Hello, old friend

Next week I am going to attempt to teach my fifth grade writing students how to write a memoir. One book I looked at suggested that you show them your own attempts a memoirs (one good, one bad). While writing a memoir might be an excellent diversion from writing progress reports (which is what I ought to be doing at this moment), I figured that one of my old blog entries might be able to pass, so I opened up that green page of Lucie's Travels and re-read some old posts.

It made me realize yet again what a luxury it was to not only have the means and opportunity to travel, but also the time to sit and think and write. I miss my old friend, Lucie's Travels and Travails. I stopped writing last year around the time that I started working more, not only because of lack of time, but because I figured most of the people who read my blog were people that I was interacting with daily, and they might not enjoy seeing a story about them (or worse, their child!) up on a screen. But now that I revisited the page for the first time in over a year, I am feeling a pang of nostalgia and almost a sense of loss over a pasttime that I really enjoyed.

Some reorganization might have to be done with my life and my schedule so that this can be a part of my present and my future and not just my past. This is way more fun than writing reports, that's for sure!

Animal in a Zoo

I am currently sitting in a little conference room in the library of the school where I used to work (stealing the internet, of course, as well as seeing people and generally making trouble). The room has a window to the hall. One of the third grade classes (the last group I taught, and one of my all-time favorite groups) just walked by on their way to science.

Only they didn't walk by. They stopped. They looked in the window at me. I smiled and waved. They stayed. They stared. I waved and smiled. They stood. They stared. The science teacher is a bit of a practical joker, so I suspected that he was behind this, especially since one of the girls, whom I had and I know that she always does EXACTLY what she is told to do, stood there, not blinking, not smiling, just staring at me.

Eventually the science teacher popped his head in a window with a big grin and a wave, but not until I had hollered at the children, "I feel like an animal in the zoo!" Please come see this rare specimen that we have over here, Homo sapiens sapiens Lucia, acting as she would in her natural environment...

Important Lessons

As I've mentioned quite a few times before, I am a teacher, and I just can't get away from that at times. So I took it upon myself this morning to teach Molly (age 11 days) her first really important lesson, something that every girl and woman should know as early as possible. (I wonder if, with the XX chromosome, we do just inherently know this.) On the computer screen was an advertisement for Tiffany and Co. I taught Molly about Tiffany Blue, and how she should ask for things that come in boxes of that color, please.

The last time I received something in that color I think was in 1993, but a girl can dream, as well as instill (totally reasonable) expectations in the next generation.

Failed Princess

Some may say that I have been a princess all my life (but I imagine them saying it in not a very nice tone of voice), but I am here to tell you that last night I failed the test, and I am definitely not a princess.

I am with my friend in Ithaca, helping out with baby #2 who arrived 8 days ago. I have been camped out on an air mattress in the living room of their tiny apartment. The mattress gets shoved behind the couch during the day and the room turns into the playroom for the two and a half year old. At night, the toys get put away, and I pull out my bedding. I've gotten used to sleeping on the air mattress, and, so long as it is inflated enough, it is actually fairly comfortable.

This morning, as I groggily put away the mattress before getting the older child ready for preschool, I saw that my wool clogs were still in the middle of the living room floor. I had plunked the mattress right on top of them and slept quite soundly.

I failed the Princess and the Slipper test. A princess I am not. Alas.

I wonder if I have to give back the tiara.

Deflated

I was driving back from the post office this afternoon (sending out Christmas cards, of course, because I am just that organized and anal--but only a few cards that needed to be air-mailed. I wouldn't want my friends over here to know how organized and anal I am. It's not like I already have all the envelopes addressed and am just waiting until it is a bit closer to the actual holiday to send them). I passed a house, the small front yard of which was completely filled with a variety of inflatable Christmas decorations (ornamentations? gaudiness? Not sure what those blow-up things are called), only none of them were blown up. They all lay, deflated, strewn about the lawn.

That family brought me quite a bit of joy, only not how they intended to, I suspect.

Up and Away... again

Staying true to my (new) self, after five weeks of being in one place, I packed up two weeks’ worth of clothes, gifts, and a pillow into a very small bag, and I boarded a plane this morning. I’m back in Ithaca NY, doing my duty as Best Friend and helping out as baby #2 is due to arrive pretty much at any moment. I’m sure this will be quite the experience for me, for my friend, and for her two-year-old. She warned me to pack my patience. Hopefully that didn’t get squeezed out of the bag by that extra pair of wool socks I added when I saw the weather report.

