleaning, I never catch up. Liberto often irons, and always cooks, as well as does repairs, and Paul mows the lawn, takes out the garbage, and sometimes mops the kitchen floor. Yet I never feel as though we're on top of all the chores and clean-up. I want a house like the ones on "Flip This House"!

In this blog, I'm constantly contrasting my new school with my old school. It's been said that the "modes" of writing which we teach in school, including comparison and contrast, are merely reproductions of the innate templates of the brain. In all our thinking processes, we use one or more of the same "modes" to sort out life (Frank D'Angelo.) That is, we think in narrative, cause-and-effect, classification, description, comparison/contrast, explanatory, and argumentation, according to him, which explains my continual urge to use a mental T-chart to examine Groves versus Richmond Hill. Another difference I've noticed, don't laugh, is the attitude towards fingernails. Yes, it's a reflection of black versus white culture to a large extent. At Groves, both the female teachers and female students seemed very nail-conscious. I always felt slovenly without a decent set. If I was due for a new set, the girls would not hesitate to point this out. A lot of the teachers, too,displayed long, shiny acrylics and white-tips. Therefore, sheep that I am, I kept up with it. At Richmond Hill, I've noticed, neither the female teachers nor the students are overly concerned about the appearance of nails. I've felt one more pressure removed.

Yesterday on the way home from work, I noticed the cars lined up at the gas stations. I hadn't seen the news all day, but learned when I got home that some stations have no more gas to sell. Everyone was flocking to the remaining ones. Liberto said some stations were selling a maximum of $45 worth. There are times when I'm glad we drive a Toyota, a Honda, and a Taurus, respectively. With a $35 or $40 fill-up, I can go for two weeks. Nevertheless, I've always wanted an SUV or van. Liberto cites statistics about how SUV's have worse crash tests and flip-over rates, how people he knows pay $105 per weekly fill-up, and how much gas they burn. He, obviously, thinks with his head. I, on the other hand, simply like the feel of being higher up. When I ride with other people who have SUV's, I feel more protected. The gas crisis doesn't seem to be decreasing the number of trucks, SUV's and vans on the road. Sometimes when I'm riding with Liberto, just for sport, I'll count the next ten cars and report that seven out of the ten were SUV's. Then he cites statistics about how the auto industry has had to shut down SUV plants because sales have plummeted, and that people are just driving the ones they already own because they can't trade them in or sell them because they have depreciated in value. But if I happen to win that pick-up truck from the United Way raffle, I am keeping it, even if I can only afford to drive it once per week.

Next week is the big Six-Oh. But remember, 60 is the new 40. Hasn't Hillary Clinton made it okay to be over 60? Frankly, most of the time, I'm too busy to give it a second thought. But I have started to lie about my older sons' ages. Boys, did you know you've been bumped back into your twenties?

What's in a Name?

Saturday: A few weeks ago, I filled out the form to renew my passport, which expires in December. This will be my fourth passport since I got my first in the '80's in preparation for our trip to Venezuela in 1987 or '88. We'd only been married about two years, and Paul was a toddler. To get my first passport, I needed an original birth certificate, and I remember how Diana, who lived in Burlington at the time, was sweet enough to expedite the process by driving to P'burgh, an hour away, to obtain a copy from the County Clerk's office. In my 80's passport photo, I wore a red sweatshirt, large 80's glasses, and a frizzy, permed hairstyle.

My point in this story---and I do have one!---is about my name. As all you good readers know, when I married Liberto, I'd been married once or twice before, and had taken the different hubbies' names. When I married for the last time, I wanted to use my original name because, well, it just felt right. I won't get off on a tangent justifying my decision, but using my own name has worked for us, and Liberto even chuckles when mail comes addressed to Dr. E. and Mr. L. A----. But a little problem arose years ago when we moved from Louisiana to South Carolina for my first teaching job. My driver's license had had the name Eleanor S-----, the previous husband's last name. I arrived, if I remember right, with my divorce decree and my new marriage certificate. Remember, rural South Carolina is very, shall we say traditional, so the DMV clerk who was processing my new state license insisted, I mean insisted, that the name on my license had to be Eleanor C-----, Liberto's last name. Telling them that I didn't use that name didn't do any good. It was 4:55 p.m., they were about to close, baby Paul, age about two months, was screaming on my shoulder, and I one-handedly signed and surrendered to the name on my license, figuring I'd get it altered later. That didn't happen. With every new license renewal, I have told them I didn't use the C name and to change it to A, but they always insist I need an official name change form. There is no name change form category for "Always used own name," only categories for Marriage, Divorce, or Death. One helpful DMV worker even suggested that I should divorce L. and then remarry him so I could get the name the way I wanted. Another one said, "Honey, how will you collect his social security benefits if you don't have his name?" (Perhaps a legal marriage certificate??) I've brought other evidence to the DMV, including passport, credit cards, paychecks, and every legal document I could think of, but they were not accepted as substitutes for an official name change form. Even if there did exist a name change form for "Married but wants to go back to Original Name," what good would it do to request a name change to the name I've always used in the first place?

