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.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
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...)
Friday, September 18, 2009
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 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).
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
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.
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.
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