This morning I received a courtesy call from the Orbitz Customer Care department, three hours before my flight, to let me know that it was on time. If they really cared about me, they would know that three hours before a 7:20am flight is way too freaking early to be calling anyone, especially a woman who has already checked in, is checking no bags, and lives 20 minutes from the airport. I still had an hour and a half left to sleep, and I did not feel particularly cared for when my phone started buzzing, nor now, as I am still attempting to scrape the sandpaper from the inside of eyelids.

Maybe Orbitz was trying to get me ready for two weeks of being in a small apartment with a newborn. God, I hope that my earplugs didn’t get squeezed out by those socks.

Who Are You?

My horoscope today (not that I follow such nonsense, of course) said that "Sometimes you need to remind [others] of who you are..." Oh, how right it is! The question I have heard many times of late is "Who are you today?" I understand the question (having posed it myself many times to various substitute teachers), but it became funny to me when I actually started to think about it. The easy answer is Chris or Sally or whomever I am subbing for, but periodically I do wonder, Who AM I today?

Do we get a choice in the mornings as to who we will be? Can I be Oscar the Grouch one day, Snuffleupagus another, and Bert (probably closest to my real personality) the next? (Happy 40th, Sesame Street!) What are the factors that make me into one person or the other? Getting out of the bed on the wrong side? What outfit I put on? The alignment of the stars? Or the fact that the dog drooled on my once-clean trousers, someone took the last piece of bread, or I almost got run over crossing the street? Some days any of those events will put me under, and other days they earn nothing more than a shrug and a que sera sera. Can I switch my personality mid-day? (Copious amounts of chocolate seem to help me do that, for better or worse.) And do I have control over who I am each day?

Maybe the question I should ask myself is not "Who am I today," but rather "Who do I want to be today?" The next logical question I suppose would be, "What do I need to do to be that person?"

Tomorrow I think I'll be Halle Berry. I wonder what I will have to do to be her. Probably a lot of sit-ups and a padded bra.

Dear Lousi

One of the greatest things about being a teacher of young children (which almost makes up for the bodily fluids projected at high velocity all over you) is the love note. I've really only worked with six and seven year olds, who are in the throes of learning how to read and write, and they are oh, so excited to use their new skills. Younger kids will draw pictures for you, but the older kids will add text. Over the years, I collected a number of paintings, pictures, and notes. (My two favorites were the drawing of me, supposedly putting my hand behind the child's head, but it looked like I was smothering the child, and the "Best Teacher Award" ribbon that a child made for me, to which one of MY students asked why she gave it to me... why didn't she give it to Sally, one of the other teachers.)

Last week, when I was subbing in first grade, at indoor recess I was given a couple of pictures, and one girl (VERY cleverly) folded a piece of paper in half and used scissors to cut a message in it to me, which read "Thank You".

For the past three days I subbed in second grade. I worked with those students a smidge last spring when I came back from my trip, but I didn't know them terribly well. Working with the (slightly) older kids was interesting, for they can (usually) do quite a bit more than the first graders I am used to. (One child commented to me that I "put a lot of space" between my words on the chalkboard. I guess they are slightly better at focusing on words than the younger kids.) While the kids at least feigned sadness at the prospect of me finishing up my term as sub yesterday afternoon, and I did get some hugs on their way out the door, there was nothing in the way of pictures or notes given. (No problem, for I usually "file" the notes in that nice blue plastic tub in the corner.)

Today I am back at school, subbing for the librarian. I had told the second graders this, and one of the girls, whom, as I taught all four of her older brothers, I have known basically since they day she arrived, brought me a note this morning. (I will translate some of the more creative spelling for those of you who might not be quite so fluent in "invented spelling".)

"Dear Lousi,
Thank you for substituting for us. We liked the activity of felt belts. They wore all nice. It was fun. We liked the math.
Love,
M"

Yes, I got a thank you note for being a sub. Any of you who are feeling unappreciated in your jobs, I highly recommend looking into teaching.......

Back to Work...ish

I've been back home now for about ten days, and as soon as I returned I got myself lined up to do as much subbing as I can. Four days last week and three (thus far) this week. I think that seems a reasonable amount to work. I mean, I wouldn't want to push myself to extremes or anything.

It is nice to be back at work, for the most part. I love the interactions with all my old friends (although those pesky children do get in the way of my conversations sometimes), I love having things to think about (I actually dreamt of school and lessons last night!), and, believe it or not, I don't even mind getting up in the morning (especially now that the time change has happened). What I DO mind, however, is that, because I see the same people every day and I am expected to have at least a modicum of professionalism, I have to wear different clothes each day, rather than the same outfit for three days. The gall!