Okay, so I've always used E.A., except for my driver's license. Then, a few years ago, I received a letter from the state saying that my driver's license name had to match my social security card name. They were cracking down on terrorists, or something, and if I didn't get the two names coordinated, I could lose my license. The result was the new official last name A-C on those two documents, even though I still don't use that name.

When my passport came up for renewal, I knew the name conundrum would rear its head when I filled out the application. Nevertheless, I put my name as "E.A." since all my other passports say that, and I have not remarried or divorced since then. I got to the question on the form, "Have you been known by any other names? Attach additional sheets to explain, if necessary. Also attach court orders." Okay, so the Department of Homeland Security wanted to hear my story? Fine. What follows the letter I enclosed with my forms:

To Whom it May Concern:
Re: # 9-2 on passport application.

I have been married to L.C. for 23 years, but I have always used my original name, E.A. All my professional and financial paperwork has been in the name of E.A. However, 23 years ago, newly divorced from another man, when I got my driver’s license from the state of South Carolina, they insisted that I could not use “E.A.” and had to use “E.C. because I was newly married to L.C. They wouldn’t give me my license otherwise, so I went along with it. When I moved to the state of Georgia in 1989, the name already on my license was E.C., so that had to be carried over. I have never used the name C., but had to comply.

Two years ago, due to heightened security concerns statewide, the state of Georgia mandated that my social security card name, E.A., had to match my driver’s license name, E.C., so the DMV and the SS office agreed that A.-C. should be placed on both documents. This explains why I have a different name on the license and social card, but there is no court order to enclose [as you requested] nor a change in marital status [because there hasn't been one].

Over the years, I have wanted to get the name I actually use, "E.A." onto my driver’s license, but no one seems to know how that can be done. There are official name change forms for marriage, divorce, or death of spouse and everything else, but no form for “married woman who always used her own name.” I’ve actually had DMV workers suggest that I divorce my husband so I can use my own name, or that if I loved him enough I would take his name.

How does one “change” to a name that was always used in the first place?
There you have the background information on the a.k.a name.

Sincerely,

E.A., Ph.D.


I thought passports had a 10 month renewal backlog, so I was surprised to receive a package from the U.S. government last Monday, less than two weeks after sending the application.

I opened it up, and there, beside my own smiling face, was the name "E. A."

* * * * * * *

Well, so much for Hurricane Hanna. On Friday, it was overcast, and a few drops of drizzle fell in late afternoon, but today is as sunny and clear as can be. Next is Hurricane Ike, which is forecast for western Florida.



* * * * * * * *













I've been wanting to talk about the discipline system at my new school and how efficient it is. The disciplinary referral forms are on-line. When you fill one out and click "Submit," it is automatically forwarded to the proper AP. It takes about 30seconds. Just walk to the nearest computer, and Bubba is written up. Within a few hours, sometimes sooner, you'll hear Bubba being paged to the front office. Then you'll get an email notification that Bubba has ISS beginning on Thursday and please put work in the ISS box. I think their system of bussing the ISS students away from the main campus is extremely smart. When they're bussed to another location, they can't hang with friends at lunch, or skip ISS and sneak into classes, they are really removed, which, to a teenager, is the worst form of torture.

At the previous school, the disciplinary referral process was a joke. They did not have an on-line system. The biggest challenge was simply getting a hard-copy write-up to the proper AP. We had to carry them personally. Whenever I found the time to bring the occasional discipline write-up to Mr. R., his office would be locked and dark. Wasted trip. To carry it to the front of the school, to his mailbox, was a major trek, for which I usually didn't have time nor the motivation since I knew nothing would ever be done anyway. Mr. R's desk always held a 12-inch stack of disciplinary referrals, half of which would never be processed because he didn't have the time. He spent most of his workday, walkie talkie in hand, rushing through the halls and stairways, yelling, "Hey, young man! Get back here!" or "Young lady, where are you going?" He was a tall, thin streak rushing back and forth in pursuit of errant students. In addition, he had to save the disciplinary process for the more hard core problems, such as fights and drugs, which had priority over skipping and disruption. In one case, I wrote up a girl who had left for the restroom and didn't come back to class. Skipping was supposed to be worthy of a disciplinary referral. A week later, nothing had happened to "D," the skipping girl, so I asked Mr. R. about it, and he hemmed and hawed, and finally said that it "wasn't a big enough deal to process," so he hadn't. Translate: he was too overworked processing expulsions.

