AVIATION EDUCATION AT SQUANTUM

First day after the end of the school year + first Saturday without rain since Spring arrived in March + First Day of Summer = Time to be outside!

I find myself at Squantum Point Park, the site of a 2,700-foot long former runway for a Naval station. No buildings are there, but the place is quietly impressive. The paved path leads straight through wildflowers and low trees, breaking open  where the Neponset River meets Dorchester Bay in Quincy. There are impressive views of the Boston skyline and the famous Boston gas tank. 

Its aviation history, however, is even more impressive.

In 1910, it hosted the first international flight competition in the USA. Harriet Quimby, the first female in the US to receive her pilot's license in 1911 and fly across the English Channel in 1912, lost her life off of Squantum Point when she and her passenger were ejected (fell out of) the airplane after losing control in front of spectators on July 1st in that same year, 1912. In 1917, the US Navy began training pilots there. Later, around 1944, even British Royal Navy pilots trained there, a time that saw BRN pilots and crew surviving a mid-air collision that sent them into the water.

The air strip was closed in 1953 due to its proximity to Logan Airport, creating air traffic nightmares, and, in 1960, it was labeled an abandoned airport. When redevelopment started in the Marina Bay area of Quincy, the area was also considered for development. In 2001, the park opened, featuring a portion of the old air strip.

There are stone markers telling the history, including a shout-out to Amelia Earhart, who helped fund and start what was then known as Dennison Airport at Squantum Point in 1927. She also assisted with its early operations, and she participated in the first official flight at the new air strip.

I'm impressed by the park's history. I truly had no idea that Quincy has such an important place in aviation history. I end up spending an hour or so of my First Official Day Off for the School Year along with the First Non-Rainy Saturday out of the last fourteen,  and the First Official Day of Summer soaking up some sun and some education. 

TWO-WORD PHRASE

What is the most reviled two-word phrase in the English language?

Nuclear bomb? Tax audit? You're fired? No food? Wrong size? Dead end? Prenuptial agreement? Custody dispute? You're guilty? You fail? Pull over? Lane change? Too expensive? Babysitter cancelled? Account's empty? Phone's lost? No internet? Battery's dead? Hiatal hernia? Stomach cramps? Sutures stat? Bread's moldy? 

Nope.

The most reviled two-word phrase is: Staff Meeting.

To anyone who has never been forced to sit through one of these boredom-challenging events, a Staff Meeting happens when someone could have, at the very least, sent the required information out by email or via carrier pigeon. At the very most, it could have happened around the water cooler with far more current and precise information passing around like an adult version of Office Telephone. 

This most recent Staff Meeting could have (and should have) been a memo. There is a completely off-topic presenter who has obviously been placed before us as the Dummy Prize -- run the clock out so no one can ask questions about the real issues. That's fine. We spend the time texting each other bad movie suggestions and drawing faces on photos we take of various items around the room. (I am the Master of the Screaming Charging Station Outlets.) 

What's funny is that sometimes these Staff Meetings are meant to quell rumors, but backfire and actually start the rumors.  We have staff moving all over the place -- to new rooms, to new grades, to new schools, and some out the door. But, we aren't supposed to "know" this nor "talk about" this because, hey, it's smoke and mirrors. It's literally Screaming Outlets.

I'm kind of over it all. I have a couple of years left, and I just recently let my high school license expire. That means I am now only certified to teach grades 5-9 (so, I guess I could still teach freshmen, legally). But, with all the changes going on, and, with two weeks left of the school year, I start packing, rearranging, and tossing twenty-five-plus years' of stuff.

First, I bring home all of my plants so I can set up my porch. Then, I give away two of my six bookshelves, which leads me to pack up the four bookcases I am keeping. This encourages me to give away 200 or so (out of my 600+) reading novels that I'm ready to part with (including my own kids' Goosebumps books). After that, I take all of my "secretive" files to the shredder. This is followed by the tech department coming in to measure for new electronic boards because the useless Eno board will be moving to the back of my room over the bulletin board, so the posters and projects need to be taken down. I organize my desk. I pull apart my closets and dump my old grade eight curriculum (I haven't taught it in twenty years) and my old small-group math materials (also twenty years gone). I put extra plastic "in" boxes into the Teacher's Room. I repack and put away my games and class toys. I take home a metal shelving unit. I move my desk three times in one afternoon until I am happy with its placement even though the area of the room is known as the Blue Tooth Black Hole of Death. I empty out the file cabinets of student work. My room quite literally echoes.

In other words, it appears that I'm leaving.

People start whispering. I assume they're talking about all the staffing conundrums we are facing for 2025-2026, the "information" that "was" (wasn't) shared at the Staff Meeting. I ignore the whispers because I am two weeks from closing up shop for the year. I am sequestered in my room all day every day, and I don't have any idea what is being said outside my four poster-less walls.

Finally, a few bold souls come to my room when I'm in there alone, tearing the place apart, and they close the door. "Are you leaving?"

What? Yeah, in two years.

"Oh. It looks like you're leaving."