The only other (very small) grievance I have is when people see me in the halls and say either "It seems so NORMAL for you to be here" or "I can't get used to you being here." Clearly, their worlds did not stop completely when I left as they were supposed to do. How can anyone's world exist without ME in it? I mean, mine can't...

(Actually, it really is so great and so normal to be back at school, even when I'm subbing in a grade that I haven't taught in 13 years. Fingers still crossed that they'll let me back for real at some point!)

Time to Go

Yesterday I packed up all my stuff and started my drive towards my winter stomping grounds. I was not sure about leaving New Hampshire quite yet. I didn't feel like I was quite ready to go. I could still do some work with my brother on the house he's building, and goodness knows that there are projects to do at home. The ocean was still there, needing to be walked by, and the trees were all looking lovely.

But there are people at home with whom I would like to play, and people between here and there who have been chomping at the bit wondering when I would appear. So pack up and leave I did, feeling a little sad about it. And then I woke up this morning outside of Boston and looked out the window.

It was freaking snowing. Yes, actual snow accumulating on my car. The scraper was buried underneath suitcases and boxes. So I just blasted the heat and hit the road. It snowed for the first hour of my drive. In some places the bare trees were white. This wasn't just some flurry. In fact, the radio somewhere in upstate New York was giving us a Winter Storm Advisory. Winter. If I'm not mistaken, the date on the top of this blog post is mid-October, a far cry from winter. Closer to summer in fact. But I guess not around these parts.

I was begrudging the fact that my clothes didn't fit in my backpack, because instead of packing light trousers and a few thin shirts like I had for my trip, I had jeans and sweaters and fleeces and heavy shoes. But now I'm grumpy about the fact that all I have are fall clothes, and what I really need is a pair of boots and a good heavy coat.

It is clearly time to go.

Detours

I am, I'm afraid to say, one of those people who, once I make a plan, must stick to it, come hell or high water, no matter now little or inane that plan is (e.g. I'm going to go to the grocery store around two this afternoon).

Yesterday's plan was to get up, pack, play with the dogs, leave the house around 10, hit the library (looking for Twilight #2, which, alas, they didn't have yet, but my name is now on the list), and head for my friends in Northern New York. It would be about a 7 hour drive, but it was a lovely day, so no worries. The plan all proceeded beautifully, with a slight hitch when I realized that, despite the fact that I have done this drive a couple of times, I wasn't actually sure which highway to take once I hit Vermont. No problem, I have an atlas.

I love maps. I don't know how people survive with that dinky little GPS system telling them where to go. I like to see the big picture, and, well, plan my route. I look at the map regularly, just to see where I am, even on the trip from St. Louis to NH, which I have done, literally, 70 times.

So I was driving along, everything going according to plan, arrival time to be around 5 pm, when I happened to look at the map in the middle of Vermont, just to check my progress. A little red point of interest caught my eye. I don't normally notice them, but there was something about this one that jumped off the page. It said, "Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream Factory". When I focused a bit closer, I noticed that it was, lo and behold, at the next exit.

Thus ensued a little grapple in my brain. It went something like this:

I love ice cream.
But the plan has us driving from NH to NY, perhaps with a stop for gas.
I really love Ben and Jerry's.
But if you stop, you won't arrive at 5.
I wonder if they have a tour.
But that would REALLY throw the plan off. Only stop for gas.
I need gas. I bet they have a gas station at the Ben and Jerry's exit.

Really, the planning side of my brain was absolutely no match for something as great and good as a Ben and Jerry's factory. The only thing that probably could have gotten me off the road faster would have been Will Shortz giving a talk about crossword puzzles.

So detour I did, and it was good. They did have a tour, a very fun, funny, and vaguely informative 25 minutes, and yes, there was a free sample at the end. (Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, mmmmmmmmmmm) I bought a postcard at the gift shop, wandered up the hill to the Flavor Graveyard (Popcorn ice cream? I'm not surprised it didn't make it), laughed at the fact that the sugar vat was twice the size of the milk and cream vats, and yes, I bought myself an ice cream cone (Coconut Seven Layer Bar, which is one of my all time favorite desserts, although the ice cream wasn't that great, actually. Not enough condensed milk, I would guess). The sun was shining, it was beautifully warm, I was eating ice cream and looking at the green mountains.

That is what my Gap Year(s) is all about. Taking those detours, because I can. Because I really don't have to be anywhere at any time. Letting the planning part of my brain go on a little vacation (even if it is a forced one).