At the old school, ISS was held on campus. On the same day a student started an ISS, the coach in charge would email the entire listserv with the list of names of ISS students for that day and a request "to send work now!!" Talk about short notice. Problem was, I sometimes didn't even see my email into after my three classes in a row were over, at 1:00, so my student would not have received any assignments. Or, even if I did see an email sometime in the morning, it was not always convenient in the middle of teaching a class to gather up something for Bubba to do and send another student to the other side of campus to deliver it.

At my new school, after processing the written up students quickly, the AP sends individualized emails to the teachers several days before their students' ISS's or OSS's, so we have time to collect assignments for them.

I'm starting a new Unit on Monday, which involves one of my favorite novels, The Count of Monte Cristo. I guess I've written long enough and should start to grade some quizzes.

Hurricane Blues and other matters

Tuesday: The projected path of Hurricane Hanna shifts slightly north or south, depending on which website one checks. Since Liberto is on the CEMA team, he's been studying all the different weather webs every five minutes for the past few days. If the hurricane makes landfall here, he has to stay in the city bunker with the rest of the team, while Paul and I (and dog and cat and computers and all the insurance policies) inch our way west on 1-16 in a traffic jam. Hanna has weakened to a category 1, but Liberto is wound up about the horrific possibilities. I've contacted Terry to see if Paul and I could stay there if we have to evacuate. They live in Millen, ten miles on the other side of Statesboro. I really hope we don't have to leave. On the other hand, think of how fortunate we are to live in the days of Doppler Radar and Channel 2 local news, so we can be forewarned. One hundred years ago, the residents of Tybee Island didn't know what was happening until the twenty-foot tidal wave smashed down on them and the wind sucked the roofs right off their houses. Even if they had suspected something brewing, they didn't have cars to drive them to out of danger, nor were there any roads connecting Tybee to the mainland. And I wouldn't recommend boat travel once the sky grew dark.

We moved to Savannah in '89, the year of Hurricane Hugo. When Hugo moved towards the coast, a mandatory evacuation order was issued. Paul was about three years old, and Liberto's sister Grelia was visiting. The day the hurricane was predicted to make landfall in Savannah, we all drove to Statesboro and checked into a motel. Our sweet dog Sandy was with us, and she stayed in the motel room too. Our friends Tim and Nina lived in Savannah at the time, and they checked into the same motel with their three-year-old daughter, and stayed in the room next to ours. The hours ticked by and we watched the news on television. The bullseye was on Savannah all evening, until Hugo swerved north just enough to hit Charleston. Right till the end, though, it looked pretty bad for Savannah. I'll never forget the weather in Stateboro that night. We were sixty miles inland, yet the rain pounded down. Amazingly, the Georgia Southern football game was not cancelled. We saw it on t.v., feeling sorry for those poor drenched players sliding across the muddy ground in Paulsen Stadium. I guess GSU couldn't let down their sponsors by cancelling the game.

In those days of '89, I was still working on my Dissertation, which involved traveling back to South Carolina on weekends to interview former basic writers who had graduated from the school where I had worked before going to GSU. I drove back on many weekends, scheduling two or three interviews each time in places from Columbia to Charleston, often staying overnight at friends' houses in Florence (my God---this reminds me of how glad I am that the Dissertation is over, although it seems like ancient history now). I remember driving up 1-95 in South Carolina and seeing the aftermath of Hugo. Acres of forests broken off like matchsticks. Frightening and eerie. One of the young men I interviewed for the dissertation had been so super curious (either that or super stupid) that he had decided to stay in Charleston and set up his tape recorder to record the sound of Hurricane Hugo. He even played the tape for me during our interview. The sound was impressive.

In '99, it was Hurricane Floyd, which was supposed to be as big as the state of Georgia. I remember the long, long, LONG drive to Atlanta, with Paul, our dog Pete, and our cat Gus, who yowled and pooped in this cage the whole way. We stayed with our friends Roger and Debbie. Debbie found a pet store that agreed to board Pete and Gus so they'd be out of our hair for a few days. Pete was so hyper when we arrived at the pet store that he, in turn, made me hyper and the result was that I accidentally locked the keys in the car. We had to call Triple A. Meanwhile, back in Savannah, the hurricane petered out. A few days later, we made the long drive back to Savannah, which had a sad, gray, wet, dismal look. A few trees down, but no biggie.