No, I'm heaving . . . all this useless stuff.

This goes on and on. Even my Team Leader finally asks me. "Are you leaving?" 

Not yet. But, I am prepared to go at any given moment.

I didn't realize it then, but I do realize it now. I hold that power.  I hold the power to say, "I'm done, and I'm leaving right now." I have one foot out the door and jets on my heels. I may not be leaving . . . yet . . . but I can taste it, smell it, hear it, feel it, see it.

So, being the brat I am, to some I simply say, "Could be. Maybe so. One never knows."

This statement seems to have hang-time. It has repercussions. It has legs. It's an ear-worm. And, even better:

It could have been a freaking Staff Meeting. 

MILDEW AND MENTAL HEALTH

It's remarkably difficult to avoid talking about the rain. It's all the rage around here, and by "rage" I mean that we are all raging that it is raining on another weekend. Friday it pours several times, and we are surrounded by thunderstorms and flash flood warnings all day long. 

By some grace of Mother Nature, high school graduation in the district where I teach seems to avoid the evening rain. A massive wall of thunderstorms miles and miles wide barrels east then turns north, circumventing the small town where chairs have been set up on the field and an audience gathers in the metal stands. 

A true recipe for disaster should the Thunder Gods deem it to be so.

It's one thing to plan a weekend of umbrellas. It's quite another to set ourselves up to be human lightning rods. To be honest, this Weekend Wash-Out routine is getting stale, although it does cultivate a certain appreciation for the good weather days should we ever get to enjoy any of them. Of course, it also cultivates mold and mildew, but I digress.

At least all of this rain is good for the flowers and the trees and the lawns and the weeds. Not so much for our morale, but, at this point of the school year, morale is in the tank, anyway. Perhaps that's why it's raining every weekend -- so those of us who are miserable at work can be equally miserable when we're not at work. 

The seniors make their getaway, though, and they do it under cloudy skies without the storms. Western Massachusetts and New Hampshire are getting drenched, but our students are like the Weather Whisperers. If we can just harness that and sprinkle it on Saturdays, we might make it through summer with some of our sanity intact.

THE CRAP-SHOOT OF DENTAL REPAIR

At my age, medical and dental issues are basically a crap-shoot: Ya win some; ya lose some. However, I would be grateful if the universe stopped kicking my ass for just a half a second.

By pure coincidence, a random x-ray for something else reveals that I need a root canal. Now. Like, yesterday. I had zero idea. No pain, no twinges, no changes in tooth strength. This is how I find myself in the endodontist chair for the second time in my life.  

My first root canal, performed decades ago, led to a massive infection in my upper jaw, necessitating surgery, and then I lost the tooth, anyway, much to the ire of my parents who had to pay for it all. Needless to say, I'm not holding out much hope for this tooth, either. But, I'm willing to give it the old-lady try. After all, it would be kind of cool to have a couple of my own teeth still inside my skull when the Big Ride is done.

The endodontist snaps a couple of x-rays and shows me an even better image of what's going on. He can't believe I'm not in pain. He taps a metal implement against the tooth in question and one next to it. "Doesn't this hurt?" No, Doc, I swear that I am now and hope to remain pain-free.

I tilt back in the dental chair for sixty minutes, trying to keep my mouth open. Only once do I raise my hand to let Doc know I can feel what you're doing there, partner. Several drops of Novocaine go into the open tooth area (Root? Canal? Root canal?), and we're quickly back in business.

When this first appointment is over, I try to stand from the dental chair only to discover that my neck has atrophied. I quite literally cannot put my chin down. I look like a carcass that has just been released from the gallows after hanging. Just perfect. My jaw might be on the road to recovery, but I seem to have suffered a spinal dislocation.

I'm soon sent on my way to the pharmacy, where the internet provider has crashed, so I wait. Can I come back later? they ask me. No. I am here now. Please, for the love of all things sane, GET ME SOME MEDS. While the pharmacy waits for the internet to come back online after a massive outage, I shop for the ibuprofen that I also need. Eventually, my medications and I make our way home.

I am thrilled to discover that I've grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen without a child-resistant cap. Finally, something is easy to open. I'm so excited because, honestly, between my jaw and my neck, I'm ready for some smooth sailing. I open the container without any karate needed. Everything is going along so well, until --

Until I encounter the foil seal.

This damn piece of anti-human engineering will not yield. I pick at every edge, pull on every tab, but nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to open this packet.

Except a steak knife.

I find an older steak knife, one I don't care about if I were to snap off the blade. The weapon is clean and it is sharp. I take aim, pull my wrist back to strike, and I attack that ibuprofen bottle like I'm Norman Bates with a shower curtain.

Minutes later, I am able to begin my antibiotics plus ibuprofen regimen. I do have to go back tomorrow for root canal day #2. I am already anticipating having my neck twisted like I've been to the gallows, and I might even have some pain.

It's okay. I'm old. Pain means I'm still alive. After all, this whole exercise is basically a crap-shoot. I'll let you know how the dice play out.