Life is good.

So is ice cream.

Brrrrrr

What was I saying about looking forward to crisp weather? Well, this morning it was 56 degrees in the house. My poor nephew was shaking as he ate his hot oatmeal. I gave the kids a cup of hot water, just so they could have something to warm their hands! (By noon I was sitting in the sun in shorts and a tank top, so it wasn't too bad...)

Fall

I noticed that the trees are starting to change color here, and I pointed it out to my brother. He groaned and said he wasn't ready. I, on the other hand, am quite ready for fall. Usually I too think it comes too early. Perhaps it is because I've been in summer for the last 15 months (less a month in England that was bloody cold), and I am looking forward to the crisp air, lovely colors, and chrysanthemums (my favorite flower)... That is until it actually gets cold here and I start to bitch and moan about the fact that I am freezing. (I went to village district meeting last night-- about sidewalks, woo-- in a neighbor's barn, and he must have seen me shivering, for after he handed me juice and cookies, he passed over a large wool sweater.)

I may be ready for fall, but I am not one of those people who likes to jump the gun. Driving down the street the other day I saw that someone already had their Halloween flag flying, and I hollered (inside the car) "It's not even OCTOBER!!" I mean come on... the leaves are pretty enough, why muck it up by hanging a garish flag to distract the eye?

???

I just tried to access my blog by typing in my address, and was diverted to "Mega Site for Bible Studies". Wow. That's different. On the second try it went the right way (although I'm sure some would argue that the first way was the "right" way).

NOT My True Calling

It pains me to say it (really, I am actually in pain right now), but I think that becoming a manual laborer is not for me.

Yesterday I had grand plans to polyurethane the new dining room chairs and sand the drywall joins in the chicken coop (which I mudded, oh, last July). I put on my work clothes, and then... What did I do instead? I read Twilight. All of it.

So the grand plans got switched to today. After a few errands this morning, a late breakfast, and of course the crossword puzzle (I can't really do anything until that is out of the way... it being Thursday it took a little time to get it out of the way), I got down to work. First order of business, sanding the six chairs. (First find the sandpaper. Dickie said it was right here. Oh, here's the box. Empty. Expletive #1 of the day.) That done, I then got out the foam brushes. (This one won't even fit in the can of poly. Expletive #2.) Vaguely appropriately sized brush in hand I got to work. Drip, drip, splotch, and, somehow, a small white imprint of probably my elbow in the middle of the seat (Expletive #3), and the first chair was finished. The problem is that my skill level does not match my perfectionism. Sigh. Chair Two was a bit better, although, inevitably, I did end up getting poly on my forehead (Expletive #4).

I decided to let the chairs dry for a bit to see how they looked before I mauled the next four, so I got Dickie's plastering bucket and off I headed to the chicken coop (a two storey outbuilding that various members of the family have been working on fixing up for about the last decade. Drywalling started 5 years ago, and I am almost done with it). All I needed to do was sand the ceiling downstairs, then I could vacuum it all (LOTS of spiders and webs in there, as well as all the drywall dust), and then start on the second (and last, so help me god) layer of mud.

So I started to sand above my head, a fine, white powder flying everywhere and getting into every orifice (Expletives #5-25). I lasted about 15 minutes, finishing only half the room, before storming out in a billowy huff. I seem to have used about seven times as much mud on the first layer as necessary, and now it all needs to be sanded off. Clearly, the only thing that I know about drywalling is that it is worth paying someone else to do it.

But these aren't the only experiences that have hinted that maybe I'm not meant for a blue collar. The most dangerous thing I have to contend with in the classroom is sniffing too many markers. (One day I collected my kids from art class, and the teacher told me that they had been using permanent markers. My normally rambunctious class was basically silent and stoned.) With Dickie I've hit my thumb with hammers, kicked a saw blade, worried about falling off a room, and wrestled with various power tools (always wearing my safety glasses!).

A couple of weeks ago I was helping my brother (and his crew of three men in their 50s) build a 'shed'. (If anyone asks, it is a shed. Don't mind the fact that it is two storeys, has a shower, and costs more than some houses. According to zoning regulations, it is a shed. I think they are going to put a rake in it, for good measure.) I thrive on human interaction, so I was happy to be busy (more sanding, but not drywall) and have other people around. When I worked at school, I loved hanging out and talking with coworkers. We talked about all sorts of things. But here's a conversation I never had with them:

Ray: Do you want to see pictures of my (soon to be ex-)wife with her moose?
Me: Sure. Look at a little collection of photos of woman in camouflage, holding shotgun, standing next to gigantic moose on a hook. Other pictures of her next to wild (dead) boar. Wonder why he would leave her.
Rod: That's a nice crossbow you got there.
Bob: I shot a deer last year with a [blah, blah, blah, it is all Greek to me].