I sure hope we don't have to do this again. As I contemplated the worst possibilities, an actual strike on Savannah, I thought about my koi fish. I know they're small on the scale of importance compared to human lives or property, but I would so hate to have to abandon them to the fates. What would happen to them in a hurricane? I asked Liberto if I could seal over the pond with a tarp or boards or mesh, and he just laughed. I even imagined in my wildest fantasies trying to corner and capture them, transfer them to a large portable tank, and driving them with us. Hah. I know better. It wouldn't work. The stress of the transfer alone would kill them. We humans and the mammals can drive away from a hurricane. State Farm would cough up the cash for a new house and furniture, if need be. But the koi are so special to me; I hate that I wouldn't be able to protect them or save them from harm.

I haven't written much in this blog lately--too much going on. And I have so many other things I want to talk about, but it's time to sign off for this evening. If we still have electricity in the next few days, I'll be back!

Lucking out at Office Depot

Sunday: For a few weeks, I've been carrying a coupon from Office Depot for 20% off any printer over $149. The current printer has been jamming---and each time it does, it makes a hideous screeching sound that makes me jump out of the chair---or sometimes it won't work at all. The last time it wouldn't print, I got it going by plugging it into a different electrical outlet, but it didn't work for long.

In other words, I've had a new printer on my mind for a few weeks. This morning's paper advertised a certain All-in-One discounted to $249, so we decided to go ahead and get it. At Officed Depot, we were just on the verge of buying it when we discovered it wasn't network-ready even though the ad had said that it was. We didn't pitch a fit or anything, but suddenly the nice guy who was helping us offered to sell us the nice, big $500 All-in-One nearby for $249, since the ad had been incorrect. At the register, we also got to use the 20% coupon as well as my Star Teacher discount card. Sweeeettt! Liberto is setting it up now.

Office Depot is very good about mailing coupons like this to teachers. They also offer little prizes for ordering certain amounts of supplies. I know it's cheesy of me, but I like getting the little freebies, such as a large faux-leather purse, a basket of Spa items, or a free box of 10 reams of paper.

Looking back on the past week of school, I'm feeling pretty good about it. I've gotten them into certain ironclad routines, such as the two Daily Language sentences on the screen every morning, followed by the Daily Language sentence quiz every Friday. (Last Friday, a girl asked in an injured tone, "Why can't we have our two sentences today?" and I told her that on Fridays we skip the sentences and do the quiz. But it's a sign the routine is taking.) I have them do journal writing two or three times per week, and every Friday, let them select one for grading or I'll randomly call for a certain day's writing. I've just started the vocabulary routine---new words every Monday, and a quiz on the old words every Monday as well. The selection of one written item per week to grade is a trick I learned from a teacher at Groves, and it's working well. As they write in class, I come around and either stamp or place a sticker at the end of the writing where they left off. They're still allowed to write more at home if they want, but it leaves me a record of how much work they did in class. It's surprising how much they seem to like the stamps and stickers. Yes, I know this is not elementary school, but their inner children enjoy having that colorful validation.

Some of my students, usually boys who have not had their growth spurts yet, still do look like children. One of these child-like boys in the third block class came up to me one day and said with disingenuous earnestness, "You are the nicest teacher I've EVER HAD!" Which worries me---am I being too nice? No, I don't think so, or at least not a pushover. The third block class consists almost entirely of hyperactive boys, 27 in all, and maybe four or five girls. I've already done three disciplinary referrals this past week. I've also had to call parents (the second stage of discipline) several times. I've made the rules clear and have followed through. They're not mean-spirited or evil-intentioned students, but many have certain special needs or conditions that make it difficult for them to sit still and listen, not that that's any excuse. Despite their constant hyperactivity, I like them and they like me, so the climate is still positive.

Yearbook pictures were done on Thursday and Friday. Remember last year when I was yearbook advisor and every picture day was a living nightmare of having to work around test days or having a day-long homeroom so that teachers could walk their classes over for the photos? At this high school, they merely distribute a list of scheduled times for each grade, divided up alphabetically, and the students just get up quietly from class when it's their time, walk down the hall, have the photo done, and return to class. Apparently, at RHHS, they don't have to worry about students slipping out the back door and taking off.

My classroom "roommate" teaches 10th graders during 2nd block, when I have planning. One day last week, one of her children got sick at the middle school next door, and she had to leave to run him home. She asked if I'd cover the class until she returned, which would only be about 15 minutes. Her students filed in, and I told them Ms.D. would be a little late, and their instructions from her were to begin reading Act II of Julius Caesar. Then I went to my desk and started doing paperwork. Then one guy suggested to everyone, "Let's continue from last time reading aloud. I'll be Brutus." Most of them claimed their roles from last time, and they started to read the play aloud. And their teacher wasn't even there! You'all may remember my blog entry last winter about the students at my former school who conducted a 30-minute brawl in the classroom when the substitute was 30 minutes late?

Class, your assignment is to write an essay comparing and contrasting the students at two different schools....