I have to say that I truly respect the fact that these guys can feed themselves rather than relying upon meat which comes conveniently anonymous and divided into little packages, but I'm just not quite used to conversations about various sorts of weaponry and tactics used to kill things.

Although earlier in the summer, when walking through Home Depot with Dickie, I, unemployed, suggested to him that I get a job there, he said, Sure, you're surly enough, (Um, Dickie, the adjective you were looking for is burly), I think I may just not be cut out for this.

Except for the week of trail clearing I'll be doing next week on an island in Maine, and the week of work I'll be doing later in the month with my friend in New York, that is. Then I'll get the iron out and start working on starching my white collars.

True Calling

Despite the fact that I don't actually have a teaching job (or any job for that matter) for this fall, I am still absolutely sure that being a teacher is my true calling. I know this not because whenever I see a child (my niece or nephew, a friend's child, or a strange child at the pool) I cannot help but add in "please" and "thank you" when appropriate or explain the whys and wherefores of how plants grow. I know this not because I periodically burst into song if something around me reminds me of a song I know. (I sang "Oh, when the rain comes down it cleans up the sky" all too often in July.) I know this not because when I walk into a bookstore I spend more time poring over the children's books than adult books. I know this not even because on my trip I noticed that within the first two minutes of meeting someone, I had uttered the statement "I am a teacher", when almost no one else ever mentioned their job (which caused me to wonder if it was me or if it was the profession that caused these declarations).

I do all of the these things (with alarming regularity), but these are not the reasons that I know I am a teacher through and through. No, I know that I am meant to be a teacher because, just like clockwork, and just like teachers all over, in the wee hours of August 1st, I had my first school dream. Ask any teacher you know about this phenomenon. It is quite startling. Somehow a teacher's subconscious, which has been so quietly resting and rejuvenating for the month of July, knows exactly when it is the month which will usher in the return to school, and it reacts, usually stressfully.

My school dream this year took the form of a faculty meeting. In it I was supposed to be singing a song, but I couldn't remember the words, so I just made them up as I went along. For many people, this would be a stress dream of unmentionable proportion, but for me it was pretty much normal. As I mentioned above, I sometimes break into song anyway, and at my school (former school??) it would not be at all unlikely for someone to sing during a faculty meeting. Many a time has a grade level team given a presentation in song.

So even though I may try my hand at any number of odd jobs this year, I am sure that teaching is what I should, and will soon, be doing.

Last batch of flicks

Here are the last movies, from Thailand and New Zealand.

This is from atop an elephant. Quiet and bumpy...


This is what I awoke to (at about 4 am) in a village in Thailand when I did my little trek. Egads.



It is kind of hard to hear the audio on this, because it was really windy atop the pass on the Milford Track.


Okay, so I didn't realize that I couldn't turn a video clip, so you'll have to cock your head. Sorry!


This is a little clip from the Milford Track, just to show how wonderfully peaceful and beautiful it was (despite the fact that I was in a group of 46 hikers).


A quick clip from the Milford Sound. Enjoy the prettiness (and the accent of the boat captain).


One last video, this one from my favorite place, Punakaiki. (Go way back to February to see the first half of this piece.)

More Movies

Here are some more video clips... This first batch is from Guatemala. I narrate the first four; the last one is walking in the back door of the cathedral in Antigua as one of the Lenten parades is starting up. (I heard this music way too often in my two weeks there.)









This next group of clips is from Kenya. The first is a local tribal dance, but I loved the fact that the kids (off stage, so to speak) were dancing right along.



This is the view from the train as it came into Nairobi.



A couple more will come later...

Movies

As I can't figure out a way to get the movie clips I took on my travels to project on anything larger than my little laptop screen, I thought I'd try putting them on my blog (assuming that the internet connection in this 150 year old farmhouse is slightly faster than it was wherever I was before... big assumption), and then I can show them to all the houseguests on my brother's slightly larger screen. And I guess you can look at them too if you wish.

The first five are from Australia. You'll hear me chatting on all of them except the last, which is of some poor kid with possibly the worst summer job.

The last two are from Costa Rica. I have loads more, which I'll put on when I'm in the mood...

Houseguests

The nice thing about having 16 adults, four children, and seven dogs in the house for a weekend is that it makes six adults, three kids, and five dogs seem like nothing.